“Yeah? Who do you have in mind?”

“Nobody yet. I’ll know him when I see him.”

“Right. Like when Lizzy Bennet met Mr. Darcy for the first time?” They had read Pride and Prejudice in English class this year, and Caroline still dreamed about it.

“They couldn’t stand each other,” Sierra pointed out.

“But they felt something.” Boy, did they ever.

“We’ll see if Mr. Darcy appears,” said Sierra, putting away the bin of hair spray and makeup.

“It’s about time,” declared Jackson when they unlocked the bathroom door. “You guys were in there forever.” Jackson was eleven years old, and the only thing more annoying than him was Austin, who was nine and not only annoying but grubby. Both boys stood in the hallway outside the bathroom, holding a dripping wet burlap bag between them.

“What the heck . . . ?” asked Caroline.

The smelly wet bag brushed against her new skirt as the boys pushed their way into the bathroom. Sierra plastered herself against the wall to avoid touching whatever it was they had. “What’s that horrible smell?” she asked.

They didn’t answer as they set the bag—which was moving—in the tub.

“Mom!” Caroline yelled.

“Shut up,” Jackson said.

Their mom usually ignored Caroline when she yelled, anyway. “What are you doing with that bag?” she demanded. “Oh my God.”

Sierra gave a little scream and clung to Caroline’s arm. “Is that a rat?”

“It’s an otter,” said Austin, jumping up and down. “A baby otter. We found it and we’re keeping it.”

“It stinks,” Caroline said. “I’m not even telling Mom. She’ll just follow her nose.”

“Ew,” Sierra said, leaning forward to peer at the little creature scrabbling at the edge of the tub. “It’s kind of cute, though.”

“Don’t let its looks fool you,” Caroline told her. “Otters are gross. They leave dead fish and poop everywhere.”

“Let’s name him Oscar,” Jackson said. “Oscar the otter.”

At that moment, the creature flung its oily body up and out of the tub. Its muscular tail slapped against Caroline’s bare legs and dotted her skirt with dirty water and sand.

“He’s getting away!” Austin yelled and made a dive for the scuttling critter.

“What’s going on in there?” Their mother’s voice rang down the hall.

Caroline grabbed Sierra’s hand. “Let’s get out of here before all hell breaks loose.”

“Caroline?” Mom met them on their way out. “What are your brothers up to now?”

“Dunno,” she said. “We’re going to the clambake now. See you later!”

“Be careful,” Mom called. “Don’t forget to wear your helmets. Boys! What in the world . . . Get that thing out of my house!”

Caroline grabbed a pair of cutoff shorts from the clothesline, then made a beeline for the bikes. “Stupid brothers. Jeez.” She tugged on the shorts and used the soiled skirt to scrub at the muddy streaks on her legs.

“Is your house always like that?” Sierra asked.

“Nope. Some days it’s even worse.” Caroline hopped on her bike. “That’s why I always come over to your house.”

The back door slammed open and the otter fled across the yard and into the dunes. The boys chased after it, and then Mom appeared, yelling at them to get inside and clean this place up.

“Your brothers are kind of nutty,” Sierra observed.

“You think? Let’s go.” Caroline pedaled away from the drama. Her annoyance evaporated as they rode their bikes into town, savoring the feel of the sunshine on their bare arms and legs and the smells of new growth all around them.

They locked the bikes to a rack near the boardwalk and joined the stream of people heading to the beach. The weather was perfect, warm and golden, the light of early evening glimmering across the water.

The beach scene was everything Caroline loved about summer—music drifting from someone’s car speakers, a volleyball game going on in the sand, kites sailing overhead, coolers filled with frosty cans of root beer and candy-colored soda, bowls of chips and dips set out on long tables, grown-ups standing around the clam pit, drinking and gossiping. She loved the clothes people put on for summer, too—white jeans and gold jewelry, fluttery swimsuit cover-ups and bare feet, toenails painted seashell pink. Looking around, she saw nothing as interesting as Sierra’s outfit.

Caroline and Sierra helped out in the church booth, signing up kids for youth group. “We’re getting a mad rush of boys,” Caroline said as Sierra collected a stack of sign-up clipboards. “They’re all checking you out.”

“They can check all they want,” she said breezily. “If my dad catches them . . .” She swiped her finger across her throat. “Dad’s clueless, though,” she added, watching her father passing out summer activities calendars. “Come on, let’s escape while we can.”

They left the booth and went to hang out with their friends. A group of them, led by Rona Stevens, got up the nerve to dance. “Come on,” Sierra said, grabbing Caroline’s hand. “Let’s go for it.”

Madonna’s “Nothing Really Matters” broke the ice. The number loosened everyone up, and pretty soon they were all crowded together on the sand, laughing and bumping into one another and trying out new dance moves. Sierra was practically drowning in compliments on her new dress. Caroline basked in the reflected glow. A couple of high school girls even asked if she could make outfits for them.

After a while, they took a break for a cold drink. Zane Hardy, who had been Caroline’s lab partner in biology last year, handed her a can. “Lemonade okay?” he asked.

“Sure, thanks.” She took a sip, then pressed the chilled can to her neck. “I worked up a sweat out there.”

“Yeah, I saw.” Zane cleared his throat. “I mean, um, you’re a good dancer.”

“You think?” Caroline chuckled. “No way.”

“Sure, you are. I always feel like such a dork when I dance.”

She set down her can. “You’re probably thinking too much. Forget you’re dancing and have fun.”

“New York City Boy” came through the speakers—totally danceable. “Come on,” she said, leading the way. “Nobody’s gonna think you’re a dork.”

He balked, but only for a few seconds. Once they joined the crowd, everybody kind of mashed together, and by the end of the song, Zane was busting a move along with everyone else.

“See?” Caroline teased. “You’re a New York City boy.”

“And you’re cool,” he said. “We should hang out this summer.”

Oh. Well. She didn’t know if he was coming on to her or simply being friendly. There was only one way to find out. “Are you coming on to me or just being friendly?”

His cheeks turned bright red. “I don’t . . . I’m not . . .”

She felt bad for making him stammer. Boys were such a combination of bravado and insecurity. She saw that trait in her brothers all the time. “Sorry. My mom says I’m blunt as a spoon.”