Nothing but Trouble after Midnight, Page 2
Kimberly Blackadar
Back at the parking lot, I climbed into Rob’s bright yellow Jeep and clicked off the sports radio. Within a few minutes, I reached the gatehouse of my neighborhood. The guard looked at me quizzically. He recognized the Jeep; he recognized me; but he wasn’t used to seeing me in the driver’s seat. Rather than letting me pass through the gate, he held up his hand.
“Listen, it’s a long story, Clyde,” I said.
He tucked the newspaper under his arm and moved closer to me. “Well, I got nothing but time, Miss Preston.”
I smiled politely, but before I could formulate a response, he began, “I remember when you were about this tall.” He bent over, making me the size of a miniature poodle, and then he shook his head like he was inside a memory. At that moment, I realized I was his captive audience. I had no other choice but to sit there and listen to him, since Clyde controlled the arm of the gatehouse and Rob would be pretty amiss if I plowed through it with his Jeep.
Clyde continued on despite my repertoire of facial expressions. “Each morning you’d arrive at the bus stop, and that Callahan boy would have something for you—a flower, a note, a bag of candy.” His eyes drifted toward the street corner where the newest batch of elementary school kids congregated at the bus stop, and we watched the little boys chase the squealing girls as their mothers sipped their coffees and shouted their last disciplinary decrees for the morning.
Then Clyde’s eyes fell on me again. “Oh, you couldn’t have been much more than six or seven at the time, and I thought that boy would give you just about anything.” He stepped forward and rested a hand on the side of the Jeep. “And I guess, even after all these years, he still would.”
“Yup, that’s what friends are for,” I returned and drove on, taking a quick right onto my street. Rob and I lived in a pretty nice subdivision: typical Florida style with pastel-colored stucco homes. Each house had a large front portico, a terracotta-tiled roof, and high-arched windows, but my house was not like the others. It had a shake-shingled roof and floor-to-ceiling windows, making it the lone contemporary atop a heavily treed hill; and even though it was an architectural anomaly in the neighborhood, all of its individuality was lost behind a forest of wide-armed oaks and sky-reaching pines.
I zipped up the long driveway and entered my house with Rob’s key. My father gave him a house key when my mother started back to work full-time. I have always had issues with keys, and at first, my parents tried the inconspicuous rock by the front door. But each time I entered the house with the spare key, I forgot to put it back. So the next time I got locked out…
Anyway, Rob was more reliable.
Entering my house was like crossing the time portal into the Victorian era, and even though our contemporary home needed sleek-lined furniture and abstract art, it was decorated with antiques and vibrant oils. Pictures of flowers and fruit bowls covered the creamy walls while dainty benches and fainting sofas rested on tiled floors.
My bedroom was at the top of the stairs and furnished in a similar fashion; with an antique sleigh bed, ornate writer’s desk, and a triple dresser, it looked more like the guest accommodations of a New England bed and breakfast than a teenager’s retreat. My favorite part of my room was the seat in the bay window, which jutted out into the rear of the home and overlooked the pool and the woods. On either side of the window seat, the built-in shelves housed my books, knick-knacks, and photos.
I grabbed my spare set of keys off the top shelf of my bookcase and hurried back to school; and once there, I turned off my car and headed into the main doors of Riverside. It was well into first hour, and the school resembled a ghost town. The only sound was me, jingling like a janitor with three sets of keys in my hand.
For a moment, I paused in the front lobby of my high school. On my right, the administrative offices sprawled endlessly down the hall, but on my left, the glass display cases extended the length of the opposite wall, proudly displaying all the trophies, plaques, and awards from the last forty years.
But it was the massive state championship football trophy that always caught my eye. Shiny and impressive, surrounded by smaller symbols of lesser football seasons, the trophy could have been presented to one player rather than to our entire team. Our star running back single-handedly won it for the school. He knew it. Everyone knew it. And all that knowing promoted my boyfriend to god status at Riverside High.
-2-
First Impressions
I met my boyfriend before he achieved immortality. It was three years ago, the summer before ninth, and Caitlyn Rivers and I were helping her mother in the front office. Her mom’s a guidance counselor, and Caitlyn and I filed in exchange for perfect schedules. That morning, we were taking a filing break and sprawled across the speckled blue carpet, sipping on some mocha frappa somethings and flipping through a magazine when a deep Southern voice fell over the counter and landed on the floor. “Hey there.”
My eyes lifted from the pages of the magazine to breathing perfection staring down at me. A boy with the brightest blue eyes stood next to his grinning father. I blinked and looked again. He was definitely real, and slowly, he turned up the corners of his mouth. His smile sent a rush of emotions into me. Very pleasant ones. The kind that makes a girl get up and go to school in the morning.
“I need to get my boy here registered for school. We just came from Texas.” The father began as he tousled his son’s hair. “An’ Austin here should be startin’ in the ninth grade, ma’am.” I snickered at his name, imagining a bunch of older brothers named Houston, Dallas, Antonio, and Galveston. I wondered all sorts of things about him in the minutes before we ever spoke, but mostly, I wondered if the scheduling goddess could put him in some of my classes in the fall.
Mrs. Rivers met them at the counter. “Welcome to Florida. You’ll find our weather is just as hot…” Her voice trailed off into more polite adult conversation, and Austin came around the counter toward us. His arms were folded across his chest, and he cocked his head to the right. “You girls into football?”
“Uh, yeah.” Caitlyn popped up and gestured across her Riverside Cheer T-shirt. “My boyfriend’s Brandon Edwards; he’s the starting quarterback on the freshmen team.” She had an uncanny knack for dropping the boyfriend bomb into every conversation.
Then his bright blue eyes fell on me. “And what about your boyfriend?”
Caitlyn intercepted the question like I was a deaf mute. “Oh, Chloe only dates smart guys.” I was barely fourteen, and barely dating, and if I had a type, it would definitely include him.
“Well, I’m smart…smart enough to get her to go out with me.”
Now, I wanted nothing more than to go on a date with him, so I could stare into those brilliant blue eyes and run my fingers through his golden blonde hair. But one thing fueled my response more than my attraction to him; no matter how hot he was, I couldn’t resist a comeback. “You wanna’ bet?”
“Aw, c’mon now,” he spoke in his slow Southern drawl and smiled again—this one bigger, bolder, and more powerful than before. “If we bet, baby, then someone’s gotta’ lose, and it ain’t gonna’ be me.”
“Uh.” That was my pathetic reply.
“I’ll take that as a yes then,” he said, smiling.
Caitlyn exchanged numbers with him, and apparently, she gave him mine—my home phone, that is. I wasn’t permitted to have a cell back then, and by Friday night, my father was pacing by the front door, eager to put a face to my new frequent caller.
“Son,” my father started as Austin entered the house. “Did you put our number on speed dial?” My father meant this sarcastically, which was how he approached any guy who braved the front door.
But Austin replied evenly, “Yup, number seven.” Then he turned to me with his smile-and-wink combo. “It’s my favorite number, you know.”
I nodded, barely, but yes, I had noticed the golden number seven around his neck on the day I met him. And over the course of our phone calls, he explained how it had always been his je
rsey number.
Austin gave me a long, lingering stare before he spoke again. “You look real nice tonight.”
“Thanks,” I said and bit down on my lower lip. I had on a pair of jeans and a white top, and I couldn’t ever remember wearing more clothes than my date. He wore a pair of shorts and what was left of a Dallas Cowboys T-shirt. The arm holes were cut so low that I received a full fall preview. I started thinking about football practices on hot August afternoons and how our cross country team always ran by the practice fields…
My father brought me back to the present tense. “Be home by ten, Chloe.”
