𝐙𝐔𝐌𝐀! | harry styles

𝐈

THE transistor radio on the shelf inside the Tasty Dog is blaring disco while the smell of hot dogs and hamburgers being cooked on the greasy grill permeate my tanned skin like a bad tattoo. No amount of scrubbing ever seems to get rid of it. Other girls smell like coconut oil and pina coladas, while I walk around smelling like I rolled around in french fries.

My Vans stick to the concrete floor as I people watch and lean on the Formica counter of the open-air food shack I'm working in for the summer. The seagulls squawk nearby while they try to get pieces of discarded buns from the garbage can next to the picnic tables, and I frown at the spread of garbage some jerks left behind for me to clean up.

The shack is in a perfect location, right on the beach where I can see all the action. Sunbathing, surfing, who's making out with who. I'm right in the middle of the summer fun, even if I'm on the wrong side of the stall.

Plus, it's right next to Styles' Surf Shop.

I watched Harry go in with his board just a few minutes ago, and as I'm waiting for him to reappear, Fran interrupts me from my stalking.

"Have you and Scott, you know, done it again?" she asks loudly, filling a cup with ice before dispensing Coke from the fountain.

"Fran, I'm not discussing that with you in public." I look at the woman at the counter who's pretending she didn't hear. Fran has issues with privacy and personal space. As in, she doesn't know what either of those things are.

"That means no." She grabs a straw and passes the drink to the freckled kid waiting with the woman.

"Whatever. At least I've done it. I don't see you running around losing your virginity." I watch as Fran straightens her green bikini top, which holds nothing since she's flat as a boy.

"You know I'm saving myself for Kirk."

"Fran, that's just-no. First of all, he's Mr. Hendrix and second, he's our teacher."

"Uh uh, not this year. He doesn't teach senior history."

The cook slaps his spatula on the pass repeatedly to get our attention, so I grab the burgers and fries and bring them to the window, announcing to whomever they belong to that they're ready. Two girls I know from school claim them, and I walk back to my Harry Styles watch post.

"He said he thought I was perfect." Fran chews on her thumbnail, which is a terrible habit since they're already bitten down to the quick. She's got more pink nail polish in her stomach than I think is allowable by the FDA.

I sigh. "Fran, he said he thought you looked like a perfect Scarlett O'Hara. That's not the same thing."

"It's what he meant." She looks like she's about to cry so I put my arm around my friend.

"Maybe so Fran, but you cannot date a teacher."

"You don't understand these things, Anna. There's a connection between an actor and her director."

I bite my tongue, not wanting to hurt Fran's feelings. She really was a perfect Scarlett O'Hara in the year-end play, but her obsession with Mr. Hendrix has been going on two years now and I'm starting to worry. What was a simple crush has turned into something you read about ending badly in the National Enquirer.

"Why don't you go out with Paul? He likes you! He's always hanging around here, trying to talk to you." As I say this, I look around to make sure her stalker isn't there right now.

"I bet he's here for you, Anna. Not me. You have boobs." She pouts and looks at her chest, and I know exactly what will make her feel better.

"I do have pretty good boobs." I agree. "Why don't you and Izzy come over tonight and we'll all hang out? We haven't done that since school ended. We'll grab some smokes and I'll pinch some of Lori's vodka."

Fran's face lights up and she agrees, before moving off to wipe up some spilled ketchup.

The sun is getting lower in the sky, painting everything and everyone in a nice golden pink California glow. Families have left for home and just the diehard surfers and teenagers with nothing better to do remain. Frisbees are flying, beers are being consumed, and the lifeguards are pulling in their gear.

I see Harry walking towards the shack, the sun setting behind him, and my pulse quickens. I do a mental inventory of my outfit-white shorts, blue t-shirt-and wish I had the guts to dress like Rosalie. Or like the girls over at the Burrito Box across the beach access road. The epitome of the California girl the Beach Boys made famous, Stephanie and Giselle hold court amongst teenage boys and some not-so-teenage men. Blonde and tan and stacked, Fran and I have renamed it the Bimbo Box.

I'm standing at the open window next to the cash register pushing my self-proclaimed pretty good boobs out, waiting for him to approach and order. Our eyes meet as he walks closer and he quickly looks away, turning to the window Fran occupies. My heart sinks, but I'm not surprised. He never talks to me. I find it rude that he doesn't talk to the step-sister of his girlfriend. He probably sees me as just a kid, and Lord knows what Rosalie says about me. We get along for the most part, but she loves the fact that she's older. We're both only children, so she sometimes feels the need to treat me like the toddler sibling she never had.

I try to look busy as Fran waits on him. She's unaware of my crush so that saves me the embarrassment of her trying to "help" by saying or doing something mortifying, which she would absolutely do.

Out of the corner of my eye I watch as he leans back against the counter, looking out towards the surf, waiting on his food. Since he's not looking in my direction I take the chance and lust after him fully.

How someone can look like the embodiment of an erotic movie is beyond me, but that's what he is. He's all sex and confidence and aloofness. I see a hint of a hickie on his neck and picture Rosalie's fat lips sucking on the bit of skin I want to lick. She doesn't appreciate him. I heard her on the phone the other night with someone else after he left using her stupid baby voice and giggling like a pull-string doll.

His order is ready and I turn quickly before I'm caught, watching from behind the soft serve machine as he pulls some rumpled bills from his front pocket and hands them to Fran. He saunters away, not stopping to eat at a picnic table and I wonder if that's because of me, but that's giving me too much credit. He's probably already forgotten that I work here. Hell, he's probably already forgotten that I exist.

The cook tells Fran and me that was the last order, so we climb up on the counters to pull the metal gates down to close up the place for the night. As I'm pulling my side down, I keep my gaze on Harry through the gap, lowering myself while the outside view gets smaller and smaller, until my head hits the Formica and the metal hits the counter with a clang.