“What the hell, Porter?” I whine. “It smells really good.”
“Gracie did mention that you’ve got a mean sweet tooth when it comes to pastries.” He’s flipping through his phone, digging out another ball of whatever it is he’s got. I think it’s a vanilla mini muffin. I smell coconut, too. That might just be him, though.
“See if I tell her anything again,” I complain, kicking my feet as we lift a little higher off the ground.
“Here we go,” he says, finding something on his phone. “New quiz. Let’s make a deal.”
“NO QUIZZES.”
“I’ll be nice this time,” he says. “Promise.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because I’ve got a pocketful of moon muffins,” he says with a slow smile.
I don’t know the hell that is, but I really want one. My stomach growls.
“Wow, Rydell. You have a dragon living inside there, or what?”
My head lolls forward as I make little weepy noises. I finally give in. “Okay, but if you piss me off while we’re stuck on this stupid flying bumblebee, just know that my nails are sharp, and I will go for your eyes.” I flash him my freshly painted ruby reds, filed to a vintage almond shape.
He whistles. “Pointy. That’s one glam manicure. And here I was, thinking you were aloof. Sugar brings out the demon in you. Porter likey.”
I get a little flustered, but not enough to stop wanting the muffins.
“So here’s how this works. First”—he pulls out one of his prizes—“this is a moon muffin. Local Coronado Cove specialty. Fresh out of the oven over at Tony’s Bakery right there.” He points backward. “You think you like those sugar cookies at work? Well, you’re going to love this.”
He holds it in the tips of his fingers. I snatch it up, give the sniff test, and then tear it in two, ignoring him when he acts like this is a mistake. I taste it. Totally lovely. Spongy. Light. Dusted in vanilla sugar. “Yum,” I tell him.
Porter makes a victory face. “Told you. Okay, quiz time. This one is for both of us. It’s a . . . friendship quiz. We both have to give answers and see how we match up. To see if we’ll make compatible friends or bitter enemies.”
“Pfft,” I say around a mouthful of moon muffin, brushing crumbs off my boobs. “Enemies. Quiz over; give me another muffin.” I wiggle my fingers in his face.
He laughs and bats away my fingers. “No muffin until we answer the first question. Ready? Question one.” He starts reading. “ ‘When we fight, (A) it’s like World War Three, and takes days for us to speak again; (B) we fight hard but make up fast; (C) we never fight.’ What do you think? A, B, or C?”
God, what is it with him and quizzes? Grace wasn’t wrong; he’s obsessed. “Not C, that’s for sure,” I say. “But not A, either. I guess we’re B. We fight hard, but we make up fast. But that’s mainly because you bribe me with food. Keep that up, and we’ll be okay.”
“B it is.” He holds out another muffin without looking up from his phone. I take it while he reads the next question. “ ‘Our favorite way to spend our downtime is: (A) surrounded by friends at parties, the more the merrier; (B) always on the go, never staying still; (C) chilling alone.’ ”
“I’m guessing you’ll say one of the first two things, but I’m more of a C kind of girl. Does that ruin our score?”
“Nope. I’m C too, actually.”
Umm, okay. I’m not sure I believe that. Then again, it’s his day off, and he’s hanging out in a video store by himself, which isn’t how I pictured him. “Oh, look!” I say, gazing down my side of the chairlift. “We’re almost above the Ferris wheel now.”
The boardwalk looks weird from here, just small bursts of color, and the tops of buildings. Cars rush by on my left, but who wants to look at the town? Unfortunately, I can’t help but glance forward and catch the couple in front of us with their hands all over each other. I think there’s more than kissing happening—wow. I quickly look away.
“These lifts sure are slow, aren’t they?” I complain.
“I’ve taken naps on here,” Porter says. “No lie. Next question. ‘If one of us has a problem, we will: (A) keep it to ourselves; (B) immediately come to the other for advice; (C) drop hints and hope the other figures it out eventually.’ ”
“Put me down for selection A.” Delicately, I dip my hand into Porter’s gaping jacket until my fingertips hit the waxed-paper bag and find another muffin. It isn’t until I’m pulling it out that I look at Porter’s face and hesitate.
“No, please, go on,” he says. “Do help yourself.”
I give him a self-conscious grin. “Oops.”
“You always go around sticking your hands down boys’ clothes?” he asks.
“When they’re full of baked goods.”
“Tomorrow I’m coming to work with ten pounds of pastries in my pants,” he mumbles to himself, making an ooaff! noise when I punch him lightly in the arm.
“Next question, for the love of vanilla,” I beg. “How long is this quiz, anyway?”
“Back up—you chose A for the last one? I chose B,” he says, and I struggle to remember what the question was. “That probably screws up our compatibility factor. Last one. ‘The most important quality in a . . . uh, friendship is: (A) that we share the same interests; (B) that we like each other; (C) that we’re always there for each other, no matter what.’ ”
I swallow the last of my muffin. “What kind of question is that? Shouldn’t there be another option, like, (D) All of the above?”
“Well, there isn’t. So you have to pick one.”
“I refuse.”
“You can’t refuse.”
“Think I just did, Hot Stuff.”
He snorts at that. “But how will we know if we’re compatible?” he moans. I can’t tell if he’s only teasing me, or if there’s something more beneath the silliness.
“Gee, I don’t know. Guess we’ll have to actually be friends and find out for ourselves instead of taking a quiz.”
He shuts his phone off dramatically and shoves it in his pocket. “No one appreciates the fine art of a good quiz anymore. Oh, here we go. Buckle your seat belt; it’s about to get weird. Hope you’re not scared of the dark, or anything. Feel free to stick your hand inside my jacket again if you need to.”
Just in time, I turn my head forward as the lift enters the thick bank of fog that’s rolling off the ocean. Porter was exaggerating. It’s not pea-soup fog. We can still see each other. But the couple in front of us is a little hazier, and except for the occasional truck or tall building, the ground below, too. And it doesn’t really have a scent, exactly, and it’s not wet, either. But it feels different in my lungs.
“Why is it so foggy here in the summer?”
“You really want to know?”
I’m not sure how to answer that. “Uh, yes, I guess?”
“Well, you see . . . fog forms over the water because it’s cold. And the Pacific stays cold here for two reasons. First, cold air from Alaska comes down along the California Current, and second, cold water comes up deep from the bottom ocean by something called upwelling, which has to do with wind blowing parallel with the coast and pushing the ocean surface southward. This stirs up the Pacific and brings up icy brine from the bottom of the ocean, which is so cold, it refrigerates the ocean air, condenses, and creates fog. Summer sun heats the air and makes it rise, and the fog gets sucked up.”