“It’s eleven in the summer, Dad.”
“Summer’s almost over.”
“Yeah, but it’s a Friday night.”
My dad appealed to Austin. “What about you? What time do you have to be home tonight?”
He shrugged. “When I feel like it.”
“You know,” my father said, moving in closer to my date, and at six and a half feet tall, he used his height for intimidation. “There’s nothing but trouble after midnight.”
“Well, I kinda’—”
I grabbed Austin’s hand and cut in, “Appreciate the reminder, Dad.” And we almost made it out the door, but my father had one final question for my date. “Are you driving tonight?”
“No, I’m only going into ninth.”
“For the first or second time?”
“Dad!” I was horrified, but Austin just smiled again. “No, Sir, I’m just real mature for my age.” And I could attest to that. Most ninth grade boys looked nothing like him, but apparently, the puberty fairy had made all her visits.
“Good, good.” My father moved in toward Austin, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Then you’ll be responsible enough to have my daughter home by ten o’clock.”
“Eleven,” I repeated as I pulled Austin out the front door and down the steps, but my father’s voice followed us. “How about ten thirty?”
“It’s not negotiable, Dad.”
No worries there. I made it home well before ten o’clock. As soon as my friends and their dates got comfortable in the movie theater, Austin’s two arms turned into eight. The octopus offered me an arsenal of cheesy come-ons, which I fought off with sarcastic disdain, and before the movie ended, I excused myself, found a pay phone, and arranged for a ride home.
I didn’t want to call my parents, and most of my friends were only legal to drive bumper cars. So I was left with one option: I called on a friend who surrounded himself with upperclassmen. As a freshman, he pitched for the varsity baseball team, but by the time he arrived in his teammate’s blue Mustang, the movie had ended. Everyone was waiting outside with me as my friend slipped from the car. With his male bravado in high gear, he singled out my date with narrowing eyes. “Stay away from her.”
Austin shrugged. “Why? What’s it to you?”
My friend chewed his gum slowly for a minute and stared back at Austin unflinchingly before he took my hand and turned around slowly; offering no reply, he led me toward the blue Mustang, still purring at the curb. We climbed into the back seat, and the driver turned. “Where to, man?”
“My house,” my friend replied, and if the guys didn’t already know, he added, “She lives right behind me.”
That was the moment when Rob Callahan met Austin Walker, and you know what they say about first impressions: they’re pretty hard to change. His and mine.
-3-
Better Than Hallmark
When I returned to AP English, I discovered Jessica Jackson in my seat. She looked up at me as I paused at my desk. “So,” she elongated her “O” into next week. “I hope you don’t mind that I’m in your seat.” She was leaning on Rob’s desk and giving me her big Sunday morning grin. The smile was as fake as our friendship, and even though we grew up in the same church, we hadn’t discovered a Christian way to overcome our mutual dislike for each other. So I ignored her completely. It probably wasn’t what Jesus would do, but it was better than what I wanted to do.
“Here you go, Rob.” I placed his keys as well as my spare set on his desk and dropped the third into my bag. I tossed my bag toward an empty chair against the wall, and as I headed toward Miss Randall’s desk, Jessica mumbled some worthless comment about the key incident. Yeah, I thought, At least I dated him once. Sure, it was a million years ago when going out meant a boy and a girl didn’t run in opposite directions on the playground, and back in those days, Rob and I spent our entire recess at the swing set. I loved to swing, and he would push me up, up, up into the sky. When I reached a certain height, he would dare me to jump off, and I usually succumbed to his taunts since that was how I impressed him back then.
“Did I miss anything, Miss Randall?” I asked as I reached my teacher’s desk. Her painted lips lifted from her coffee cup. “Nah, not too much, Chloe.” She wore a deep aqua suit and kept her hair neatly pulled away from her face. “You know,” she started with her pretty smile. “I wouldn’t have let you take this class as a junior if you had pulled that stunt last year.”
“Aw, c’mon, Miss Randall,” I said, sitting down in the conference chair next to her desk. “If school were based solely on common sense, they’d have to keep me in remedial English.”
I made my teacher smile and returned to my “seat.” I pulled out a spiral and doodled a picture of a ship sailing toward a tiny deserted island, and when the bell sounded, I glanced up at my annoying seat usurper. She was brushing Rob’s arm lightly and smiling. It was a different smile than the one she had given me, but I hated it even more. She left my seat and said, “Let me know what you decide, Robbie.”
I slid to the scene before Jessica was out of ear-shot. “Decide what, Robbie?” I inquired even though I hadn’t used his boyhood moniker since our ages reached the double digits.
He stood up next to me and mumbled softly, “Prom.”
“Well,” I started slowly. “You wouldn’t be in this predicament if you hadn’t broken up with your girlfriend over Spring Break.” His ex-girlfriend was also a member of our first-hour class, making the scene even more interesting.
“Predicament?” he echoed. “Most guys would be flattered.”
“So, are you,” I paused before I repeated his word, “flattered?”
He frowned. “No, not really.”
Rob and I started toward the math wing, and I handed him a folded piece of notebook paper. “This is for you,” I said with a smirk.
He unfolded my note and read the message at the bottom of the page. “Thanks for saving me.” A corner of his mouth retreated into his cheek for a moment.
“Do you get it?” I peered over at him and pointed to the picture. “I’m the stick figure with curly hair, and I’m stranded on the deserted island.”
“Well.” A big smile took over his face. “Those sure are some nice coconuts.”
“Robert. Wesley. Callahan.” I intonated his mother’s voice.
“On the tree,” he defended. “Why? What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking you were a—” I stopped myself because I was trying to express my gratitude, and jerk wasn’t exactly the best way. “So, anyway, you’re in the boat wearing your ratty, old Red Sox cap. Of course, that’s supposed to be the pirate ship from Treasure Island, but my artistic ability is limited, you know.”
He folded the picture and put it in the back pocket. “Well, it’s better than Hallmark, or at least that’s what my mom would say to make me feel better.”
I placed a playful punch on his arm, and he nudged me with his shoulder. Some things about our relationship never matured beyond the days of playgrounds and pirate stories, and if we overlooked the things that had, our friendship would always remain the same: innocent.
-4-
The Seven Cs
Rob slipped into genius math while I hung out in the hallway with Callie Williams, and even though she was talking to me, her brown eyes scanned the halls for Mike Erickson. Mike was her brother’s frien
d and her current crush, and the three of them lived in the upper atmosphere along with the other members of Riverside’s basketball teams.
“He wasn’t in first.” I hated to deliver bad news without a possible upside. “So maybe he had an ortho or something.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Callie smiled a knowing mouth full of braces and paused in the doorway of my pre-calculus class. She waved over at Caitlyn and Courtney before she headed down the hall to her classroom. We were the four remaining members of “The Seven Cs,” a circle of friends formed in middle school, which was based entirely on the superficiality of alliteration.
The other three members? Cynthia Westwood transferred to a high school across town when her father accepted the principalship there, and Christina Anderson moved to Alexandria, Virginia in tenth grade. And that left one: Carly Evans. She remained at Riverside, but chose to alienate herself from us. For years, she was Caitlyn’s closest friend, but now, she lurked the halls with painted black lips, standing in the sharpest contrast to the pastel predilections of Caitlyn Rivers.
