Nothing but Trouble after Midnight, Page 5

1. He won’t get lost on the way to my house.

  2. I actually get his sense of humor. I just don’t find it all that funny.

  3. I’m a fast runner. So, if we need to dine and dash, then I could make it out the door in

  time.

  4. He already knows my curfew, and he uses it to make fun of me. (Refer to #2)

  5. I don’t have any known food allergies or previous medical conditions that would interfere

  with the whole prom experience.

  6. My dancing is totally normal, meaning it’s not good enough or bad enough to put us in

  the spotlight.

  7. He knows my parents, which saves considerable time at the front door.

  8. I’m not hideous looking, so he won’t be embarrassed to show his prom picture to his

  grandkids.

  9. Taking the girl next door is fiscally responsible; after all, it saves money on gas.

  10. And most importantly, I’m his best friend. (So, does he really need any other reason to

  take me to the prom?)

  “What do you think?” I wondered.

  “Somewhat amusing.”

  “Yeah, but the real question is…” I drum-rolled the countertop. “Did I win the contest?”

  “C’mon, there is no contest.”

  “Yeah, I know. I made it up to annoy you, but that still doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Actually, I think it does.” He smiled again, and I bit down on my lip as the other meaning popped into my head. Agreeably, I was the best candidate in the prom race, since I was way more fun than Jessica Jacobs or any of the other smarties from the senior class.

  “Okay, I get it,” I replied as I flung my bag over my shoulder and headed out the opposite door of the Jack-and-Jill bath.

  “Oh, no, you’re not getting away that easy,” he said as his hand rested on my shoulder. “You still have to ask me.”

  Slowly, I turned to face him. My pale blue eyes connected with his chocolate brown pair, and I swallowed down the little knot growing in my throat. “Rob, will you go to prom with me?”

  “Sure,” he said with a wry smile and a wink. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  -8-

  Table Talk

  “Chloe, let me take a look at you, dear.” Aunt Nancy intercepted me as soon as I walked into the Callahan’s kitchen. “You get more and more beautiful every time I see you.”

  “Thank you,” I replied demurely as Courtney brushed past our conversation; she was on her way to find Josh. His family, which included Aunt Nancy, Uncle Mike, younger brother Jake and little sister Julia, lived north of Orlando. But they visited Rob’s house quite often, making Josh a nice addition to Courtney’s ever-expansive collection of guys.

  Then I crossed the kitchen toward Mrs. Callahan. She gave me a one-armed hug; her other hand was stirring a simmering pot of homemade pasta sauce. Rob’s mother had prepared an Italian feast for her dinner guests. In addition to her family of four, she had invited Josh’s family, Grandpa Callahan, Courtney, and me. She extended an invitation to the two of us, since my mom was at one of Brad’s tennis tournaments and Courtney’s parents were out of town, which was more the norm than the exception these days.

  “Need any help with dinner?” I asked, but she just shook her head gently. “No thanks, hon. Why don’t you go upstairs and say hello to Grandpa?”

  I took the hidden staircase behind the kitchen, since it led up to the master suite. Off their bedroom, Rob’s parents had a study where Grandpa Callahan spent the majority of his visits.

  “Hi, Grandpa,” I said softly as I opened the French door. He sat comfortably in a leather wing chair in the middle of the windowless room. The built-in bookcases wrapped around the walls, and a Tiffany lamp offered the only light.

  “Well, hello, Chloe.” He adjusted his reading glasses and glanced up at me. “And what have you been reading lately?” Grandpa had been an English professor at a few colleges in Boston and finished his tenure at Stetson University, so he took a keen interest in my literary progress.

  I crossed the room and ran my fingers across a row of books. “Oh, I just finished Steinbeck’s biography last night. Not my choice, but your grandson’s.” I pulled the book out of my bag and slid it back onto the shelf.

  “Good. Then you should read his novels next.” Rob’s voice entered the study, and he started pulling a couple of books off the shelf. He turned toward his grandfather. “East of Eden or The Grapes of Wrath?”

  Grandpa addressed me. “Surely, you read Grapes of Wrath in American Literature this year.”

  Rob spoke first. “She skipped Am Lit and took AP this year, but don’t worry, Grandpa.” Rob handed me both novels. “I’ll educate her properly.”

  Grandpa chuckled as I tucked both books into my bag, and Rob fell into the other chair and opened his newspaper. If a hint of favoritism could be detected, then I would have guessed that Grandpa preferred the company of his eldest grandson. The reasons would have been numerous: a love of literature, a passion for baseball, or perhaps, the man overcompensated for a boy who bore no relation to him at all. When Dr. Callahan married Rob’s mother, he adopted her young son and added his good family name to the end of Robert William Wesley.

  “And what do you recommend for Robert?” Grandpa asked me.

  My fingertips lightly touched the spines of the books as I moved toward the beginning of the alphabet. I rose up on my tippy toes and reached for Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. “Here.” I dropped the book in my best friend’s lap. “I think you have a lot in common with Mr. Darcy.” I teased Rob endlessly about his air of superiority, and Jane Austen’s male protagonist was the embodiment of pride.

  “Hmm,” Grandpa interjected as I crossed the room toward the French doors. “That’s interesting, since I’ve always regarded you as a bit of a Lizzie Bennet myself.” She was the main character of Austen’s novel and could banter better than any Shakespearean heroine, so any comparison to Miss Bennet was a huge compliment in my book.

  “Well, thank you very much,” I said with a slight curtsy and headed out of the room. I bolted down the stairs and almost ran into Rob’s mom near the bottom. Mrs. Callahan had stopped to straighten the pictures along the walls of the stairwell, which were like a family photo gallery.

  “Chloe, do you remember this one?” she asked as she adjusted a dark mahogany frame.

  I looked at the photograph on the wall. It was taken about ten years ago, and Rob and I were sitting on the edge of my pool with our feet dangling in the water. He was shirtless with a Red Sox cap on his head, and I had on a bright floral sundress with my hair up in pigtails. Our arms were wrapped around each other like we were the best of friends—even then. It was pretty cute actually, and it reminded me of one of those old-timey photographs on a romantic greeting card. “Yeah, I have it in one of my scrapbooks,” I said.

  “You know, someday you’ll be glad your mother did those for you.”

  “Yeah, I know.” It was hard to argue that point with my mother’s scrapbooker-in-crime, and I followed her into the kitchen as the oven beeped. “Would you like me to call everyone for dinner?”

  “Sure, that would be nice, Chloe.”

