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  PUFFIN BOOKS

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  Did you know that in 1940 the very first Puffin story book (about a man with broomstick arms called Worzel Gummidge) was published? That’s 70 years ago! Since then the little Puffin logo has become one of the most recognized book brands in the world and Puffin has established its place in the hearts of millions.

  And in 2010 we are celebrating 70 spectacular years of Puffin and its books! Pocket Money Puffins is a brand-new collection from your favourite authors at a pocket-money price – in a perfect pocket size. We hope you enjoy these exciting stories and we hope you’ll join us in celebrating the very best books for children. We may be 70 years old (sounds ancient, doesn’t it?) but Puffin has never been so lively and fun.

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  Books by Sarah Dessen

  JUST LISTEN

  THE TRUTH ABOUT FOREVER

  LOCK AND KEY

  THAT SUMMER

  ALONG FOR THE RIDE

  PUFFIN

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

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  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  puffinbooks.com

  ‘Infinity’ first published in the USA in SIXTEEN: Stories About That Sweet and Bitter Birthday by Three Rivers Press (imprint of The Crown Publishing Group) in 2004

  Just Listen first published in the USA by Viking, a member of Penguin Group (USA), Inc. 2006

  First published in Great Britain by Penguin Books 2007

  That Summer first published in the USA by Orchard Books, 1996

  First published in Great Britain by Penguin Books 2009

  Published in this edition 2010

  Text copyright © Sarah Dessen, 2010

  Colour Puffin artwork on cover copyright © Jill McDonald, 1974

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-0-14-195979-5

  Contents

  Infinity

  Extract from Just Listen

  Extract from That Summer

  Infinity

  Lately, I don’t dream about Anthony. I dream about the roundabout.

  Now, Mr Haskell, my psychology teacher, would say this had implications. That somehow my fear of the roundabout is linked to my issues with Anthony, which are both many and complicated. Mr Haskell has a certain way he says things like this, leaning over with both elbows balanced on his lectern. It’s very unsettling, as if he can see deep into your soul. But the truth is I was scared of the roundabout before I even met Anthony.

  Most towns have those most modern of inventions, traffic lights, to deal with traffic. Not here. Instead, some genius decided however many years ago to put in instead this big circle with all the main roads feeding into it, then sat back to watch people crash to their deaths as they attempted to negotiate it.

  But I digress.

  My first experience with the roundabout was when I was about seven. We’d just moved to town so that my father could finally finish his dissertation. My mother and I were on our way to the grocery store when we suddenly came up on this big sign that said YIELD with an arrow pointing to the right. Cars were going round a big circle, off which poked several different exits to different roads. The trick, apparently, was to kind of merge in, follow round until your exit, then merge out. Simple as that.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ my mother said, poking her glasses up the bridge of her nose, which she always does when she’s really nervous. ‘What is this?’

  The answer came in the form of a loud, impatient beep from behind us. My mother looked anxiously to her left, then tentatively tapped at the accelerator, sending us inching out into oncoming traffic. Another beep.

  ‘Mom,’ I said.

  ‘I’m merging!’ she shrieked, as if this was on the level of splitting atoms and I was distracting her on purpose. And we were merging, pretty well, slowly easing into traffic. In fact, we were almost relaxed when we had to try and get back out, no easy trick, as there were many cars merging in. We got stuck on the inside track for two more turns, watching our exit go by, before my mother panicked and just sort of jerked the wheel, sending us in its general direction. And that was when the station wagon hit us.

  The scene ensued the way you would expect: dents all around, tears (my mother), angry muttering (the guy who owned the station wagon), plus everyone else driving past rubbernecking and jawing to each other while I sank down as far as I could in the passenger seat, wishing there was a way to meld permanently with the pleather beneath me. The entire episode ended with a ticket, our insurance rates rising and my mother swearing to never do the roundabout ever again, which seemed somewhat overly dramatic, until we realized that she meant it.

  What this means, essentially, is that she has spent nine years taking the longest possible route everywhere, because the roundabout is the hub of our town. Avoiding it takes work. And maps. And no end of secret shortcuts, long detours and general embarrassment. Even a trip to the Quik Zip, basically about four miles from our house, requires getting on the highway, cutting (illegally) through the senior-citizen compound and three left turns against oncoming traffic.

  My father calls this ridiculous. He is a roundabout champ, folding easily in and out, even while chatting on his cell phone or fiddling with the CD player. He is also a mathematician, something that my mother always brings up whenever the Roundabout Argument commences, as if his proficiency with numbers is somehow involved in his mastery of the traffic circle. What all this has meant to me is that when it comes to going anywhere I’m usually hoping it’s my dad who grabs the keys to the sedan off the hook by the door first. Which is going to be a moot point, now that I’m about to turn sixteen and get my own licence.