I took my seat across the aisle from Caitlyn. Her short brown hair was pulled back in a headband, and her eyes matched her dark green top. Her hands were massaging her boyfriend’s neck and shoulders, and after three long years, she hadn’t tired of dating Riverside’s mediocre quarterback. Of course, what Brandon Edwards lacked on the field, he made up for in other ways (or so Caitlyn led us to believe). Anyway, he was an honor roll student and good looking enough. He had soft eyes like the ocean and brown hair perfectly gelled into blonde-tipped spikes, and as I pulled out my math book, Brandon lowered his head to his desk for his morning nap.
Caitlyn, relieved of her girlfriend duties, slid her desk next to mine. “You look so tired, Chlo.” That was her subtle way of telling me I looked like crap. “So, are you losing sleep over this thing with Austin?” The thing was a fight, and apparently, it had gone public.
“Nope,” I said and opened my math book, taking a keen interest in parabolic equations.
Her emerald eyes searched my pale blue ones. “I’m sure he’s worried too, Chlo.” She was ascertaining Austin’s emotional state, and that amused me considerably. Brandon too. He snickered a little before he drifted off to sleep. Brandon was Austin’s best friend, and I was the girl who morphed into his girlfriend seven months ago. If Austin had much depth, then Brandon and I would have discovered it by now.
After answering a few more math problems, I noticed Courtney Valentine hadn’t opened her book yet and remained sideways in her seat. She was twisting her long blonde hair into a haphazard knot and peering over at Ricky Sampson. He brushed the bleached blonde wisps from his dark brown eyes and mouthed an “I love you” from across the room. Ricky was ranked in some surfing circuits, and Courtney was the quintessential surfer girl—the hair, the eyes, the tan, and yes, the killer body to complete every guy’s fantasy, especially his.
Courtney turned to face me. “So, I heard.”
“Uh-huh,” I acknowledged flatly. That was my new plan. I was going to appear uninterested in what people had to say to me, since I was going to be the butt of all jokes until someone did something stupider than lock their keys in a running car.
“That was nice of Rob,” Courtney said. Geographically speaking, Rob Callahan was her boy-next-door. “What are we going to do without him next year?”
“Rely on each other,” Caitlyn joked. Courtney made a dreadful face, and we all laughed. Courtney and I lacked common sense, and together, we made even less sense than we did apart.
Caitlyn’s eyes drifted back to her boyfriend; then she heaved a heavy sigh as she fumbled through her purse for a tissue. She swiped the drool from his chin and off the desk before she folded the tissue into a square and tossed it into the trash. Returning to her seat, she rested her chin on folded hands and smiled. “Isn’t he peaceful when he’s sleeping?”
“Uh, that’s what people say about their children,” I said.
Courtney tilted her head in drool boy’s direction. “Well, he is like a child.”
“Yeah, but he’s my child.” Caitlyn smiled and noticed the clock. “Okay, sweetie. Time to wake up.”
Courtney and I hung back by ourselves, funneling slowly into the crowded hallway. “And when are you putting yours up for adoption?” she asked, and I found the comment amusing until I noticed my big responsibility lounging against my locker.
-5-
Tabula Rasa
“Why don’t you make yourself useful, Austin?” I unloaded an armful of books into his empty hands, and the corners of his mouth curled into his notorious smile. And just like that, I forgot my next class.
I stood there, staring into my open locker, since Austin’s presence was unbelievably distracting, and I couldn’t imagine being on an actual study date with him. But then again, he rarely had any homework, and the only library we ever visited was in the “Land of Lies.” After all, a date to the library sounded much better than “I’ll be at Austin’s place,” since his apartment turned into Party Central whenever his dad shacked up with some woman. Currently, Whitney, a waitress from Riverside Diner, was offering Mr. Walker some fine Southern hospitality; nevertheless, I kept Austin’s family dynamics as far from mine as possible.
Caitlyn shoved her books into the locker, and then Callie lowered a heavy American Lit text over my head. Our locker was totally communal—like the locker room showers that girls only used in the movies (you know the kind).
I spied a tattered, brown text at the bottom of the pile, and then I remembered I had Latin third hour. I grabbed my book, where one of the previous owners had scribbled the likes of Julius Caesar and Caligula into the “Property of” column, mixing Roman rulers with Latin losers who only took the dead language to increase their verbal SAT score.
Then Austin held my hand and my books down the hall, and for someone with incredible speed on the field, he moved like a slug everywhere else. He led me to our usual spot for goodbyes, but when his mouth started toward mine, I stopped his advancing lips with my fingertips. “I’m still mad at you.”
He shrugged. “Cause of last night?”
“Uh, last night…this morning…last week…last month…take your pick.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he mumbled, and I turned on a heel and into third hour. But the bell beat me to my seat, and after I received a referral for chronic tardiness, I pushed back through the door and caught up to Austin’s sauntering gait. “I’m not sitting in detention because of you!”
“Aw, calm down, baby. I’ll take care of it.” He grabbed my referral and walked me over to the front office. Once there, he leaned on the gray counter and flashed his sweet-boy grin at the secretarial pool. “Good morning, ladies. May I speak with Mr. Jenkins for a moment?”
“Sure, sugar, head on back.”
Mr. Jenkins was sorting through a pile of mail when Austin sunk into a wing chair and pushed the referral up the desk. Our principal gave it a quick once-over and looked at Austin. “How can I be of assistance this morning?”
“Sir, this was all my fault,” Austin began with an earnest smile, spreading his hands to the side. “Chloe tutors me, so I can stay academically eligible. Sometimes I need her help between classes, and I’d hate to see her to get in trouble for it.”
“Sure, I’ll explain it to Mrs. Evans.”
“Thanks,” I said meekly as I watched him rip up the referral and file it in the trash can under his desk. Then Mr. Jenkins leaned forward and rubbed his hands together. “Can’t wait for next season.”
“Yeah, me neither.” Austin grinned.
“We lost a few starters, but Coach thinks…” The conversation went on and on as the minutes elapsed slowly from my third-hour class. The day was almost half over, and I had spent most of it outside the classroom; but when the principal got an important phone call, he ushered us to the door, saving his last words for me. “And keep him out of trouble, you hear?”
I nodded, but really, what was
I supposed to do? The only boundaries Austin ever encountered were mine, and he whined at every roadblock like a little brat used to getting his way.
At the doorway, Austin extended a hand. “Thanks, Sir. I really appreciate it.”
As we headed down the hall, I said, “That was almost hard to watch.”
He winked over at me. “I can be nice.”
“Yeah,” I returned. “When you want something.”
“You know what I really want?”
“No, I can’t imagine.” I played dumb as he pulled me into a remote girls’ bathroom. He spat his gum into the trash can, smiled, and pressed me up against the wall. The pale yellow tiles felt cool against my backside, and the smell of industrial-strength cleaner hung in the air from last night’s janitorial visit. His cinnamon tongue slid into my mouth, making it a good spicy kiss despite the locale, but after a few minutes of his tongue swirling around mine, I found his ear. “I’m going to class. Maybe you should try it for a change.”
As I entered Latin again, Mrs. Evans summoned me with a curling finger, and I sat down next to her desk. “So, Mr. Jenkins gave you a tabula rasa, huh? You do know what that is, don’t you, Miss Preston?”
I nodded slowly, but I didn’t need three years of Latin to understand the English equivalents. I had received a blank slate; a mulligan; a fresh start. And it was all because of who I dated.