  I headed to Riley’s room first. She was in ninth grade and had to follow in the footsteps of her brilliant brother, but she chose a different path at Riverside—not a bad one, just a more creative route. She dabbled in the performing arts like her mother, and as a freshman, she received one of the lead roles in the spring musical.

  As I neared her bedroom, the sounds of music wafted into the hallway, and I caught a pungent whiff of nail polish. Luckily, I caught Riley and her cousin Julia between their first and second coat, and they were able to depart for the dinner table without compromising their manicures.

  I knocked on Rob’s door next. “Hey, it’s Chlo.”

  “Come in,” they returned, and as I opened the door to a dimly lit bedroom, I found Courtney and Josh nestled on
Rob’s bed while the television droned on in the background.

  Together, we headed into the dining room where Rob pulled out a chair for me. He sat on my left, and Jake, Josh’s younger brother, took the seat on my other side. Josh and Jake were Irish twins, separated by eleven months and a school year. They had shaggy light brown hair and a dusting of freckles across their noses, and their light green eyes smiled at each other across the table. Actually, Josh couldn’t stop smiling, and it probably had everything to do with his alone time with Courtney.

  “David, will you lead us in grace, please?” Mrs. Callahan requested as she peered across the table at her husband, who returned her gaze with an adoring smile. They had a really good marriage, like my parents, but completely different. My parents functioned separately whereas Rob’s parents worked well together, and if I had to choose one over the other, I’d follow the Callahan model of marriage.

  After the blessing, the serving dishes moved in a clockwise fashion like at Thanksgiving, and in their family tradition, constant conversation followed the food around the table. Aunt Nancy leaned forward to get her nephew’s attention. “So, are you going to prom, Rob?”

  “Um,” Rob stalled, but she didn’t wait for his reply. “Well, Josh has already been invited to two proms this year.”

  “C’mon, Mom.” Josh looked embarrassed. Even his neck and the rims of his ears colored.

  “Aunt Nancy, Rob doesn’t have a date for prom…probably because no one is good enough for him.” And no one raised an eyebrow at his sister’s conjecture.

  “What about you girls?” Rob’s mother asked from the other end, and Riley answered for us as well. “Courtney is still undecided, but Chloe is going with Austin Walker.” Her palm hit her chest. “Of course, she’s the luckiest girl in the whole school.”

  “Tell me, who’s this Austin Walker fellow?” Grandpa asked.

  Rob held his napkin up to his lips. “A gigantic A-hole.”

  “I agree,” I whispered in return, but Riley didn’t. “He’s like the hottest guy in school,” she said, subscribing to the popular opinion at Riverside.

  Grandpa was eager to dissect her statement. “Therefore, he’s not the hottest guy in school; he just looks like him.” The lesson in grammar divided the table, and depending upon age, Grandpa received either laughter or groans.

  While Grandpa Callahan divulged more thoughts on teenage vernacular, Rob leaned into me. “I totally disagree. Austin looks nothing like me.”

  “That’s true,” I said plainly.

  “Because we all know I’m much better looking than him.”

  I offered no response.

  “What? You don’t want to offer your opinion?” He gave me that dreamy look, which caused girls to swoon, so I stared back at his nose. It was the most ordinary feature on his widely appreciated face and was the single spot that did not cause me to get too distracted. I was not blind to his good looks or his charms. He had thick auburn hair, which curled up at the ends, and those warm, chocolate brown eyes, and whenever he smiled, his deep-set dimples made an appearance.

  “As for my opinion of you, I gave it ten years ago.” I eyed him up and down. “And nothing’s changed, right?”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  I swirled the spaghetti around my fork, but before I took another bite, Rob’s mother asked, “So, I heard that you and Austin broke up, huh?” Apparently, the rest of the table had moved on with their conversations while Rob and I had ours.

  I nodded, and Courtney, in her love for perpetuating topics others would rather not discuss, added, “Now, Chloe has joined me. We are both dateless for the prom.” Such a status provided excitement for my friend, since she enjoyed her time of deliberation. I, on the other hand, was glad to be off the prom market.

  Aunt Nancy piped up. “Ooh, I have the perfect idea. Why don’t the boys take you girls to your prom?” Jake patted my hand in agreement with his mother. “And Josh, at this point, we should just buy you a tux.” Aunt Nancy was one of those annoying statistic moms. Oh, my son walked right out of the womb, started reading at age two, and attended x number of proms in one year. She was that kind of mom, the one to avoid on the bleachers, but most of all, she was the polar opposite of Rob’s mom.

  “Um,” I started slowly, wishing I had Emily Post’s take on the matter. I mean, how exactly should I turn down a mother who asked me to prom on her son’s behalf? Well, I went with the direct approach: “Thanks for the offer, but I already have a date.”

  Courtney’s huge blue eyes popped open. “Who?”

  I responded with a silent later, but she continued her investigation, starting with the guy on my left. Slowly, and with a smile spreading across her face, she extended a painted finger in his direction.

  “Hey, it’s not polite to point,” Rob returned with a grin and answered the questioning stares from an unusually quiet dinner table. “But yes, Chloe and I are going to prom together.”

  A chorus of aw’s erupted around the dining room table, but I held up my hand. “C’mon, it’s not like that. We’re just friends.”

  -9-

  First Kiss

  After dinner, Rob and I headed down the same path that Courtney and I had taken the night before; we walked across the green grass, past the old tree house, and into the quiet woods. There was a low hum of crickets and the sound of our feet crunching on fallen leaves, and for most of the way, neither of us spoke. Still, I knew something was on his mind by the way he raked his fingers through his hair, and each time he did so, his hair returned to the same exact spot.

  “It sure is hot,” he offered eventually. (Surely, he had not been contemplating the weather for the last five minutes.) “But next year will be nice. With the change of seasons and all.”

  “Uh-huh,” I muttered flatly.

  “Like the leaves in the fall and the cherry blossoms in the spring,” he added, but I said nothing more. The trivial talk of weather turned into the subject of next year, and even though Rob and I were the same age, he was a year ahead of me in school. He had skipped the third grade and was in the waning weeks of his senior year. In the fall, he was off to Georgetown University, and considering the school was up in Washington D.C., it didn’t take a psychic to figure out how it would affect our friendship. And I knew it was wrong of me, but I never wanted to discuss his college plans. Sure, I was happy for him, just not outwardly excited, since the thought of next year caused a sudden hollowing in my stomach every time he broached it.

  I changed the subject. “I’m glad Josh is taking Courtney to prom, aren’t you?”

  “Anyone is an improvement over Ricky, but I wouldn’t say I’m happy about it.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s not right for him.”