  My boyfriend, Anthony, is a year older than me. He’s good at the roundabout too, but understands my hesitation. In fact, since I got my permit, we’ve spent a lot of time going in circles together, practising. We started late at night, when it was pretty much deserted.

  ‘Okay, now the first thing you’re gonna do is stop and look to the left here,’ he instructed me one night. ‘There’s someone coming, so unless they merge off before they get here, we’ll wait for them to pass.’

  We waited. It was a Cadillac, moving slowly. T
hey had the whole roundabout to themselves.

  ‘Okay now,’ Anthony said. ‘Just ease out.’

  I did. Just as my mother had, all those years ago. But this time there was no one coming; it was dark. No problem. But still my heart was beating hard, thumping against my chest, even as I picked up speed.

  ‘See?’ Anthony said, reaching over to squeeze my leg. He left his hand there, warm on my skin, as we eased round the circle. ‘Piece of cake, right?’

  ‘Right,’ I said. We passed all the exits once, then started through again. Of course this was okay, I thought. Like a merry-go-round, only faster. But it was a trial run. And trial runs are always easier.

  After a few more turns we were starting to get dizzy. Finally Anthony pointed towards the beach route exit, and I took it, following the bumpy road past subdivisions and marshes before finally hitting the turn-off to the shore parking lot. I slowed down, remembering the potholes, pulling up into a space right behind the lifeguard stand. Then I cut the engine.

  ‘You did good tonight,’ Anthony said.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  And then he leaned over and kissed me. I knew he would. I knew it just like I knew after a few minutes he’d reach up and undo my shirt, then slide off my bra straps, easing me back against the seat behind me. He’d tell me he loved me, kiss my neck, run his hand down my back and into the waistband of my jeans, pressing his fingers there. I knew because we’d been practising this too, all this time, trial run after trial run. Like the roundabout, what came next was obvious. And scary. And, it seemed, inevitable.

  I’d been with Anthony for over six months. We’d met at work: we both had jobs at Jumbo Smoothie. He worked the blenders, which was an advanced position, while I dumped sliced peaches and yoghurt into cups, prepping. It wasn’t a great job, but we got to play the radio and eat all the free smoothies we wanted, which was fun for the first week or so.

  Anthony was tall, with a bony frame: he had big wrists, wild curly hair and a sloping kind of walk that always made him look like he was taking his time. When he blended smoothies, he really put his whole body into it, arms shaking, bouncing on the balls of his feet, like the noise the blender made was music and he just couldn’t help himself from dancing.

  He wanted to sleep with me. He hadn’t come out and said it, but he didn’t really have to. He was a senior; we’d been together six months. Us having sex would be a natural progression, after kissing to letting him go up my shirt, then down my jeans: like moving from learner’s permit to licence, there’s only one thing left. And so I have this choice. To either merge in or take the long way home.

  ‘I’m so proud of you!’

  That was my mother when I came out of the DMV office, holding my new licence. It was still warm in my hand from where they’d laminated it, as if it was somehow alive.

  ‘Let me see the picture,’ she said. She squinted down at it. ‘Very nice. You’re not even blinking.’

  It was a decent shot. I’d even had a second to brush my hair while the guy was arguing with some woman over her picture – she’d blinked, I guess – which I figured was a bonus. And there, next to my face, was all my pertinent information. Height, weight, eye colour. Birthday. And expiry date: 2014. Amazing. Where would I be in four years?

  ‘McDonald’s,’ my mother said when I asked her this. We were in the car. I was driving.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘I thought we should go to McDonald’s,’ she said. She fiddled with her sun visor, up then down. Although she’d never admit it, my mother was nervous riding with me. ‘To celebrate.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Okay.’

  McDonald’s was smack in the middle of the lunch rush, the noise of registers and commotion and the crackling of the drive-through speaker almost overpowering. My mother told me to go find a table, then stood in line clutching her purse. The people behind her were all public-works guys in orange jumpsuits, talking too loudly.

  I found a table by the window and sat down. The surface was covered with salt, like a dusting of snow, too thin to see but you could feel it. I moved my finger through it, leaving a circle behind, until suddenly someone put their hands over my eyes.

  ‘Guess who?’ a voice said right next to my ear. It was Anthony. Without my sight, the McDonald’s seemed to get quieter, as if you needed to see all the commotion for it to really be happening.

  ‘I know it’s you,’ I said softly, reaching up and putting my hands over his. I could feel the silver ring he wore on his index finger pressing gently against my eyelid, cool and smooth. He went to move his hands, the joke being over, but I kept them there for a second longer before he slipped loose and it was bright again.