Mrs. Evans leaned in, lowering her head and her husky voice. “Therefore, I’m supposed to ignore all of your previous tardies since you were—how did Mr. Jenkins put it?—tutoring Mr. Walker. Well, maybe you should refrain from tutoring him right outside my class then.”
“Yes, Mrs. Evans,” I replied softly, finding my seat in the center of the classroom. Since we sat in alphabetical order, the desk in front of me belonged to Brad Preston, a sophomore and my only sibling.
When Brad and I escaped from Latin purgatorium, we ran into a waiting Austin who grinned at my brother menacingly—like a fraternity brother at a measly pledge. “Guess who will be running the offensive drills at football camp this summer?”
Brad considered the news. “Hmm, I think I’ll go out for the band then.”
“Yeah, what are you going to play?” I wondered.
“The tuba?”
I poked at his flat tummy. “Then we’ll have to fatten you up over the summer, you little turkey.” Austin shook his head at us, and my brother took it as his cue to leave.
Austin draped an arm around my shoulders, and together, without exchanging a word, we strolled toward the lunchroom at the far end of campus. Once inside, he left me for the food line and cut to the front with his ridiculous sense of entitlement, and I headed in the opposite direction, landing at my usual seat. There, I dumped the contents of my lunch onto the table.
Yes, I was the loser who brought my lunch to school every day, but I brown-bagged on financial principles alone. I received a set monthly allowance, which covered all my expenditures, including lunch money, so I saved it for clothes, my most basic need, and that spending pattern earned me the nickname of “best-dressed skeleton” in my father’s third book, Preston’s Principles for Teens. My dad wrote a series of titles on financial freedom, creating other volumes for children, newlyweds, and retirees, and when I got bored, I mused over new titles. My favorite was Preston’s Principles for the Homeless. It could be a relatively thin book, and then after our teachers droned on and on about the pending teacher strike this past fall, I devised Preston’s Principles for the Overworked and Underpaid Teachers of America. Amazingly, neither my father nor his publisher considered any of my suggestions.
Callie joined me at the lunch table first. “He was at the dentist.”
“Ooh, a good day for a first kiss then.”
“Every day is that day.” She glanced down at the other end of the table as Mike slid into his seat. Then he slowly turned up one corner of his mouth, offering his asymmetrical grin.
“Mm-hmm, I saw that,” I assured her ego, and she squeezed all of her excitement into my hand, eating her lunch under the spell of Mike Erickson’s half smile. Austin found a seat on my other side. He had a plate of pepperoni pizza in one hand and chocolate cake in the other, and before he got too comfortable, I informed, “We need to talk.”
He folded a slice and took a bite. “About what?”
“You know what!”
“I thought we were good.” His hand climbed my thigh and found its usual resting place. “We kissed, and you usually withhold when you’re mad at me.”
“Oh, that.” I waved my hand dismissingly. “That wasn’t a make-up kiss. That was a thank-you kiss.”
“Well, baby,” he managed between mouthfuls. “They all taste good to me.”
I turned and offered the evil eye, but somehow he mistook my eyebrow-raising scowl for something else. He lunged forward and planted a greasy kiss on my lips.
“Yuck.” I wiped my mouth with a napkin. “You know I hate pepperoni.” And that was how all of our serious talks ended. He annoyed me as a means of distraction. It was like stomping on someone’s toe to divert the pain of a broken arm. Our relationship was still in pieces, but since he irritated me so much, I didn’t feel like fixing it anymore.
Brandon leaned forward, getting our table’s attention. “The party will be at my house tonight.” A loud whoop exploded around the table, and then Austin peered over at me with intensity in his bright blue eyes. “And don’t invite him.”
“Huh?” I wondered for a moment, but when I saw my best friend perched at the end of the table, I had my answer.
“A no-hitter, huh?” Callie inquired and sunk her teeth into her slice of pizza.
“No, but it was close,” Courtney answered quickly. She must have made the game last night, but I went to the “library” instead. We spent hours reviewing anatomy, and Austin got upset when I wouldn’t let him advance to the next chapter.
Rob clarified, “Yeah, well, Kennedy got a hit with one out in the ninth.”
“Wow! That was close!” I remembered when the Sox played Kansas City and Jon Lester pitched a no-hitter. Rob said it was the ultimate rush for a pitcher, yet now, he just shrugged it off. “Nah, I just got lucky. Plus, their best hitter was out.”
“Well, it’s still amazing.” I toned it down a bit, since I had the peanut gallery behind me. “Anyway, I’m sorry I missed it. I’ll make the next game, I promise.”
Austin draped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me into his chest. “You know, Chloe never misses my games.”
“Dude!” Ricky Sampson was up to bat next. “That’s because she loooves you, man.”
“Yeah, and I don’t have to give her the keys to my truck either.” Austin received a few laughs at my expense, but Rob just glared back at him. “Why would you brag about that?”
Austin shrugged. “Because you do all the work, and I get all the benefits.”
I was so annoyed with him that I heaved his heavy arm off my shoulders, and Rob leaned forward, grinning. “And is rejection one of those so-called benefits?”
Austin stood up and did the stare-down with Rob, and silence swept down the entire length of the table. “You got something to say to me, Callahan?”
“Yeah, where do I begin, Walker?”
“How ’bout with your last words before I kick your—”
“Ooh, and look at the time!” Courtney jumped up and faced Rob. “You mind walking us to class?” Her eyes drifted back to Austin. “Because there are a lot of jerks on this campus.”
Rob smiled, and as soon as we reached the main aisle of the cafeteria, he hung an arm around each of us. “You two have the worst taste in guys.”
“Maybe, but we have the best taste in friends,” Courtney returned with a smile, and Rob did an obligatory “aw.” Then we split up in the science wing: Rob went to AP Biology, and Courtney and I ducked into our physics classroom.
Once inside, Courtney’s eyes remained at the front of the room, but her words were aimed at m
e. “You didn’t make this easy for him when you started seeing Austin.”
I defended myself. “It’s not like his girlfriends are ever nice to me.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be either,” she said as she slid her spiral onto the lab table. “You were his first girlfriend, and no matter what you two say, you still have that weird connection.”
I looked at the intern and found her ear. “Like you and Mr. Martinez?”
Her response was a single huff, since our young teacher was on his way to our table with a stack of papers. “And Chloe, out of all my classes, you got the highest score on the test.”
“Well, that’s because I studied with a genius,” I admitted quickly, always feeling a little uncomfortable in our teacher’s presence. He was tall, dark, and chiseled to perfection.
“Your boyfriend?” he asked tenaciously.
Callie found her seat across from us and laughed uncontrollably. “Seriously, do you know who her boyfriend is?”
“No, but I know about her car troubles this morning,” our teacher replied with a suppressed grin.
“Oh, that’s a gentle way of putting it,” I decided. “But you realize, in the halls of Riverside, I’ll be forever known as the stupid girl who locked her keys in a running car.”
He leaned on his elbows. “So, really, how’d you do it?”
“I can’t answer that.” I gave him one of those “I’m an idiot” expressions, and we shared an acceptable student-teacher laugh. This might sound weird, but I never minded mocking my own intelligence since I wasn’t insecure about it at all. It’s like how rail-thin girls look at themselves sideways in the mirror and mutter, “God, I’m so fat.”