  “You mean not good enough.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Then what are you saying?”

  “Nothing.” He looked down the path. “I just know how Josh feels about her, and I don’t want him to get hurt.”

  “Oh.” His sincerity silenced me quickly.

  “She was the first girl he ever kissed,” he added after a long pause.

  “I know.”

  “And some people are weird about that stuff.”

  “Are you?”

  “No,” he returned emphatically.

  “Yeah, me neither.”

  Then I considered our stories for a moment as we walked along the path. His first kiss was with Kelly Winters, a girl who lived in a neighborhood next to ours. I can still remember her face, round and lightly freckled and eyes the color of wheat, and when she moved away, she sent him mushy love letters on Hello Kitty stationery.

  My first kiss, however, was with a boy I see all the time. I dated Callie’s brother Landon after my growth spurt in seventh grade. He liked my long legs, but not my crappy jump shot. And I still think we broke up over my lack of skill on the court, but he said it was reverse height discrimination. Apparently, I told him that he was too tall t
o kiss and that I didn’t feel like searching for tree stumps or step ladders every time we parted ways.

  “You know everybody thinks you were the first boy I kissed,” I broached casually but with an intended goal in mind.

  “Everybody, huh?”

  “You know what I’m saying, Rob.” I was thinking about the picture in the stairwell and the countless pages in my scrapbook when I continued, “There are some really cute stories about us.”

  And to that, he added nothing to the conversation.

  “You ever think about those days?” I paused and flicked my head in the direction we had just traveled. “Like the time up in the tree house when we almost…” I purposefully let my voice linger and glanced over at him.

  He shrugged, and my mind drifted to a summer long ago—it’s long when you’re only sixteen…

  Back then, Rob and I roamed the neighborhood, wasting days with soccer games in the yard and Marco Polo in the pool. But one afternoon, we snuck away from the neighborhood gang, and with muddy feet and wet swimsuits, we climbed into the tree house all by ourselves…

  I interrupted my own thoughts. “You honestly don’t remember?”

  He shrugged again.

  “You can recite sports statistics like a walking ESPN almanac, but you have no recollection of anything romantic.” I wondered about the last word, but my internal Thesaurus wasn’t offering any other suggestions.

  “Romantic?” he repeated, finally joining the one-sided conversation already in progress. “You need to stop reading Bronte and Austen. They’re clouding your judgment.”

  I was on the defensive. “It is romantic, because you were my first boyfriend.”

  He countered quickly, “Chlo, we were little kids, and we played doctor until our parents caught us, and you went around topless just because I could. That’s not a relationship. It’s what kids do because they don’t know any better.”

  “So, you were that way with other girls?”

  “No, you were too possessive, and you got jealous if I hung out with anyone else.” A smile spread into his eyes. “And sometimes, you still do.”

  “Oh, you’re so full of yourself.” I stopped and stared at him until his smirk faded. “And to think I was gonna’ tell you the truth after all these years.”

  His voice softened. “The truth about what?”

  “About why we never kissed.”

  “Listen, it doesn’t take a genius to figure that out.” His smile appeared again, contagious actually, and that was the way it had been so many summers ago…

  We were smiling and laughing uncontrollably, our expressions feeding each other. Very slowly, he reached across and held my tiny hand in his. He held it very lightly and sweetly, then whispered, “May I kiss you?” I said nothing as his lips neared mine. I watched his soft brown eyes close and his face move toward me, distorting his familiar features into obscurity, and as inches separated our lips, I yanked my hand from his and turned my head swiftly to the side…

  “Do you want me to tell you or not?”

  “Why not,” he deadpanned.

  “Okay.” I looked at the grass and mumbled the reason like I had ingested truth serum. “I thought I could get pregnant.”

  “You what?”

  “You heard me.” Then I defended my childhood self. “And I was upset at you for trying to kiss me. I wasn’t trying to be mean or anything, but I wasn’t prepared to have a baby at six.”

  “That’s pretty funny. Of course, it would have been even funnier if it had happened to someone besides me.”

  “I wasn’t trying to hurt you, Rob. I was just trying to be responsible.”

  He smiled. “So I’m assuming you’ve heard about the birds and bees by now.” He teased with a mocking glance, and my eyes narrowed back at him. “You’ve kissed lots of guys since then, and you don’t have a house full of mutant children.”

  “Funny,” I said as I turned toward my house.

  “Hey.” His hand rested on my shoulder. “You ever wonder what it would have been like?”

  “What?”

  “That first kiss.”

  Yes was the truth, but I turned and gave him a different answer. “It would have felt like kissing your sister.”

  “Maybe,” he started. “But there’s only one way to find out.” He stepped toward me, cupping his hands on my shoulders. I looked up at him, and he smiled down at me. Then he leaned forward and placed a kiss on my forehead. It was soft and warm and completely fraternal. “Goodnight, Chlo.”

  -10-

  Much Ado about Nothing

  On Monday morning, I trudged up the hill behind my English classroom since the blackboard read: Class Outside Today, and had we lived a few lines of latitude to the north, this may have been a swell idea. But at seven, nearly eight, in the morning, it was unbearably hot, and I was glistening from something other than the final step of my skin regimen.

  I reached the top of the hill, glanced around at all the full picnic tables, and felt like the last kid to be picked for kickball, but after a few moments, Mike Erickson motioned for me to sit at his table. It was all guys and all fairly cute, and now, that I was single again, I had to be more observant of my surroundings.

  “Thanks,” I said to the table and slowly pulled my lower lip across my teeth. It was something I had seen Courtney do, and I decided I should try it now—you know, the whole flirting thing. Single girls give off a certain vibe to show availability, and since I was single again, I would have to learn the tricks of the trade. But I had always been couple material: I was more of a Caitlyn than a Courtney, and it was only a matter of time before I entered into another relationship. I glanced around the picnic table of senior boys; each one was plagued with Senioritis and probably looking forward to what college girls had to offer him. So, I considered the junior class for maybe a millisecond before I decided to look outside Riverside for once. Why not try a nice boy from church who attended Central or Kennedy? And in the time it took Miss Randall to cross the picnic area and land at my table, I actually decided on my next boyfriend. He didn’t have a name yet—just a profile.

  Miss Randall placed a small cardboard box at the end of our table. It had Much Ado about Nothing sprawled across the side of it, and she started discussing the next two weeks of class as well as the non-required, but highly recommended, performance at the Orlando Shakespeare Festival. She wrapped up her overview and dropped a worn-out copy of the play in front of me. “Chloe, you will be reading the part of Beatrice.”

