Q UA RA N T I N E

a love story
Q UA RA N T I N E
a love story

Katie Cicatelli-­Kuc

Scholastic Press / New York

Copyright © 2019 by Katie Cicatelli-­Kuc

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
­either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to ­actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events,
or locales is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data available

ISBN 978-1-338-23291-2

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1        19 20 21 22 23

Printed in the U.S.A.  23

First edition, April 2019
Hazard symbol photo © MelnikPave/Shutterstock
Book design by Nina Goffi
To my mom, who first showed me what a magical place a library is,
and to Mila, who continues to remind me
 1. O L I V E R
My eyes sting against the brightness in my room when I wake up. I ­didn’t
sleep well. I usually ­don’t before I have to get on a plane. I try to concen-
trate on the sound of the waves crashing outside my room, but it just
reminds me of how much open w
­ ater my plane w
­ ill be flying over. I
­haven’t had a panic attack the entire trip, and I d
­ on’t want one on my last
morning in the Dominican Republic.
I get out of bed, grab some clothes, and head to the bathroom. I’m so
tired as I brush my teeth that I drop my toothpaste cap down the drain.
Which means I have to throw out the rest of my toothpaste. The travel-­
size tube is almost empty anyway, so it’s dumb that losing the cap bugs
me, but it does.
Annoyed, I quickly put on my clothes and head to the ­hotel lobby,
which has been set up as a dining space for us volunteers. Every­one has
their phones out and is swapping numbers and emails and stuff, includ-
ing Emily, who is talking to Devon. She puts her hand on his arm, and I
almost go back to my room, but she sees me and waves. I’m not sure if the
wave means I should go over t­here or not, but I decide I should, even
though Devon is less than thrilled as I approach their t­ able.

1
 Emily’s eyes look even bluer with her new tan. Her smile turns to an
ex­pec­tant look. “Do you want to sit down?” she fi­nally asks.
“Sure,” I say, sitting. But I quickly spring back up. “I should get my
breakfast first,” I ­mumble.
“­We’ll save your seat,” Emily calls as I get in line at the buffet t­ able.
I start to pile my plate with scrambled eggs, but in my hunger and tired-
ness I drop a bunch onto the platter of pancakes. I stand with the ladle in
my hand, trying to decide if I should scoop the eggs off or just leave
them, feeling my ears burn.
I decide to leave the eggs, but as I head back to the t­ able, I hear some-
one ­behind me in line say, “Eww, someone dropped eggs in the pancakes.
That’s disgusting.”
My ears feel like ­they’re g­ oing to catch on fire as I sit down again.
Emily and Devon are both scrolling on their phones, so I’m not even
sure if ­they’ve noticed I’m back, but Emily looks up just as I’m shoveling
food in my mouth.
She asks, “Oliver, I heard ­you’re not on our flight anymore?”
I’ve just taken a huge bite, so I nod. They both look at me, and I real-
ize I’m supposed to say more. “­Going back on the earlier flight,” I fi­nally
manage to choke out.
Devon rolls his eyes. “What, big party in Brooklyn you need to get
back to?”
My ears start to burn again. That’s actually exactly why I’m ­going
back early, but it’s clear I c­ an’t tell Devon that.
“It’s a sorta . . . ​­family emergency,” I lie.
Devon rolls his eyes again and grabs his breakfast tray. “Have a safe
flight,” he says, sarcasm dripping from his voice. Then he smiles at Emily.
“See you at the beach in ten?”
Emily gives him a dirty look, but Devon leaves smiling. “He’s such a

2
jerk sometimes.” She watches him walk away, then turns to me again.
“So, r­ eally, why are you heading back by yourself? I think y­ ou’re the only
volunteer who actually wants to leave the Dominican Republic.”
I fidget in my seat. “It’s not that. Something came up last minute
back home.” Which is only 50 ­percent a lie. Kelsey mentioned the party
on the first day of my trip, but she only actually invited me yesterday
morning.
“Olive . . .” It’s the nickname she thinks she in­ven­ted for me. I
­haven’t had the heart to tell her my aunt Jana has called me “Olive,
­because ­you’re too ­little to be a ­whole Oliver” since I was three and it’s
never not annoyed me.
I avoid her eyes and pull my phone out of my pocket and start fiddling
with it.
Emily quickly reaches across the t­ able and grabs the phone from me.
It’s open to my pictures—­specifically the one of Kelsey that I saved off
Facebook. “Does Kelsey have anything to do with your early departure?”
Busted. Maybe I’ve talked about Kelsey too much with Emily. Maybe
I’ve talked about Kelsey too much with every­one.
She raises an eyebrow at me, but I just sort of shrug, and she goes to
my contacts to add her number.
“Trade you,” she says, sliding her own phone my way. It’s totally dif­
fer­ent from mine, so I fumble for a bit with her watching while I add my
phone number. I include the r in Oliver without even ­really thinking
about it, then worry ­she’ll read into that, but I’ve already slid her phone
back to her a l­ittle too hard. She barely catches it before it slides off the
­table.
I cringe, but Emily just laughs again. “Bye, Olive. ­Don’t go breaking
any hearts, okay?” She clears her breakfast dishes and heads out to the
beach.