Then without a word, he pushed Courtney’s test across the table. My eyes followed her paper, a respectable B plus, but she tucked it away like she had failed miserably; and when he walked away, she mumbled, “Maybe if I had your brain, then he’d notice me more.” But it wasn’t a lack of brains or beauty that kept Mr. Martinez from returning her advances; it was something Courtney couldn’t change—except one slow year at a time.
****
“Listen, it’s a long story, Clyde,” I said.
He tucked the newspaper under his arm and moved closer to me. “Well, I got nothing but time, Miss Preston.”
I smiled politely, but before I could formulate a response, he began, “I remember when you were about this tall.” He bent over, making me the size of a miniature poodle, and then he shook his head like he was inside a memory. At that moment, I realized I was his captive audience. I had no other choice but to sit there and listen to him, since Clyde controlled the arm of the gatehouse and Rob would be pretty amiss if I plowed through it with his Jeep.
Clyde continued on despite my repertoire of facial expressions. “Each morning you’d arrive at the bus stop, and that Callahan boy would have something for you—a flower, a note, a bag of candy.” His eyes drifted toward the street corner where the newest batch of elementary school kids congregated at the bus stop, and we watched the little boys chase the squealing girls as their mothers sipped their coffees and shouted their last disciplinary decrees for the morning.
Then Clyde’s eyes fell on me again. “Oh, you couldn’t have been much more than six or seven at the time, and I thought that boy would give you just about anything.” He stepped forward and rested a hand on the side of the Jeep. “And I guess, even after all these years, he still would.”
“Yup, that’s what friends are for,” I returned and drove on, taking a quick right onto my street. Rob and I lived in a pretty nice subdivision: typical Florida style with pastel-colored stucco homes. Each house had a large front portico, a terracotta-tiled roof, and high-arched windows, but my house was not like the others. It had a shake-shingled roof and floor-to-ceiling windows, making it the lone contemporary atop a heavily treed hill; and even though it was an architectural anomaly in the neighborhood, all of its individuality was lost behind a forest of wide-armed oaks and sky-reaching pines.
I zipped up the long driveway and entered my house with Rob’s key. My father gave him a house key when my mother started back to work full-time. I have always had issues with keys, and at first, my parents tried the inconspicuous rock by the front door. But each time I entered the house with the spare key, I forgot to put it back. So the next time I got locked out…
Anyway, Rob was more reliable.
Entering my house was like crossing the time portal into the Victorian era, and even though our contemporary home needed sleek-lined furniture and abstract art, it was decorated with antiques and vibrant oils. Pictures of flowers and fruit bowls covered the creamy walls while dainty benches and fainting sofas rested on tiled floors.
My bedroom was at the top of the stairs and furnished in a similar fashion; with an antique sleigh bed, ornate writer’s desk, and a triple dresser, it looked more like the guest accommodations of a New England bed and breakfast than a teenager’s retreat. My favorite part of my room was the seat in the bay window, which jutted out into the rear of the home and overlooked the pool and the woods. On either side of the window seat, the built-in shelves housed my books, knick-knacks, and photos.
I grabbed my spare set of keys off the top shelf of my bookcase and hurried back to school; and once there, I turned off my car and headed into the main doors of Riverside. It was well into first hour, and the school resembled a ghost town. The only sound was me, jingling like a janitor with three sets of keys in my hand.
For a moment, I paused in the front lobby of my high school. On my right, the administrative offices sprawled endlessly down the hall, but on my left, the glass display cases extended the length of the opposite wall, proudly displaying all the trophies, plaques, and awards from the last forty years.
But it was the massive state championship football trophy that always caught my eye. Shiny and impressive, surrounded by smaller symbols of lesser football seasons, the trophy could have been presented to one player rather than to our entire team. Our star running back single-handedly won it for the school. He knew it. Everyone knew it. And all that knowing promoted my boyfriend to god status at Riverside High.
-2-
First Impressions
I met my boyfriend before he achieved immortality. It was three years ago, the summer before ninth, and Caitlyn Rivers and I were helping her mother in the front office. Her mom’s a guidance counselor, and Caitlyn and I filed in exchange for perfect schedules. That morning, we were taking a filing break and sprawled across the speckled blue carpet, sipping on some mocha frappa somethings and flipping through a magazine when a deep Southern voice fell over the counter and landed on the floor. “Hey there.”
My eyes lifted from the pages of the magazine to breathing perfection staring down at me. A boy with the brightest blue eyes stood next to his grinning father. I blinked and looked again. He was definitely real, and slowly, he turned up the corners of his mouth. His smile sent a rush of emotions into me. Very pleasant ones. The kind that makes a girl get up and go to school in the morning.
“I need to get my boy here registered for school. We just came from Texas.” The father began as he tousled his son’s hair. “An’ Austin here should be startin’ in the ninth grade, ma’am.” I snickered at his name, imagining a bunch of older brothers named Houston, Dallas, Antonio, and Galveston. I wondered all sorts of things about him in the minutes before we ever spoke, but mostly, I wondered if the scheduling goddess could put him in some of my classes in the fall.
Mrs. Rivers met them at the counter. “Welcome to Florida. You’ll find our weather is just as hot…” Her voice trailed off into more polite adult conversation, and Austin came around the counter toward us. His arms were folded across his chest, and he cocked his head to the right. “You girls into football?”
“Uh, yeah.” Caitlyn popped up and gestured across her Riverside Cheer T-shirt. “My boyfriend’s Brandon Edwards; he’s the starting quarterback on the freshmen team.” She had an uncanny knack for dropping the boyfriend bomb into every conversation.
Then his bright blue eyes fell on me. “And what about your boyfriend?”
Caitlyn intercepted the question like I was a deaf mute. “Oh, Chloe only dates smart guys.” I was barely fourteen, and barely dating, and if I had a type, it would definitely include him.
“Well, I’m smart…smart enough to get her to go out with me.”
Now, I wanted nothing more than to go on a date with him, so I could stare into those brilliant blue eyes and run my fingers through his golden blonde hair. But one thing fueled my response more than my attraction to him; no matter how hot he was, I couldn’t resist a comeback. “You wanna’ bet?”
“Aw, c’mon now,” he spoke in his slow Southern drawl and smiled again—this one bigger, bolder, and more powerful than before. “If we bet, baby, then someone’s gotta’ lose, and it ain’t gonna’ be me.”
“Uh.” That was my pathetic reply.
“I’ll take that as a yes then,” he said, smiling.
Caitlyn exchanged numbers with him, and apparently, she gave him mine—my home phone, that is. I wasn’t permitted to have a cell back then, and by Friday night, my father was pacing by the front door, eager to put a face to my new frequent caller.
“Son,” my father started as Austin entered the house. “Did you put our number on speed dial?” My father meant this sarcastically, which was how he approached any guy who braved the front door.
But Austin replied evenly, “Yup, number seven.” Then he turned to me with his smile-and-wink combo. “It’s my favorite number, you know.”
I nodded, barely, but yes, I had noticed the golden number seven around his neck on the day I met him. And over the course of our phone calls, he explained how it had always been his je
rsey number.
Austin gave me a long, lingering stare before he spoke again. “You look real nice tonight.”
“Thanks,” I said and bit down on my lower lip. I had on a pair of jeans and a white top, and I couldn’t ever remember wearing more clothes than my date. He wore a pair of shorts and what was left of a Dallas Cowboys T-shirt. The arm holes were cut so low that I received a full fall preview. I started thinking about football practices on hot August afternoons and how our cross country team always ran by the practice fields…
My father brought me back to the present tense. “Be home by ten, Chloe.”