  Did I volunteer? No, of course not. High school English teachers didn’t need volunteers. They assigned parts like evil fairies giving out anti-wishes. I just wanted to sit there and listen to other people fumble through their thee’s and thou’s on that horribly humid morning, but soon, I accepted my fate and flipped through the pages. I found out that Beatrice had a lot to say, and there were these entire sections where she said it to this guy named Benedict.

  “And for the part of Benedict,” Miss Randall began as she crossed the lawn and landed at a table with only two guys at it. On one side sat Tom Richardson, our slated valedictorian. But she didn’t select the well-spoken orator about to give a lengthy speech in four weeks. No, she chose the other boy at the table, and when she did, I heard that familiar laugh from across the lawn. After a few scenes into the play, I realized why Rob found our roles so amusing. Our characters bickered back and forth endlessly, making us look like complete amateurs at the sport of verbal volleyball, and when first hour ended, I headed over to Rob’s table. “Nice reading, Benedict.” I purposefully omitted the final consonant of his character’s name.

  “Yeah, you too, Beatrice.” His enunciation was much more precise, allowing for a noticeable hiss at the end of mine.

  “Anyway, I need to talk to you about my article. You know, the one about prom.”

  “Yeah, what about it?”

  “Callie and Mike agreed to do it.”

  “Why, Chlo? You don’t want to inte
rview yourself?”

  “Uh, no,” I said with a scrunched-up face, not ready to embrace the irony of the whole prom situation.

  “So, what are you going to do about prom?” Jessica asked as she leaned across the table, showing considerable cleavage in her low-cut chartreuse top.

  “Dunno,” I said with a quick shrug. I figured it was Rob’s responsibility to tell her about our prom plans. I would love to do it, but he would definitely frown upon my delivery. Trust me, I had thought about it though. I do that often. I think about conversations ahead of time. The only problem is they rarely live up to my expectations. Take my break-up with Austin, for instance. I had so many great comebacks that I will never be able to use. That is, unless I enter into a relationship with another jerk like him. But jerk didn’t fit my new profile. Now, did it?

  “I mean, what can you do? You’re Austin Walker’s ex, and he’d probably beat up any guy who even looked in your direction.” She glanced up at me with that twisted smirk. “It’s not fair and all, but what guy would take that risk?”

  “Well,” I said, spreading out the word like a substitute teacher trying to fill space during a class period. “I can think of one.” Then my eyes rested on the boy sitting across from her. “So Rob, will you take me to prom?”

  Rob nodded, and Jessica rose from the table with an audible huff.

  I left English with a big smile plastered across my face and remained in a relatively good mood until lunch. Like usual, I sat down in my regular seat and unpacked my lunch: a turkey sandwich, an apple, and some homemade oatmeal raisin cookies. I was utterly famished, and since I was in a huge rush to get to school, I didn’t have time for breakfast. My stomach grumbled all during the Latin quiz, and it’s hard to concentrate on the conjugations of verbs when your stomach converses with you in Gurglish. I guess it was pretty noticeable since the Latin loser next to me shushed me during the quiz. (Like I have any control over my digestive system.)

  Anyway, I was sitting at the lunch table about to sink my teeth into my turkey sandwich, which was made on fresh sourdough bread, when Austin roared, “Get up, Chloe.” Apparently, his manners weren’t going to improve after our break-up, and when I lifted my eyes to meet his, I noticed Ricky Sampson and Brandon Edwards on either side of him, rounding out their usual trio of jerkitude.

  “Hi,” I said casually and bit into my sandwich. It was quite tasty.

  Austin lowered his head. “You know I’m with someone else now.”

  “Yeah, and I’m so happy for you.”

  He ignored my sarcasm as usual and cut to the chase. “Aimee doesn’t want you to sit here.” He placed his palms on the table and leaned forward. “And neither do I.”

  “But this was our table—first!” The conversation belonged in an elementary school cafeteria, but in ninth grade, the original Seven Cs claimed the table on our first day of high school, and we vowed to sit together until our last day as seniors. As our group of seven dwindled down to only four, the guys invaded our territory, pushing us to the end.

  Brandon eyed me. “Should we take a vote, Chlo?”

  “Yeah, like on Survivor,” Ricky added with his retarded laugh.

  Brandon offered a list. “You’d get Courtney and Callie. And maybe Mike and Landon, but that’s it.”

  He was right. All the rest of my friends, even Caitlyn, would side with Austin and Aimee. So I packed up my lunch and decided to leave the table with some dignity, but as I started down the aisle, Ricky teased, “You gonna’ start crying again?”

  I whipped around and glared at him. No tears, just anger in my narrowing eyes. I thought back to Friday night, remembering how Ricky acted all sweet to me in front of Courtney. But that was how those three were: complete chameleons, changing from jerks to gems in a blink of an eye. And Austin was the worst of them all. He could be pure honey, full of all the right lines and moves, and I prided myself with not falling for it for the longest time. But this year he tried a different approach with me: honesty. And I fell for it. Hard.

  “You want something to cry about?” I tossed at Ricky. “Courtney’s going to prom with Rob Callahan’s cousin.”

  “Uh, I don’t care.” His tone wasn’t all that convincing, and Brandon didn’t buy it either. “Yeah, you do, man.” They started tossing insults about each other’s virility and sexual orientation as Austin started toward me. “You going to prom?”

  “Yeah,” I said and left it there.

  His fist smacked his palm. “Who?”

  “Rob.”

  Then his expression changed. “Oh, like on a pity date?”

  I stared back at him. Not sure what to say.

  “C’mon, Chlo. He doesn’t want to take you. No guy wants to go with a friend.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Now, there are only two reasons why a guy takes a friend to prom: either he can’t get a real date or he’s gay. So which is it?”

  Right then I wanted to have a prom date for another reason, the reason why prom existed in the first place, the reason why girls dreamt about the night since they learned of its existence; but instead, I was going to prom for the lamest reason of all. “He’s taking me because he’s nice.”

  “Yeah, whatever, it’s still a total sympathy date. And his mom probably made him do it.”

  “Oh, just shut up.” After months of fighting, it was all I had left in me. I turned around and felt like a huge loser. I had been exiled from my lunch table and was holding my lunch instead of eating it. I needed to be alone, but even in a huge high school like Riverside, there was only one place to find real solitude: the girls’ bathroom. I opened the door to the stall, and fully clothed, plopped down on the lidless seat.

  From my vantage point, I could hear all the conversations—mostly hey’s, hi’s, and how was your weekend? And the longer I sat there, the more the scents filled the air. It was the usual blend of fruity body spray, perfume, and hair spray.