3
 I watch her leave, and as I look at the back of her head, her hair
reminds me of Kelsey’s. I swear Kelsey used to wear her hair in a braid
like that all the time. Maybe.
I sit at the ­table by myself and pick up my phone. I scroll through all
my texts with Kelsey. I pulled her number off Facebook and saved her in
my contacts months ago but never actually texted her. Then suddenly on
the way to the airport she texted me 2 bad ur gone all spring break. I
stared at the message for a while, telling myself she had prob­ably meant
to text someone ­else, even though I had just posted a picture of my suit-
case. I composed and rewrote and deleted, and when my mom went over
a bump, my fin­ger tapped the guy-­in-­sunglasses emoji. I wanted to throw
up at first. But then she sent the wink emoji back, and somehow we texted
the ­whole spring break, even though we have hung out exactly once out-
side school, when a big group of us went ice-­skating. That was four
months ago, and since then I could count the number of convers­ations
I’ve had with her on one hand.
I head back to my room to pack. I spent my junior-­year spring break
helping build ­houses in the Dominican Republic, so most of my clothes
are dirty. I throw my crumpled and sweaty laundry into my suitcase. I
look out my win­dow one last time, at the beach and palm trees. I see
Emily and Devon walking together, and I grab my suitcase and head to
the lobby.
I’m the only volunteer on the ­little airport shut­tle. We stop at a
­couple of resorts to pick up other travelers. One man has three huge suit-
cases, and the driver ­can’t fit them in the undercarriage of the small bus.
­There is some rearranging, some yelling, and fi­nally the man, who is now
drenched in sweat, brings one of his suitcases on board. He ­doesn’t make
eye contact with any of us and fans himself with his boarding pass.
­We’re already r­unning late, and some of the other passengers are

4
grumbling, but it’s fine with me, ­really. The less time I have to spend at
the airport, waiting to get on a plane, the better. I wish t­ here was a train
that went from the Dominican Republic to Brooklyn. Or even a boat.
Something lower to the ground that ­doesn’t go tens of thousands of feet
in the air. I take a deep breath, wipe my sweaty hands on my legs.
When we get to the airport, the sunburned resort-­goers pile off the
bus in front of me. B
­ ecause I was the first one on the bus, my suitcase is
the last one the driver pulls out. He wipes the sweat off his face with his
shirt. I w
­ asn’t watching anyone e­ lse, so I’m not sure if a tip would be wel-
come or insulting. I opt for a handshake, which he looks confused
about. I m
­ umble “Gracias!” and walk into the airport. I should say more
in Spanish—­should know more Spanish, considering my dad was born in
Mexico—­but I ­don’t.
The security line is long and moving slowly. My mom tries calling,
but I feel weird talking on the phone with so many ­people around me.
Then she texts—­and she d
­ oesn’t stop text­ing. Hope ­you’re at airport.
Did you get my last text? I can picture her pacing our pristine apart-
ment, wiping down the c­ ounters for the third time this morning, the
phone in her other hand.
I send her a quick message: Sorry, was packing and saying bye. I’ll
see you in a few hours.
She writes back so quickly I won­der if she already had the message
composed: ­ ou’re sure every­thing is okay? ­You’re ­really just coming
Y
back early for a party??
I look up at the line, take a deep breath. Yes, Mom, just a party. At
security.
A millisecond l­ater: Okay. Let me know when y­ ou’re on the plane.
I close out of the text with my mom and send a quick group text to
Kelsey and Lucy asking for the address to­night, even though I was at

5
Lucy’s ­house a few months ago when we had to do a history proj­ect
together. I’m getting close to the front of the line, so I shove my phone
into my bag. I look up, and a ­woman is trying to walk through the metal
detector while on a phone call. She looks confused when the security
workers make her hang up. No one ­else seems bothered . . . ​except for a
girl at the front of the line, who I swear is wearing a flannel shirt that
Kelsey has. She’s looking around, and our eyes lock for a second. Without
thinking about it, I roll my eyes and smile, and she smiles back at me.
She has a r­ eally ­great smile.
Airports suddenly seem a l­ittle less scary.
Flying in general seems less scary when I get to the gate and see that
the girl is on my flight.