“It’s eleven in the summer, Dad.”
“Summer’s almost over.”
“Yeah, but it’s a Friday night.”
My dad appealed to Austin. “What about you? What time do you have to be home tonight?”
He shrugged. “When I feel like it.”
“You know,” my father said, moving in closer to my date, and at six and a half feet tall, he used his height for intimidation. “There’s nothing but trouble after midnight.”
“Well, I kinda’—”
I grabbed Austin’s hand and cut in, “Appreciate the reminder, Dad.” And we almost made it out the door, but my father had one final question for my date. “Are you driving tonight?”
“No, I’m only going into ninth.”
“For the first or second time?”
“Dad!” I was horrified, but Austin just smiled again. “No, Sir, I’m just real mature for my age.” And I could attest to that. Most ninth grade boys looked nothing like him, but apparently, the puberty fairy had made all her visits.
“Good, good.” My father moved in toward Austin, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Then you’ll be responsible enough to have my daughter home by ten o’clock.”
“Eleven,” I repeated as I pulled Austin out the front door and down the steps, but my father’s voice followed us. “How about ten thirty?”
“It’s not negotiable, Dad.”
No worries there. I made it home well before ten o’clock. As soon as my friends and their dates got comfortable in the movie theater, Austin’s two arms turned into eight. The octopus offered me an arsenal of cheesy come-ons, which I fought off with sarcastic disdain, and before the movie ended, I excused myself, found a pay phone, and arranged for a ride home.
I didn’t want to call my parents, and most of my friends were only legal to drive bumper cars. So I was left with one option: I called on a friend who surrounded himself with upperclassmen. As a freshman, he pitched for the varsity baseball team, but by the time he arrived in his teammate’s blue Mustang, the movie had ended. Everyone was waiting outside with me as my friend slipped from the car. With his male bravado in high gear, he singled out my date with narrowing eyes. “Stay away from her.”
Austin shrugged. “Why? What’s it to you?”
My friend chewed his gum slowly for a minute and stared back at Austin unflinchingly before he took my hand and turned around slowly; offering no reply, he led me toward the blue Mustang, still purring at the curb. We climbed into the back seat, and the driver turned. “Where to, man?”
“My house,” my friend replied, and if the guys didn’t already know, he added, “She lives right behind me.”
That was the moment when Rob Callahan met Austin Walker, and you know what they say about first impressions: they’re pretty hard to change. His and mine.
-3-
Better Than Hallmark
When I returned to AP English, I discovered Jessica Jackson in my seat. She looked up at me as I paused at my desk. “So,” she elongated her “O” into next week. “I hope you don’t mind that I’m in your seat.” She was leaning on Rob’s desk and giving me her big Sunday morning grin. The smile was as fake as our friendship, and even though we grew up in the same church, we hadn’t discovered a Christian way to overcome our mutual dislike for each other. So I ignored her completely. It probably wasn’t what Jesus would do, but it was better than what I wanted to do.
“Here you go, Rob.” I placed his keys as well as my spare set on his desk and dropped the third into my bag. I tossed my bag toward an empty chair against the wall, and as I headed toward Miss Randall’s desk, Jessica mumbled some worthless comment about the key incident. Yeah, I thought, At least I dated him once. Sure, it was a million years ago when going out meant a boy and a girl didn’t run in opposite directions on the playground, and back in those days, Rob and I spent our entire recess at the swing set. I loved to swing, and he would push me up, up, up into the sky. When I reached a certain height, he would dare me to jump off, and I usually succumbed to his taunts since that was how I impressed him back then.
“Did I miss anything, Miss Randall?” I asked as I reached my teacher’s desk. Her painted lips lifted from her coffee cup. “Nah, not too much, Chloe.” She wore a deep aqua suit and kept her hair neatly pulled away from her face. “You know,” she started with her pretty smile. “I wouldn’t have let you take this class as a junior if you had pulled that stunt last year.”
“Aw, c’mon, Miss Randall,” I said, sitting down in the conference chair next to her desk. “If school were based solely on common sense, they’d have to keep me in remedial English.”
I made my teacher smile and returned to my “seat.” I pulled out a spiral and doodled a picture of a ship sailing toward a tiny deserted island, and when the bell sounded, I glanced up at my annoying seat usurper. She was brushing Rob’s arm lightly and smiling. It was a different smile than the one she had given me, but I hated it even more. She left my seat and said, “Let me know what you decide, Robbie.”
I slid to the scene before Jessica was out of ear-shot. “Decide what, Robbie?” I inquired even though I hadn’t used his boyhood moniker since our ages reached the double digits.
He stood up next to me and mumbled softly, “Prom.”
“Well,” I started slowly. “You wouldn’t be in this predicament if you hadn’t broken up with your girlfriend over Spring Break.” His ex-girlfriend was also a member of our first-hour class, making the scene even more interesting.
“Predicament?” he echoed. “Most guys would be flattered.”
“So, are you,” I paused before I repeated his word, “flattered?”
He frowned. “No, not really.”
Rob and I started toward the math wing, and I handed him a folded piece of notebook paper. “This is for you,” I said with a smirk.
He unfolded my note and read the message at the bottom of the page. “Thanks for saving me.” A corner of his mouth retreated into his cheek for a moment.
“Do you get it?” I peered over at him and pointed to the picture. “I’m the stick figure with curly hair, and I’m stranded on the deserted island.”
“Well.” A big smile took over his face. “Those sure are some nice coconuts.”
“Robert. Wesley. Callahan.” I intonated his mother’s voice.
“On the tree,” he defended. “Why? What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking you were a—” I stopped myself because I was trying to express my gratitude, and jerk wasn’t exactly the best way. “So, anyway, you’re in the boat wearing your ratty, old Red Sox cap. Of course, that’s supposed to be the pirate ship from Treasure Island, but my artistic ability is limited, you know.”
He folded the picture and put it in the back pocket. “Well, it’s better than Hallmark, or at least that’s what my mom would say to make me feel better.”
I placed a playful punch on his arm, and he nudged me with his shoulder. Some things about our relationship never matured beyond the days of playgrounds and pirate stories, and if we overlooked the things that had, our friendship would always remain the same: innocent.
-4-
The Seven Cs
Rob slipped into genius math while I hung out in the hallway with Callie Williams, and even though she was talking to me, her brown eyes scanned the halls for Mike Erickson. Mike was her brother’s frien
d and her current crush, and the three of them lived in the upper atmosphere along with the other members of Riverside’s basketball teams.
“He wasn’t in first.” I hated to deliver bad news without a possible upside. “So maybe he had an ortho or something.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Callie smiled a knowing mouth full of braces and paused in the doorway of my pre-calculus class. She waved over at Caitlyn and Courtney before she headed down the hall to her classroom. We were the four remaining members of “The Seven Cs,” a circle of friends formed in middle school, which was based entirely on the superficiality of alliteration.
The other three members? Cynthia Westwood transferred to a high school across town when her father accepted the principalship there, and Christina Anderson moved to Alexandria, Virginia in tenth grade. And that left one: Carly Evans. She remained at Riverside, but chose to alienate herself from us. For years, she was Caitlyn’s closest friend, but now, she lurked the halls with painted black lips, standing in the sharpest contrast to the pastel predilections of Caitlyn Rivers.