  “Girl, you are still glowing,” a familiar voiced entered the bathroom, and I pulled my feet off the floor, hugging my legs to my chest. As they talked, they sprayed, leaving a few clean air molecules left for consumption. My nose itched. My throat tickled. And I was doing my best to keep silent, but I was suffering from scent overload.

  “Brit, you make it sound like she’s pregnant,” said another.

  “Well, I could be.” And that was the voice of Aimee Peterson, my replacement and the reason I had been ousted from my lunch table.

  “Surely, you used.”

  “Yep, every single time.”

  “Ooh,” they chorused, and then Brit Blackwell spoke again. “Tell us everything.”

  “All I can say is that what girls say about him is not true.” She paused, and I could just see Aimee working her crowd. “No one could possibly describe what he is like. Austin Walker is beyond words.”

  But I had the words: he’s experienced and completely in control; he treats a girl’s body like a blank canvas, and he paints it with his fingers and his lips.

  “Well, you got him at the best time. He was ripe for the picking after seven frosty months with the Ice Queen.”

  I gasped for breath, but quickly covered my mouth.

  Aimee’s voice fell to a whisper, and I strained to hear the rest. “I can trust you girls, right?”

  “Oh, yeah.” They chorused in the most unconvincing tone.

  “Actually, Chloe gave it up to him a while back, and that’s why they stayed together for so long. He didn’t want to hurt her because he was her first and all. But she went psycho in the end. You know how much they were fighting, and he just had to end it with her. He’s really torn up inside.”

  My face was on fire, and I wanted to hit something. Correction: I wanted to hit someone.

  “You’ll just have to find a way to make him feel better, won’t you?”

  “Don’t worry. I already have.” Aimee was on cloud nine, but then her tone changed. “Listen, he doesn’t want anyone to know abo
ut him and Chloe, so don’t say a word.”

  “Oh, we won’t. We promise.” Those were the famous last words from the biggest gossip leaks at Riverside. The truth was Aimee wanted everyone to know, and so did Austin. And at that moment, I wanted to jump out of the stall and set her straight, but really, who’s she going to believe? The guy who gave her the best sex of her life or his raging mad ex-girlfriend?

  When the coast (and the air) was clear, I slid off the toilet seat and opened the stall of the bathroom slowly. I considered my lunch options around campus. The library didn’t permit food, and since my stomach was set on continuous growl, that option was out. The band, chorus, and drama rooms attracted students, but it was pretty uncool to eat there when you didn’t take those classes. Therefore, I had one option left: Loser Lawn. It was the place for outcasts, and apparently, since my break-up with Austin, I had hit the bottom rung of the social ladder.

  I walked over to the English wing and through the back doors to the picnic area where first hour had been held. It had been dubbed the Loser Lawn years ago, and as I climbed up the grassy hill, the regulars looked at me with raised eyebrows. Then I wished I had worn something less vibrant than a bright aqua top and white shorts. But it was late April, and it seemed fashionably irresponsible to go drab in the spring.

  I noticed Carly Evans sitting at a picnic table with her new friends, and even though we hadn’t spoken in a couple of years, I offered her a slight smile. It went unreturned, and at a moment when I didn’t think I could feel any worse, I actually did. I held back those silly tears and found a spot under an oak tree. I started eating my lunch and opened up East of Eden, trying to concentrate on Steinbeck’s imagery of the Salinas Valley rather than the last few minutes of my crappy life. But it was impossible to consider anything other than what Austin had said about me. He was out to ruin my reputation, which was something I had fought to keep over the last few months, and even though my eyes were on the pages of the book, I still noticed when the familiar pair of brown flip-flops advanced on me. “You okay?”

  “Spectacular,” I said and turned the page.

  “You want to talk about it?” Rob asked as he found a seat next to me.

  “No.” I just stared down at the book, but when my eyes watered with the inevitable tears and the words went blurry, I closed the book. Rob put an arm around me and brought me to his shoulder. “I heard what Austin said.” I buried my face in the crook of his neck, and I cried a lot harder than I should have, but he didn’t say a word. And we remained there for a while: me crying, and him saying nothing. And when I stopped sobbing, he asked, “Do you remember Kirsten? That girl I dated in ninth.”

  “Not really,” I lied.

  “Well, anyway, when I broke up with her, she told everyone I was gay.”

  I cracked a slight smile, knowing why he was telling me this awful story. “So, is that the real reason why we’re going to prom?” I lifted my head off his shoulder and wiped away tears with the back of my hand. “Is it because you’re—”

  “No, we’re going to prom because you asked me.” He picked up the napkin from my lunch and handed it to me, and I blotted the corners of my eyes. “And if you want to get technical about it…”

  “Let’s not.”

  He did anyway. “You asked me twice.”

  -11-

  Big Brother

  The week marched on. I left the Loser Lawn and joined Rob’s lunch table, which consisted of the Smart Jocks and their Hollister-outfitted girlfriends. By midweek, the rumors about me had been replaced with the one about the physics intern and a certain friend of mine, proving that some rumors were not altogether false. And by Friday morning, Rob and I were reading our parts with increasing fervor, and at the end of first hour, Miss Randall announced, “Rob. Chloe. I need to see you after class.”

  At that, Mike Erickson did a quick one-eighty in his seat. “Ooh, you’re in trouble, girl!” I stuck out my tongue at him as Rob walked past our seats, and Mike retorted, “Save that for Callahan!” Fortunately, Rob showed no sign of awareness, and then I lowered my head and offered a response. “We are not dating!”

  “I don’t know. First you ask him to prom. Then you start eating at his lunch table.” Mike slid off his seat and offered me his lopsided grin. “I mean, really, what’s next?”

  “Nothing,” I said with utter finality, but Miss Randall had the answer up at her desk; and when I reached the front of the classroom, I arrived in the middle of a hyper compliment. Our teacher was laying it on so thick that I knew a request was about to escape her lips. It was something that deserved an immediate no, but after receiving such lofty accolades, we couldn’t refuse her. The tactic was pretty common, and guys used it all the time. Like when some guy tells a girl she should be a model or looks like a famous actress, it’s just a prelude to “Will you go out with me?”

  “…And you two read so beautifully. Do either of you have any acting experience?”

  I thumbed at Rob. “His mom was a theater major.”

  “And Chloe’s always been a drama queen.”

  “Have not,” I said as my hands hit my hips, proving his point, not mine.

