Excerpt from The Last Boy and Girl in the World by Siobhan Vivian, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

As Mayor Aversano went on, his voice took on a totally fake somber tone. My dad had been the one to first alert me to his penchant for doing this, after the mayor announced his most recent budget for Aberdeen, where he was "forced" to cut anything considered "nonessential" (quotations used to highlight his bullcrap). Since then, I always noticed it, a performance about as believable as our high school drama productions.

". . . but we must be ready in case they aren't, and do our part to protect our citizens from harm. I'm going to turn things over to Sheriff Hamrick to explain how today's going to work."

Morgan and Elise leaned their heads together.

Elise whispered, "I seriously can't believe he hasn't called you yet. It's been two weeks, right?"

"Almost," Morgan whispered back.

"It must be a pride thing. Maybe he's waiting to hear from you first?" Then Elise gave Morgan's topknot an encouraging little squeeze.

I burst in between them and grabbed each by the hand. "Let's go down to the senior spot. It's almost ours, anyway. And this place is giving me freshman-year flashbacks of those pink bikini bottoms that always gave me a wedgie."

"But Sheriff Hamrick hasn't finished his instructions yet," Elise said. "How will we know what to do?"

"What's to know?" I said, pulling her along. "Take sandbag, pass sandbag, repeat." It blew my mind how often Elise brought Wes up after the breakup. I knew she meant well, but why poke a bruise as it's trying to heal?

I think Morgan probably picked up on my Wes interference, because she walked a little bit ahead of Elise and me and changed the subject. "Eww," she said, pointing as we neared the bank of the junior swim spot. "It looks like chocolate milk."

The river normally ran clear. Not crystal, but close. But the previous storms had churned the water up big-time and it was so high, you couldn't see the tail end of the rope swing in the murky water. The current pulled it taut, like a fishing line had hooked a dolphin.

"Okay, so maybe sandbags are a good idea after all." I zipped my hoodie up to my chin, lifted the hood over my head, and stuffed my hands in my pockets to keep them warm. The morning sun was gone now, and the clouds hung low and oppressive, like someone's basement ceiling.

We walked to the senior spot. Another group of volunteers came from the opposite direction. Then everyone fanned out. I sat down on a rock in the sand and let out a big fat yawn.

"Keeley," Morgan whispered.

I ignored what I thought was her cue for me to stand up, even though I probably should have stood up if I wanted to look like someone who should be elected Key Club president next year. But I was tired. Normally, Morgan and I slept in on Sundays until lunch. And the dreary weather wasn't helping.

Morgan then knelt down in front of me and practically inserted her entire head inside my hood.

"Can I help you?"

The tip of her nose pressing into mine, she said, "Look left."

I turned my head.

And there was Jesse Ford.

His back was to me, but I still recognized him because Jesse had the cutest mop of wavy blond hair that was always the perfect mess. The pieces in front were long, almost chin-length, and he used their natural curl to keep them tucked behind his ears. That's how he usually wore it, except when he played soccer. Then he'd steal a rubber band off some teacher's desk and pull all his hair up into a little tuft at the top of his head, a man bun I guess you could call it. I know this is truly a look that only very cute and/or confident guys can successfully get away with. Put Jesse Ford in that slim minority. In fact, I weirdly liked it up in the man bun, because it showed off the million different shades of blond over his head. My hair is also blond, but it's all the same color—pale yellow, like a stick of butter. Jesse's is an entire box of Crayola crayons devoted to the shade. For example, some strands are as golden as the tops of the cafeteria corn muffins, some darker like pine sap, some as bright white as the sand that poured out of the splits in our sandbags that day.

Excerpted from The Last Boy and Girl in the World by Siobhan Vivian. Copyright © 2016 by Siobhan Vivian. Excerpted by permission of Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.