Chapter One

The first time I saw Esteban, he was kicking a soccer ball down a field behind the Accabonac School. His name was on the back of his team shirt. I saw him notice me, smile, then look over his shoulder at me again. I knew he saw me there. I knew he didn't see me a few days later, when I went to hear him sing at Jungle Pete's. Some of the girls at school talked about this singer who appeared there Saturday nights --- Esteban Santiago. They said he was hot. Was he!

I went to the soccer field a lot after that. We were well aware of each other, but it was May before we had our first conversation. I'd gone by the field on my bike, after hanging out on the beach with my pal Mitzi and some other kids from school.

I sat on my bike while he was taking a break from the game, lifting his T-shirt up to wipe his brow. Then he saw me, and he strolled over.

"Hello, I'm Esteban Santiago."

"I know who you are."

"How is that?"

"I heard you sing at Jungle Pete's."

"Thank you. For coming. Thank you."

"You're very good," I managed, even though he made me nervous close up.

He asked, "Do you live near here?"

"Very near. I'm Annabel Brown."

"It is good to have you very near." Big smile. His black hair wet from playing.

"Thanks." I could feel myself blushing.

"I have no other fan. My sister comes in her car to watch me. But she doesn't count because we are related." He looked at me with a shy grin. "Yellow is your color, do you know that?"

I had on a sun-colored T and low-rise jeans, boxing sneakers, and yellow socks.

"I know it now," I said.

When I got home I circled the date on my calendar. May 25, 2005.

After that if I showed up when the game was going, he'd find a few minutes to talk with me. I admit I wore something yellow, too, always. We'd flirt.

"You belong in yellow," he'd say.

"You belong back in the game. They're calling you."

"I forget fútbol for you." That smile. Away from him I could close my eyes and dream it into my head, and I'd be smiling myself, thinking of him. See, I don't care anymore that he's shorter than I am. It never bothered the girls who went with Tom Cruise. I've fallen in love for the first time, I tell my diary, and lucky me, my diary can't roll its eyes to the heavens and say, What about Trip Hetherton?

Fini, dear Diary. I always remember what Dad said about an old heartthrob of his. He said, "Five years later I saw her in an elevator and she was two hundred pounds, eating a chocolate ice cream cone that was all over her face and blouse, grinning at me with her mouth open saying, ‘Hey, long time no see.' That's what makes life so great, honey! I once wanted to slash my wrists because she dumped me."

Trip didn't really dump me. I was just never sure of him. One time he'd be e-mailing me and calling me and coming over to watch a movie, another time he'd be so distant that I'd think he'd moved out of town. My brother said it was installment-plan dumping.

That was a whole year ago. I was only sixteen then.

Trip cannot hold a candle to Esteban Santiago.

Can you picture C. Harley Hetherton III strolling out on the small stage at Jungle Pete's, grinning and bowing and then singing until his eyes are shining like stars with his face wet and the crowd going crazy calling out requests? Friends say it happens every Saturday since Esteban started working there.

A day in early June, our first real taste of summer. It was warm even in late afternoon, and some of the players were in shorts.

Esteban wore cargo shorts. He grabbed me by the hand as he came off the field.

"Come with me, Annabel, please," he said. "My older sister wants to meet you."

As we got to the battered red Toyota where Gioconda Santiago puffed on a cigarette, Esteban whispered, "Don't let her intimidate you, Annabel."

Then in a proud tone he said to her, "Gioconda, meet Annabel Brown."

"I've been wanting to meet you," she said. "Last time after the game you ran away."

"I didn't know you wanted to meet me," I said. She had a nice smile. She tapped the long ash off her cigarette on the rolled-down window and introduced me to a girl sitting beside her. Serena something.

Then Gioconda said, "You see my virgencita here?" She used her cigarette to point at a china statue of the Virgin Mary on the dashboard. One of those plastic nodding dogs was next to it.

"Yes, I see."

"I pray to it," she said.

"Well, good. Good." I was embarrassed. My family may pray, but we don't talk about it.

"I drive along praying," said Esteban's sister.

I couldn't think of anything to say to that, and it turned out that I didn't have to answer because her next sentence came rolling off her tongue, with a different kind of smile that made her eyes crinkle and her mouth tip slyly to one side. "You are a flour face," she said.

"Thank you." I thought she'd said flower.

Esteban was bending over to tie his shoe.

"I pray that Esteban will tell you to stop chasing after him!" she said. This time Esteban heard her, just as I realized she didn't mean a flower. She meant flour. White.

"Come on, Annabel." Esteban grabbed my arm and pulled me. "Vamos!" We could hear the girls in the car laughing. Esteban said, "When will I learn that I cannot trust her to behave herself? I am sorry. I did not know she would do that."

Excerpted from SOMEONE LIKE SUMMER © Copyright 2011 by M. E. Kerr. Reprinted with permission by HarperTeen. All rights reserved