  Miss Randall continued, “Anyway, I was hoping you two could recite a scene from Act IV on Wednesday. I know that’s only five days from now, but you’re my best readers.” I scrunched up my nose like someone had just passed some rancid gas, and Rob ran his fingers through his hair. Taking our expressions into account, she added, “C’mon guys, I’ll give you some extra credit.” She looked at Rob. “Well, it’s not like you need it.”

  “Uh, thanks,” I muttered. “Some of us have a life outside school.”

  “You mean had a life.”

  “Ooh, you can be such a—” I stopped myself since Miss Randall was sitting in front of us, so I folded my arms across my chest and rattled off a list of names inside my head. It wasn’t as rewarding, but it saved me from a teacher condemnation.

  “Hmm, I see why these parts come naturally for the two of you.” She smirked at us. “But remember, if you keep it up, you might end up like our two characters in the play.”

  “What? In a double suicide?” I laughed at my own joke, but apparently no one else saw the humor in it, and sight unseen, I agreed to perform a duet scene from Act IV for our entire class.

  Getting what she wanted from us, we got what we wanted from her—two excuse slips. But in her haste, Miss Randall forgot to jot down the time. With free time on our hands, we headed to the vending machines at the opposite end of campus. I got a Lipton Iced Tea, and he bought some M & M’s. He poured a bunch in his hand and plucked out the red ones for me.

  “You finish the play yet?” he asked.

  “No, Rob. The rest of us are reading it in class.”

  “You ever see the movie?”

  “No.”

  “But you know it’s a comedy, right?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “And all Shakespearean comedies end the same way.”

  “Yeah, it’s very original.”

  “No, it’s formulaic, Chlo, and since comedies close with a wedding, our characters will get married in the end; therefore, Miss Randall is saying that if we don’t stop fighting, then we’ll end up the same way.”

  “I know.”

  “Which part?”

  “The part about getting married in the end.”

  He smiled at my obvious ambiguity and emptied the bag of M & M’s into his hand, offering me the last few red ones. “But maybe we should stop arguing so much...just to be on the safe side.”

  “Okay, but what will we talk about then?” I wondered.

  “Something that won’t cause an argument.”

  “People can argue over anything.”

  “I’m sure we can find an agreeable topic.”

  “Doubt it.”

  I looked over at him. He was biting down on his lower lip, and his eyes shifted to the right. “Hey, save your brain cells for Calculus, Callahan. The fact is we alway
s argue. It’s what we do together. Some friends go to the movies. Some go shopping. We argue, and the truth is, we do it well.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.”

  “See, that’s something we can agree on,” I said with a crooked smile. He returned one, complete with dimples, and escaped into his AP Calculus classroom. I had to make a quick stop at my locker before I went to the math class for the less-than-brilliant people, but as I turned the corner, I spotted Austin Walker waiting for me.

  “Hey, baby,” he said as if the whole week hadn’t happened. Or like we were two characters on a daytime soap, and the writers changed their minds about our break-up after the ratings dropped. The only problem was I hadn’t received the new script. “What do you want?”

  “You,” he crooned in his bedroom voice.

  “Wow, there’s a line I haven’t heard before!” I fidgeted with my combination, but I could feel the weight of his stare on me.

  “You missed a number,” he gibed.

  “Go to hell, Austin.” I started the combination process over again and concentrated on the task like it was a life-and-death situation.

  “Why are you so pissed off? You broke up with me, remember?”

  “But that’s not what you told everyone.”

  “I have a reputation, baby.”

  I flung open my locker and tossed him the coldest look I owned. “Yeah, and thanks to you, so do I.”

  The jerk chuckled for a moment and leaned against my open locker door. He watched me fumbling with my stack of books and reached over to tuck an errant strand of hair behind my ear. “I love it when you get all mad.”

  I glared at him.

  “So—” He licked his lips quickly. “What’s this crap I hear about you and Callahan?”

  I didn’t bother to dispel the rumor. “Oh, like you’re one to talk. Look at you and Aimee. I mean, did you even wait until I was out the door?”

  “I was pissed, Chlo.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s a great reason to start seeing someone.” I looked at him. “You know, I feel sorry for her.”

  “Don’t. I’m giving her what she wants.” He moved in closer to me. “Of course, it’s what you wanted, but you were too afraid. You and I both know that’s why you got so upset last week.” The night flashed in my head, and I could almost feel his hands across my skin. “You weren’t really mad at me. You were upset with yourself, because you wanted me too.” His hot breath entered my ear. “All of me.”

  I pushed at him. “Get away from me.”

  He sucked a breath between his teeth. “You know that only turns me on more.”

  “Stop it. I really mean it, Austin.” There was a noticeable shakiness in my voice, and I started breathing unevenly as he reached for me, his confidence trumping mine. He pulled me toward him, wedging my arms against his chest, and then he smiled his triumphal grin. Oh, how I hated that smile! It sent shivers down my spine and caused my stomach to flip. But Austin was enjoying it. Way too much. And I had to wonder what he had hoped to accomplish, but before another word escaped his lips, Rob grabbed me and whooshed me across the hall. Austin muttered a harsh obscenity, and the two of them squared off for another round of a three-year-old fight. Rob stepped closer, and with a finger a millimeter from Austin’s nose, he seethed, “I don’t ever want to see you near her again. You understand me, Walker?”

  Austin smacked Rob’s hand out of his face and stepped forward. “Then I’ll wait until you’re not looking.”

  Rob glanced over at me and then back at Austin. “Then I won’t let her out of my sight.”

  There was a long stare-down, where time stood still, and then Austin shook his head, cackling. “Well, big brother can’t always be watching.” That was Austin’s pet name for Rob, but don’t believe for a minute that it was some astute allusion to George Orwell’s 1984. It was just an accurate depiction of Rob’s self-appointed role in my life. Austin continued, “Because someday you’ll be off at college, and Chloe will be all alone with no one to watch over her. Well, except for me, of course.” Austin glanced over at me with that accomplished smile-and-wink combo. “Right, baby?”

  I offered him such a cold glare that I gave myself the chills, but Austin simply turned and headed down the hall, completely unfazed.

  “Not out of your sight, huh?” I said as I closed in on Rob. “Am I allowed to go to the bathroom by myself? How about showers? And sleeping arrangements may be a problem.” I looked up at him, hoping he would crack a smile. “I don’t know about your parents, but mine are against cohabitation.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said flatly like he wasn’t listening to me at all. His gaze was fixed on Austin, who took his sweet time walking down the hall. Finally, Rob turned to me and handed me an excuse slip, and at that moment, I realized why he had been there in the first place. “Just wait here for me after class,” he started. “And I’ll walk you to Latin.”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary”

  “Yes, it will.” He shot me his eye-narrowing look. “And you can thank me later.”