  ‘So, did you get it?’ he asked, dropping one hand on to my neck and leaning over me. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my licence, showing him. ‘Nice. Good picture too. You’re not even blinking or making a weird face.’

  ‘Nope,’ I said. Anthony’s licence picture was terrible. Just when the guy was about to pop the flash someone slammed a door, and Anthony was startled: in the picture he looks surprised, like his eyes are bugging out of his head. But it doesn’t bother him. He says no one really looks like their licence picture anyway. ‘I’m lucky, I guess.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, curving his hand round the back of my neck the way that always gave me chills. ‘You are.’

  ‘Well, hello there!’ My mother set the tray down in front of me. Two chicken sandwiches with no mayo, two large fries, two Diet Cokes. We both always get the same thing. ‘Are you joining us?’

  Anthony reached over, took one of my fries and popped it into his mouth. ‘Nope,’ he said. ‘Some of us have to get back to school.’

  ‘Poor you,’ I said, taking my fries off the tray.

  ‘I’ll call you later,’ he said, bending down again and kissing my cheek in a very chaste, little-sister kind of way. Normally I would have at least got it on the lips, but my mother was right there. Still, she ducked her head and pretended to be very busy opening ketchup packets until he walked away, waving once over his shoulder. ‘Get ready for that roundabout!’ he called out, and then the glass doors swung shut behind him.

  My mother picked up her sandwich, adjusting the one piece of lettuce and one tomato: they never give you enough, and the distribution is always all wrong. ‘You know,’ she said finally, taking her first bite, ‘you don’t have to do the roundabout right away.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. We’d already discussed this during the weeks I’d had my permit, when she’d officially taught me all of her extended shortcuts. ‘But I think I should just go ahead and get it over with.’

  She took a sip of her drink and glanced out of the window. We’d both known this day was coming, eventually. My mother and I were close, always had been. She didn’t fall into any of the specific Mom types: she wasn’t Nagging Mom, or Trying-To-Be-Young-And-Hip-Mom, or Super-Strict Mom. My parents were rumpled academics. Books had been their greatest love, before me, and I just knew that when I had flown the nest and was long gone they’d continue their set patterns, floating from the breakfast nook, which had the best morning light, to the big couch by the fireplace, where they could each take an armrest with their stacks of journals and novels between them. Sentences and paragraphs, themes and symbols, these were things my mother never feared. She had a Ph.D and did The New York Times crossword every morning before she even had her first cup of coffee. Words didn’t scare her, only shapes. Like circles.

  She’d expected me to fall in with this. I knew it by the way she’d easily assumed I’d learn her shortcuts, memorizing them so that I, too, could take a four-mile circuitous route to the post office that was, measured by the clean numbers of my odometer, a mere half mile away. My father had harrumphed at this, my mother’s lessons in avoidance, and hinted broadly that maybe my induction into the driving public would be a good excuse for my mother to finally face this, the fear of all fears. But I, for one, doubted this would ever happen. My mother had got ac
customed to taking the long way everywhere: it wasn’t even a burden for her any more. That’s the thing about habits. And fears. At first they might seem like trouble, but eventually they just fold in, becoming part of the fabric, a jumped stitch you hardly notice except when someone else points it out.

  Now, watching her sip her drink, I felt a tug of obligation. She was the lone roundabout holdout, and wasn’t it my duty, as her daughter, to stand with her in allegiance? On the other side was not only the rest of our town, but more importantly my father, fearless warrior of traffic circles, and Anthony, who had crashed his parents’ Volvo once on a roundabout one town over and still not thought twice about going back for more. I longed for the simple, solid logic of traffic lights, no decisions necessary: green means go, red means stop, yellow means slow down or run the light, make up your mind though because time’s a-wasting. All straight lines, or variations thereof.

  Out in the parking lot, my mother and I buckled up and I backed out slowly, careful of the cars lining up for the drive-through. ‘Good turning,’ she said, praising my slow but effective merging into traffic on the main road. She had her hands in her lap, fingers locked, and we didn’t talk as we moved through three intersections, catching the green light at each. Up ahead I could see the signs for the roundabout, warning us of its approach. My mother pulled her fingers tighter, like a Chinese puzzle, and looked out of the window quickly, as if the office-supply store on her right was suddenly fascinating.

  I could do this. It wasn’t any different to all those nights I’d merged and circled the roundabout with Anthony or my father: the traffic was just a little heavier. I was not the bravest of girls, but I’d never been branded a coward either. I told myself I wasn’t just doing this for me, but for my mother as well. I pictured us breezing easily round the curves, the weight of this burden suddenly lifting, my achievement sparking something in her as well, just as my father had hinted. The traffic was picking up now, the last intersection coming up in front of us. The engine seemed to grind as I downshifted, the other drivers pressing in around me.