6
 2. F L O R A
I’ve been awake and packed and ready for this flight since dawn. I know
how I must look: a surly teenager in jeans and boots and a flannel button-­
down, totally at odds with the vacation vibe. Even in the airport, I see
­people in flip-­flops and swim trunks as if t­hey’ve been dragged h
­ ere
straight from the beach.
Me? I c­ an’t wait to get out of h
­ ere.
I grab a seat at the gate. I take out my phone and see that Goldy, my
dad’s new wife, has posted the selfie she took of us when they dropped
me off. ­There’s already a score of vapid comments:

OMG, u and ur stepdaughter could be s­ isters!

SO CUTE.
#hotmomma
The last comment is from my dad. I try not to gag as I untag myself
from the photo. I fiddle with my settings so Goldy c­ an’t tag me in any-
thing ever again.
It ­hasn’t been much of a vacation, and not just b­ ecause it rained

7
almost all week. Since my dad remarried and moved to the Dominican
Republic, he seems to think he’s on some kind of permanent spring
break. While they slept till noon, I spent my mornings cleaning up pizza
boxes and salsa bowls and sticky blenders—­only to have it all reappear
the next day.
I’m used to cleaning up other ­people’s messes. Which, you know, is
fine. But it ­doesn’t make for a ­great vacation.
I scroll through Instagram some more and look at the pictures Jenna
put up last night of her and Becca hanging out in Becca’s apartment. No
won­der neither one of them responded to my texts. Clearly they ­were too
busy posing with Becca’s cat and burning brownies. I feel yet another jolt
of anger at my dad for taking me away from my friends for an entire
week. Jenna and Becca have never hung out without me before; they
­weren’t even friends u
­ ntil I introduced them.
The gate agent starts boarding the plane, and since it’s a smaller
plane, the pro­cess is quick and I’m at my seat in no time. I sit next to the
win­dow, and the aisle seat next to me remains empty. I stretch out and
open my book. I’ve already read Gulliver’s Travels and started my notes
for my paper, but I should prob­ably do some more work. I’m tired,
though. The bed at my dad’s condo was way too soft, and the feathers in
the pillows gave me a runny nose. They called it “my” bed in “my” room,
but ­hadn’t bothered to ask me about any of it. And the room r­ eally d
­ idn’t
suit me at all. T
­ here was animal print everywhere. Who knew it was even
pos­si­ble to buy a leopard-­print tissue cover?
I look up and notice a guy about my age carry­ing a bag of McDonald’s
getting on the plane. He has dark hair, and even from where I’m sitting I
notice his light eyes. He pulls one of his hands out of the bag and waves.
I certainly ­don’t know anyone in the DR besides my dad and Goldy, so

8
I figure he must be waving at someone ­behind me. I ­don’t wave back, and
he blushes.
I feel a l­ittle bad, so I try to smile just in case he was waving at me,
but he’s already looking away, his face bright red, and he climbs into the
aisle seat in the row in front of me.
The flight attendant is about to close the plane door when one last
passenger hurries onto the plane. He blows his nose as he climbs over
McDonald’s guy and sits down. I wrinkle my nose. A cold w
­ ill be a g­ reat
souvenir from my awesome junior-­year spring break.
McDonald’s guy is stuffing french fries in his mouth, but he looks
over his shoulder as germ man blows his nose again. Their seats are close
together, my seat is close to theirs, and I feel a ­little nauseous smelling the
fries and thinking about the germs flying around. I sweat a l­ittle in my
flannel, and I crank on the air-­conditioning fan over my head.
“Good after­noon, ladies and gentlemen! I’m Maria, your flight atten-
dant. Welcome aboard flight 4548, with nonstop ser­vice to Miami.” I
can barely hear the rest, b­ ecause now germ man has a coughing fit.
The other guy pushes away his half-­empty container of fries.

9
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