  So, after every class, I thanked him profusely. I even tried different accents to show my appreciation: southern, British, and Irish (in honor of his ancestry). I made big, pouty lips and batted my eyelashes. I did my best to portray the damsel-in-distress role, figuring at some point in the day, he would tire of my theatrics. But unfortunately for me, Rob never did. He took great pleasure in annoying me, and at the end of sixth hour, he walked me to the front of the school like a bodyguard for a Hollywood starlet. His arms were folded across his chest, and he leaned against the brick pillar, waiting with me in the parent pick-up line. “Why’s your dad picking you up today?”

  “He’s taking me dress shopping.” I glanced at my date. “I’m going to the prom with this overprotective ogre.”

  “Has to be better than my date. She’s this ungrateful, little snot.”

  I pursed my lips together. “Ouch, that hurts.”

  “Uh-huh, the truth usually does,” he said flatly and flicked his head toward the line of oncoming cars. “Here comes your dad now.”

  “Well,” I said, starting toward the curb. “Good luck with your game tonight.”

  He followed closely behind me. “Your dad’s the one who needs all the luck. Shopping with you is an acceptable form of torture for the eternally damned.”

  “Oh, you’re so hilarious.”

  Rob opened the car door for me, and his tone changed dramatically. “Well, hello, Mr. Preston. Welcome back.”

  “Thank you, Rob, and how have you been?”

  “Great, Sir,” he said with a grin plastered across his face. I gave him the evil eye for acting so dreadfully polite, but he just smiled back at me. “Have a great time shopping this afternoon.”

  “Oh, we will,” my father chirped cheerfully, but several hours later, my father was singing a different tune. I was standing in the dressing room of the third—no, maybe the fourth—dress shop along Park Avenue. I was running out of stores, and my father was running out of patience. I could almost hear his foot tapping outside my spacious dressing room, which was about the size of my bedroom and had an upholstered chair in the corner in case I needed to rest between trying on dresses.

  But I didn’t have time to rest, or to even think. I had to make a choice—and fast. So I hung the black strapless number on one hook and a powder blue gown on the other and was about to recite “Eeny Meeny Miny Mo” when my father lowered a third option over the dressing room curtain.

  “Where’d you find this?” I asked, clutching the silky gown to my chest.

  “In the next section.” The dress shop had various levels. Symbolic actually, since every time you went up a step or two, so did the price.

  “It’s so perfect.” My voice rose to an unnatural octave.

  “Well, it ought to be for the price,” my father grumble-mumbled as he returned to his waiting chair. I stepped into the ivory gown, pulling the weightless fabric the length of my bare skin. I slid my arm
s through the intricately braided straps of ivory and gold, and once on, the simple sheath fell gently to the floor. The waistline was higher, empire style with a wide brocade band of golden gossamer threads and shiny beads. I twirled out of the dressing room, holding the back of the dress together with one hand. When I reached the three-way mirror, the saleslady buttoned the row of fabric covered buttons. “This dress is absolutely gorgeous, but look at all of these buttons. It’ll take forever to get on you.”

  My father arched an eyebrow. “Good, then the inverse will hold true.”

  “Dad, that’s not even remotely funny. I’m going to prom with Rob.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I could have used that line when you went to Homecoming with that juvenile delinquent.” I just shook my head. Why did fathers joke about the one thing that frightened them the most? Was it some sort of bizarre coping mechanism or something?

  I twisted and turned in front of the three-way mirror for a while, long enough to receive my share of compliments from passing customers. The saleslady sat down in a vacant chair next to my father. “It’s so nice to see a father taking his daughter out prom dress shopping.”

  “Trust me, nice is not the right word for it.” I tossed over my shoulder, since “nice” is not synonymous with overprotective in my dictionary. My father liked to put his stamp of approval on what I wore out of the house—especially to dances.

  “Oh,” she replied and then dawdled off to assist other customers, mostly brides who were behind schedule on selecting a dress for their summer weddings. But then again, who was I to judge? Prom was only two weeks away.

  I looked again at my reflection. Hands down, it was the most beautiful dress I had ever worn. With a few school dances behind me and a junior bridesmaid dress hanging in the back of the closet, I had never owned anything that looked as timeless as this. But for some reason, I started to doubt the selection. “I don’t know, Dad.”

  “It’s perfect, Chloe,” my father stated emphatically and rose from the chair.

  “But it’s so pricey.”

  “Do you understand opportunity costs?”

  “A little,” I said, knowing it should have seeped into my brain during dinner-table osmosis.

  “Well, put it this way. The cost of the dress is somewhat insignificant if it affords me the opportunity to leave this store.” After a quick lesson in economics, my father paid the saleslady, and we were zipping down the interstate in my father’s Explorer.

  I stared out the window, watching the blue sky turn into a soft grey as the sun dipped behind the pines, and as night followed day, I sighed out loud. It was officially Friday night, and I had no plans. All my friends had dates for the evening, and even though I didn’t miss Austin, I did miss the routine of the relationship and the comfort that comes with having a boyfriend.

  My dad glanced at me. “You got a hot date tonight?”

  “No.”

  “Then you want to catch a bite to eat before we head home.”

  “Sure,” I said as my father exited the interstate.

  “Great, because I already have a place in mind. It’s very economical, and all the proceeds go to a good cause.”

  -12-

  Dinner

  “What a bargain, huh? They even include ketchup and mustard in the price.” That was my father’s comment to me as the red-shirted booster parent exchanged my father’s twenty for a couple of hot dogs and some ice cold drinks, and then with dinner in hand, we edged behind the back stop. My father took a bite of his hot dog, expressed his appreciation for the ball park frank, and flicked his head toward the pitcher’s mound. “He’s having one helluva’ season, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah,” I said back.

  “You make that game last week? The one where he nearly pitched a no-hitter?”

  “No, I was at the library…you know, studying.”

  “Yeah, I guess you won’t be doing that anymore.” He gave me his knowing smile, and I tossed him a “whatever” look. My father lived a much fuller life than my mother did; she actually spent her formative years at the library, and therefore, believed I was there several nights a week for the last seven months. I blamed my frequent visits on my tough class load and stayed there until ten o’clock, which was my weeknight curfew. On weekends my curfew was still eleven, but my parents agreed on twelve for special occasions. But it was nearing the end of my junior year, and I still hadn’t received a curfew extension.