I took my seat across the aisle from Caitlyn. Her short brown hair was pulled back in a headband, and her eyes matched her dark green top. Her hands were massaging her boyfriend’s neck and shoulders, and after three long years, she hadn’t tired of dating Riverside’s mediocre quarterback. Of course, what Brandon Edwards lacked on the field, he made up for in other ways (or so Caitlyn led us to believe). Anyway, he was an honor roll student and good looking enough. He had soft eyes like the ocean and brown hair perfectly gelled into blonde-tipped spikes, and as I pulled out my math book, Brandon lowered his head to his desk for his morning nap.
Caitlyn, relieved of her girlfriend duties, slid her desk next to mine. “You look so tired, Chlo.” That was her subtle way of telling me I looked like crap. “So, are you losing sleep over this thing with Austin?” The thing was a fight, and apparently, it had gone public.
“Nope,” I said and opened my math book, taking a keen interest in parabolic equations.
Her emerald eyes searched my pale blue ones. “I’m sure he’s worried too, Chlo.” She was ascertaining Austin’s emotional state, and that amused me considerably. Brandon too. He snickered a little before he drifted off to sleep. Brandon was Austin’s best friend, and I was the girl who morphed into his girlfriend seven months ago. If Austin had much depth, then Brandon and I would have discovered it by now.
After answering a few more math problems, I noticed Courtney Valentine hadn’t opened her book yet and remained sideways in her seat. She was twisting her long blonde hair into a haphazard knot and peering over at Ricky Sampson. He brushed the bleached blonde wisps from his dark brown eyes and mouthed an “I love you” from across the room. Ricky was ranked in some surfing circuits, and Courtney was the quintessential surfer girl—the hair, the eyes, the tan, and yes, the killer body to complete every guy’s fantasy, especially his.
Courtney turned to face me. “So, I heard.”
“Uh-huh,” I acknowledged flatly. That was my new plan. I was going to appear uninterested in what people had to say to me, since I was going to be the butt of all jokes until someone did something stupider than lock their keys in a running car.
“That was nice of Rob,” Courtney said. Geographically speaking, Rob Callahan was her boy-next-door. “What are we going to do without him next year?”
“Rely on each other,” Caitlyn joked. Courtney made a dreadful face, and we all laughed. Courtney and I lacked common sense, and together, we made even less sense than we did apart.
Caitlyn’s eyes drifted back to her boyfriend; then she heaved a heavy sigh as she fumbled through her purse for a tissue. She swiped the drool from his chin and off the desk before she folded the tissue into a square and tossed it into the trash. Returning to her seat, she rested her chin on folded hands and smiled. “Isn’t he peaceful when he’s sleeping?”
“Uh, that’s what people say about their children,” I said.
Courtney tilted her head in drool boy’s direction. “Well, he is like a child.”
“Yeah, but he’s my child.” Caitlyn smiled and noticed the clock. “Okay, sweetie. Time to wake up.”
Courtney and I hung back by ourselves, funneling slowly into the crowded hallway. “And when are you putting yours up for adoption?” she asked, and I found the comment amusing until I noticed my big responsibility lounging against my locker.
-5-
Tabula Rasa
“Why don’t you make yourself useful, Austin?” I unloaded an armful of books into his empty hands, and the corners of his mouth curled into his notorious smile. And just like that, I forgot my next class.
I stood there, staring into my open locker, since Austin’s presence was unbelievably distracting, and I couldn’t imagine being on an actual study date with him. But then again, he rarely had any homework, and the only library we ever visited was in the “Land of Lies.” After all, a date to the library sounded much better than “I’ll be at Austin’s place,” since his apartment turned into Party Central whenever his dad shacked up with some woman. Currently, Whitney, a waitress from Riverside Diner, was offering Mr. Walker some fine Southern hospitality; nevertheless, I kept Austin’s family dynamics as far from mine as possible.
Caitlyn shoved her books into the locker, and then Callie lowered a heavy American Lit text over my head. Our locker was totally communal—like the locker room showers that girls only used in the movies (you know the kind).
I spied a tattered, brown text at the bottom of the pile, and then I remembered I had Latin third hour. I grabbed my book, where one of the previous owners had scribbled the likes of Julius Caesar and Caligula into the “Property of” column, mixing Roman rulers with Latin losers who only took the dead language to increase their verbal SAT score.
Then Austin held my hand and my books down the hall, and for someone with incredible speed on the field, he moved like a slug everywhere else. He led me to our usual spot for goodbyes, but when his mouth started toward mine, I stopped his advancing lips with my fingertips. “I’m still mad at you.”
He shrugged. “Cause of last night?”
“Uh, last night…this morning…last week…last month…take your pick.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he mumbled, and I turned on a heel and into third hour. But the bell beat me to my seat, and after I received a referral for chronic tardiness, I pushed back through the door and caught up to Austin’s sauntering gait. “I’m not sitting in detention because of you!”
“Aw, calm down, baby. I’ll take care of it.” He grabbed my referral and walked me over to the front office. Once there, he leaned on the gray counter and flashed his sweet-boy grin at the secretarial pool. “Good morning, ladies. May I speak with Mr. Jenkins for a moment?”
“Sure, sugar, head on back.”
Mr. Jenkins was sorting through a pile of mail when Austin sunk into a wing chair and pushed the referral up the desk. Our principal gave it a quick once-over and looked at Austin. “How can I be of assistance this morning?”
“Sir, this was all my fault,” Austin began with an earnest smile, spreading his hands to the side. “Chloe tutors me, so I can stay academically eligible. Sometimes I need her help between classes, and I’d hate to see her to get in trouble for it.”
“Sure, I’ll explain it to Mrs. Evans.”
“Thanks,” I said meekly as I watched him rip up the referral and file it in the trash can under his desk. Then Mr. Jenkins leaned forward and rubbed his hands together. “Can’t wait for next season.”
“Yeah, me neither.” Austin grinned.
“We lost a few starters, but Coach thinks…” The conversation went on and on as the minutes elapsed slowly from my third-hour class. The day was almost half over, and I had spent most of it outside the classroom; but when the principal got an important phone call, he ushered us to the door, saving his last words for me. “And keep him out of trouble, you hear?”
I nodded, but really, what was
I supposed to do? The only boundaries Austin ever encountered were mine, and he whined at every roadblock like a little brat used to getting his way.
At the doorway, Austin extended a hand. “Thanks, Sir. I really appreciate it.”
As we headed down the hall, I said, “That was almost hard to watch.”
He winked over at me. “I can be nice.”
“Yeah,” I returned. “When you want something.”
“You know what I really want?”
“No, I can’t imagine.” I played dumb as he pulled me into a remote girls’ bathroom. He spat his gum into the trash can, smiled, and pressed me up against the wall. The pale yellow tiles felt cool against my backside, and the smell of industrial-strength cleaner hung in the air from last night’s janitorial visit. His cinnamon tongue slid into my mouth, making it a good spicy kiss despite the locale, but after a few minutes of his tongue swirling around mine, I found his ear. “I’m going to class. Maybe you should try it for a change.”
As I entered Latin again, Mrs. Evans summoned me with a curling finger, and I sat down next to her desk. “So, Mr. Jenkins gave you a tabula rasa, huh? You do know what that is, don’t you, Miss Preston?”
I nodded slowly, but I didn’t need three years of Latin to understand the English equivalents. I had received a blank slate; a mulligan; a fresh start. And it was all because of who I dated.
Mrs. Evans leaned in, lowering her head and her husky voice. “Therefore, I’m supposed to ignore all of your previous tardies since you were—how did Mr. Jenkins put it?—tutoring Mr. Walker. Well, maybe you should refrain from tutoring him right outside my class then.”
