Deep Water Mark Ayre (inspirational books for students txt) 📖

in the presence of young people enjoying a responsibility-free youth. It was not that Abbie wished she could have spent more time getting drunk and making bad decisions on a cold, wet beach; she mourned the loss of her freedom, her baby, her younger sister. Deplorable members of humankind had taken all three from Abbie during the latter years of her adolescence.

She grew closer. The party-goers became distinguishable as more than human shapes. Abbie saw three passed out drunks, splayed like dead bodies on the hard sand, and two shameless couples performing acts that would have given Abbie's mother a heart attack had she been around to see them. A group of three guys chucked a can of beer in a circle, laughing and jeering when one of their number missed or dropped the can and flinched in expectation of an explosion which never came. What remained was a group of five—two girls, three boys. They noticed Abbie when she was ten feet away. One of them, a scrawny teenager with greasy, shoulder-length hair and a flat nose, rose as she approached and moved to block her path.

"Hey, girl," he said. "How you doing?"

His expression was supposed to be seductive or alluring. It made him look simple. Abbie wondered if he knew he was parroting the catchphrase of Joey from Friends but didn't care to ask. Ignoring his question, she examined again those who surrounded her. She couldn't see that any of them offered the trouble she sought, but she had followed the people. Never before had doing so steered her wrong.

"Man, you deaf or what?" Greasy Hair continued.

"First girl, now man," said Abbie. "Aside from switching gender, it's interesting you would go with those two rather than girl and boy, or woman and man. Does that say more about you or society? What do you reckon?"

Greasy opened his mouth, changing his look from simple to gormless. He had no idea what to say. It didn't appear he had been able to process Abbie's comments.

"You're young," said Abbie. "Some advice for when meeting new people in future: guess a gender, then go with something a bit more respectful. Mr or Sir; Ma'am or Miss. Adjust if they offer a title or name. This'll seriously improve people's first impressions of you. You've probably heard how important those are."

The guy stuttered a little, half turned to the group from which he had hailed, then twisted back to Abbie. Even in the dark, it was clear he was blushing. Looking at the group, Abbie noted it comprised two couples. The four individuals were each a few years older than Greasy. When Abbie shamed their odd-man-out, they snickered. They enjoyed his discomfort.

Guilt entered Abbie's system. Her prophetic dreams, which revealed someone who would soon be dead without her intervention, never put Abbie in a good mood. In this instance, an exceptionally long journey and the need to cancel her second date in five years (and first attempt to add a dusting of normality into her bizarre and miserable life) had further soured Abbie's disposition, which was never that sunny in the first place.

Seeing the laughter of Greasy's companions and his obvious discomfort and embarrassment, Abbie took a breath. She reminded herself he was a kid who, as yet, had done nothing to indicate he deserved anything other than cordiality. Besides calling her girl, then man.

"Rather than formal titles," she said, "why don't you call me Abbie?"

"Abbie?" he said. Following her previous diatribe, Greasy clearly expected another cruel trick designed to embarrass him.

"That's right," Abbie said. "It's my name. I assume you have one? Your parents probably gave it you. Why don't you tell me?"

"Um, Charlie?"

"Are you sure?"

He nodded. Suddenly Abbie felt like a teacher, and him a nervous student, afraid of getting into trouble but unsure how to handle one on one kindness.

 "Okay," she said. "Lovely to meet you, Charlie. Now I think an exchange of facts might be in order. We each say something interesting about ourselves, then consider the ice broken. I'll go first." She cleared her throat. "I'm secretly a mega Busted fan. You know the boyband from the mid-2000s? I'm obsessed. Most people find that surprising. They expect my guilty pleasure to be something nasty like kicking puppies or being a lawyer."

Charlie was staring. Abbie was obviously out of practice at making people feel comfortable because the boy looked utterly lost. When Abbie took a step towards him, he flinched.

Pressing on regardless, Abbie said, "Your turn."

"I'm… I'm…" Charlie's eyes widened. Abbie saw he had forgotten every detail about himself. If she'd asked for his surname, he would have had to call his mother to find out.

"Can I guess?" she said. Closing the space between them, she lowered her voice, cutting the duo of couples from the conversation.

Speech now seemingly beyond him, Charlie nodded.

"Hitting on women doesn't come naturally to you. You've never felt cool, nor been part of the in-crowd. However, the foursome over there are cool, and for some reason you can't fathom, they want to hang with you. That's great if you can get over the teasing, right? You're the constant butt of their jokes, but at least you're part of the gang. Anyway, you've seen the chance to prove you're as cool as them. You spot a woman twelve years your senior. You think she's attractive; hot, even—thanks, by the way. You think, wouldn't it be impressive if I hit on her? That will make these cool cats respect me. Great idea. You stand and hit me with some line that's so not you, and that, of course, is where it falls apart. Because, and here's a good saying, something to remember, things always fall apart when we try to be someone other than ourselves."

Charlie stared. His face showed first confusion, then resentment. That was okay. Abbie hadn't expected him to take her words well. She expected him to lie to himself and her. To reject her comments with something nearing anger.

He didn't disappoint.

"You don't know," he said. "They're my friends. We all