  Still eating dinner, my father and I climbed to the top of the bleachers and sat with the Callahan family. “I can’t believe this is the first game I’ve made all season, Dave,” my dad started the conversation with Dr. Callahan.

  “You’ve been working too hard, my friend,” Rob’s father returned, but I decided neither one of them had any business discussing the matter. Rob’s dad was an obstetrician in a two-man practice and on call every other weekend, and my father was a financial planner turned writer. “You been riding at all?”

  My father stretched out his long legs. “Does the stationary bike count?’

  “No,” Dave Callahan chided as he patted my father on the back. “You’re going to slow us down, old man.” They went on to discuss their training regimen for their bike trip in July, a two-day ride along the scenic back roads of North Florida. My whole family, minus me, attended the annual biking ritual, but I was always visiting my grandmother in Kentucky that weekend.

  I left them to their training talks and slid down the row. Grandpa Callahan sat up with Rob’s mom, Riley and her clique of baseball sisters occupied a few rows below them, and I sat next to Courtney and a still-smiling Josh. “You wanna’ hear about my dress?”

  “Sure,” she said and drew a sip from her soda.

  “The dress is ivory and—”

  “Ivory?” Riley whipped around so fast it was a wonder she didn’t suffer whiplash. “Are you going to the prom or getting married to my brother?”

  I said nothing while the conversation ensued, gaining interest from her fellow ninth grade cohorts who thought prom and weddings were fascinating topics for discussion. Courtney spoke to the crowd. “Well, if Chloe marries Rob, then I’ll be the maid of honor.”

  Riley dropped her jaw. “But he’s my brother.”

  “But they’re my best friends.”

  Josh leaned forward. “Aren’t you two forgetting something?”

  “What?” they snapped back.

  “They’re not even dating.”

  “Thank you, Josh.” I said and moved up a row, but when I arrived next to Mrs. Callahan, I noticed her hand stifling a laugh. I glanced around the bleachers and back at Rob’s mom. “Maybe I’ll sit with another family.

  “Now, now, Chloe.” She patted my thigh in a succession of light taps. “You know why it’s funny. Your mother and I have been joking about you and Rob getting married since the day you two met.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I mumbled, and thought about that day. It’s not like I have any recollection of the second year of my life, but I’ve heard the story countless times over the years. Apparently, I was sitting on a swing at the park, waiting impatiently for my mother to push me. I was crying and whining and carrying-on while my mother tended to the squeakier wheel—also known as my baby brother—when this little, brown-eyed boy waddled over and pushed the swing for me. So, on that day, Rob and I became playmates, and our mothers became friends; and after all these years, nothing much had changed—except for the term governing our relationship, of course.

  His mom smiled at me. “Why don’t you tell me about your dress?” I gave her all the details, and when I finished, she decided, “Maybe Rob should wear a cream tux shirt to match your dress. And—” She paused, her enthusiasm growing a little. “Have you seen those tuxes in dark brown? It would match his hair.”

  “Yeah, and his eyes,” I added, and then felt regretfully self-conscious after mentioning her son’s eyes, but really, she had to have known. They were like liquid chocolate.

  I looked out onto the
field; Rob was on deck and warming up. Chip North got out in three quick strikes, and with two outs on the board for Riverside, Rob advanced to the plate. He watched the first pitch carefully and decided not to swing. The ump called a strike, but Rob connected with the second pitch, nailing a line drive down the third base line. He made it to second, spat into the grass, and adjusted his ball cap.

  Mrs. Callahan turned toward me. “And do boys and girls still exchange corsages and boutonnières at dances?”

  “If they want.”

  “Oh, tell Rob that Chloe loves red roses.” The comment came from the obnoxious blonde in front of me, and I nudged her with my flip-flopped foot. Courtney turned around, complete with a grin. “Yeah, Austin bought her a rose every time he messed up, which was all the time, so he should’ve planted a rose bush in her backyard and been done with it.”

  Mrs. Callahan summed up my feelings. “Okay, no roses then.”

  I nodded.

  “And your mom said pictures will be at your house?”

  “Mm-hmm.” I paused and watched Rich Masterson launch a ball deep into the outfield, sending Rob on a path to home plate. As he rounded third, I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Bring it home, Callahan!” I sent out a loud whoop as he crossed home plate. “Wow, he’s having another great game,” I said to his mother. “It’s no wonder he’s so conceited.”

  She laughed, and I continued on with more prom details. “Oh, and before the pictures, we’ll serve refreshments, and I don’t know if my mom told you this part, but you’re welcome to come and take pictures too.”

  “Sounds like you have it all planned out.”

  “Well, yeah,” I said and looked over at her quizzically. “Didn’t he show you the prom schedule?”

  “No, hon. Boys never share anything with their mothers,” she said with a slight frown. “Half the time, he forgets to show me his report card.”

  “Well, it’s not like there are any surprises,” I muttered. Rob pulled straight As all four years of high school and missed out on making words on report card day. My marks have spelled ABBA several times and CAB only once since “Cs are not permitted in this house, young lady.”

  Mrs. Callahan and I continued our prom discussion as Rob resumed his position on the pitcher’s mound. “And after prom, you two will go to the church lock-in. That’ll be fun, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, it would be fun…” I started slowly, remembering Rob’s comment: “We’re not going to tell our parents that we’re at the church when we’re actually at the beach.” That was my original idea, but dates change and so do plans. “But the girls and I were planning to stay at Courtney’s beach house after prom, and her parents said it would be okay if the guys wanted to tag along too.” I wondered if I succeeded in making it sound as innocent as a co-ed softball game.

  “And Courtney?” Mrs. Callahan addressed. “Will your parents be there?”

  “Yeah, my mom will,” she answered. Her step-dad was a commercial pilot and scheduled to be across the Atlantic at the end of the month, but her mom would definitely be at the beach. When her mother wasn’t traveling with her third husband, she liked to spend time at her other house, the one she ascertained during her second marriage. But whenever we stayed the night, Courtney’s mom preferred the solace of her neighbor’s place over a house full of giggly insomniacs.

  Mrs. Callahan studied me for a moment. “Are your parents okay with this?”

  “Well, I haven’t exactly asked them yet.”

  She appealed to Courtney again. “Where will everyone sleep?”

  I was over at Callie’s house when her mother asked the same question. “The bedrooms are for the girls, and the guys can crash on the couches or on the floor of the family room.”

  His mother nodded and turned her attention toward the game, watching Rob as he struck out the third batter in a row. “Well, if your parents let you go, then I don’t have a problem with it.”

  ****