“Yes, Mrs. Evans,” I replied softly, finding my seat in the center of the classroom. Since we sat in alphabetical order, the desk in front of me belonged to Brad Preston, a sophomore and my only sibling.
When Brad and I escaped from Latin purgatorium, we ran into a waiting Austin who grinned at my brother menacingly—like a fraternity brother at a measly pledge. “Guess who will be running the offensive drills at football camp this summer?”
Brad considered the news. “Hmm, I think I’ll go out for the band then.”
“Yeah, what are you going to play?” I wondered.
“The tuba?”
I poked at his flat tummy. “Then we’ll have to fatten you up over the summer, you little turkey.” Austin shook his head at us, and my brother took it as his cue to leave.
Austin draped an arm around my shoulders, and together, without exchanging a word, we strolled toward the lunchroom at the far end of campus. Once inside, he left me for the food line and cut to the front with his ridiculous sense of entitlement, and I headed in the opposite direction, landing at my usual seat. There, I dumped the contents of my lunch onto the table.
Yes, I was the loser who brought my lunch to school every day, but I brown-bagged on financial principles alone. I received a set monthly allowance, which covered all my expenditures, including lunch money, so I saved it for clothes, my most basic need, and that spending pattern earned me the nickname of “best-dressed skeleton” in my father’s third book, Preston’s Principles for Teens. My dad wrote a series of titles on financial freedom, creating other volumes for children, newlyweds, and retirees, and when I got bored, I mused over new titles. My favorite was Preston’s Principles for the Homeless. It could be a relatively thin book, and then after our teachers droned on and on about the pending teacher strike this past fall, I devised Preston’s Principles for the Overworked and Underpaid Teachers of America. Amazingly, neither my father nor his publisher considered any of my suggestions.
Callie joined me at the lunch table first. “He was at the dentist.”
“Ooh, a good day for a first kiss then.”
“Every day is that day.” She glanced down at the other end of the table as Mike slid into his seat. Then he slowly turned up one corner of his mouth, offering his asymmetrical grin.
“Mm-hmm, I saw that,” I assured her ego, and she squeezed all of her excitement into my hand, eating her lunch under the spell of Mike Erickson’s half smile. Austin found a seat on my other side. He had a plate of pepperoni pizza in one hand and chocolate cake in the other, and before he got too comfortable, I informed, “We need to talk.”
He folded a slice and took a bite. “About what?”
“You know what!”
“I thought we were good.” His hand climbed my thigh and found its usual resting place. “We kissed, and you usually withhold when you’re mad at me.”
“Oh, that.” I waved my hand dismissingly. “That wasn’t a make-up kiss. That was a thank-you kiss.”
“Well, baby,” he managed between mouthfuls. “They all taste good to me.”
I turned and offered the evil eye, but somehow he mistook my eyebrow-raising scowl for something else. He lunged forward and planted a greasy kiss on my lips.
“Yuck.” I wiped my mouth with a napkin. “You know I hate pepperoni.” And that was how all of our serious talks ended. He annoyed me as a means of distraction. It was like stomping on someone’s toe to divert the pain of a broken arm. Our relationship was still in pieces, but since he irritated me so much, I didn’t feel like fixing it anymore.
Brandon leaned forward, getting our table’s attention. “The party will be at my house tonight.” A loud whoop exploded around the table, and then Austin peered over at me with intensity in his bright blue eyes. “And don’t invite him.”
“Huh?” I wondered for a moment, but when I saw my best friend perched at the end of the table, I had my answer.
“A no-hitter, huh?” Callie inquired and sunk her teeth into her slice of pizza.
“No, but it was close,” Courtney answered quickly. She must have made the game last night, but I went to the “library” instead. We spent hours reviewing anatomy, and Austin got upset when I wouldn’t let him advance to the next chapter.
Rob clarified, “Yeah, well, Kennedy got a hit with one out in the ninth.”
“Wow! That was close!” I remembered when the Sox played Kansas City and Jon Lester pitched a no-hitter. Rob said it was the ultimate rush for a pitcher, yet now, he just shrugged it off. “Nah, I just got lucky. Plus, their best hitter was out.”
“Well, it’s still amazing.” I toned it down a bit, since I had the peanut gallery behind me. “Anyway, I’m sorry I missed it. I’ll make the next game, I promise.”
Austin draped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me into his chest. “You know, Chloe never misses my games.”
“Dude!” Ricky Sampson was up to bat next. “That’s because she loooves you, man.”
“Yeah, and I don’t have to give her the keys to my truck either.” Austin received a few laughs at my expense, but Rob just glared back at him. “Why would you brag about that?”
Austin shrugged. “Because you do all the work, and I get all the benefits.”
I was so annoyed with him that I heaved his heavy arm off my shoulders, and Rob leaned forward, grinning. “And is rejection one of those so-called benefits?”
Austin stood up and did the stare-down with Rob, and silence swept down the entire length of the table. “You got something to say to me, Callahan?”
“Yeah, where do I begin, Walker?”
“How ’bout with your last words before I kick your—”
“Ooh, and look at the time!” Courtney jumped up and faced Rob. “You mind walking us to class?” Her eyes drifted back to Austin. “Because there are a lot of jerks on this campus.”
Rob smiled, and as soon as we reached the main aisle of the cafeteria, he hung an arm around each of us. “You two have the worst taste in guys.”
“Maybe, but we have the best taste in friends,” Courtney returned with a smile, and Rob did an obligatory “aw.” Then we split up in the science wing: Rob went to AP Biology, and Courtney and I ducked into our physics classroom.
Once inside, Courtney’s eyes remained at the front of the room, but her words were aimed at m
e. “You didn’t make this easy for him when you started seeing Austin.”
I defended myself. “It’s not like his girlfriends are ever nice to me.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be either,” she said as she slid her spiral onto the lab table. “You were his first girlfriend, and no matter what you two say, you still have that weird connection.”
I looked at the intern and found her ear. “Like you and Mr. Martinez?”
Her response was a single huff, since our young teacher was on his way to our table with a stack of papers. “And Chloe, out of all my classes, you got the highest score on the test.”
“Well, that’s because I studied with a genius,” I admitted quickly, always feeling a little uncomfortable in our teacher’s presence. He was tall, dark, and chiseled to perfection.
“Your boyfriend?” he asked tenaciously.
Callie found her seat across from us and laughed uncontrollably. “Seriously, do you know who her boyfriend is?”
“No, but I know about her car troubles this morning,” our teacher replied with a suppressed grin.
“Oh, that’s a gentle way of putting it,” I decided. “But you realize, in the halls of Riverside, I’ll be forever known as the stupid girl who locked her keys in a running car.”
He leaned on his elbows. “So, really, how’d you do it?”
“I can’t answer that.” I gave him one of those “I’m an idiot” expressions, and we shared an acceptable student-teacher laugh. This might sound weird, but I never minded mocking my own intelligence since I wasn’t insecure about it at all. It’s like how rail-thin girls look at themselves sideways in the mirror and mutter, “God, I’m so fat.”
Then without a word, he pushed Courtney’s test across the table. My eyes followed her paper, a respectable B plus, but she tucked it away like she had failed miserably; and when he walked away, she mumbled, “Maybe if I had your brain, then he’d notice me more.” But it wasn’t a lack of brains or beauty that kept Mr. Martinez from returning her advances; it was something Courtney couldn’t change—except one slow year at a time.
****
