by Gwen Hayes
Dean growled at him. “Get off me, dude.”
Foster had braced his arm across Dean’s chest just below his neck. “Sorry, my bad. Haven’t been skating in a few years. Are you both okay?” He spoke to me over his shoulder. “Are you all right, Logan?”
“I’m fine.” Oh my God. Was he pinning Dean to the wall for me? “Foster, let him go.”
“So your date is over, then, Dean.” It wasn’t a question; it was a statement. Things were definitely veering toward Testosteronelandia between the two boys. I’d never seen Foster like this.
Dean pushed back and Foster let go. As Dean brushed off his clothes, he answered, “The date just started. We’ve got an hour.”
“I don’t think you do.” Foster planted his feet so that he was between Dean and me. “I think the date is over now.”
This new Foster surprised me. I suppose he looked taller because of the skates, but he also looked more menacing than I remembered. And trust me—roller skates don’t usually up the intimidating quota for guys.
Which of course meant that Dean had to ante in his most threatening pose. “I’m not on a date with you, Foster. So back off.”
The boys took a step (roll?) closer to each other and turned all kinds of primal-looking. The shock of it snapped me out of my earlier meltdown and into fix-it mode because if I didn’t do something fast, there was going to be a fight.
“Foster.” I reached for his sleeve.
With his other hand, he pointed to Dean. “What part of not touching her was unclear in the contract?”
“Relax. I wasn’t groping her. I was keeping her from falling on her ass.”
“Hey!” I blurted. Well, he had a point. Still, I needed to call a halt to the fight about to happen.
Despite not recognizing the song that was playing, I clutched Foster’s arm. “Oh my God! I love this song. Let’s skate.”
He didn’t come willingly at first, but I tugged hard enough that he got the point. We stumbled toward the opening in the rink wall, mostly because he refused to lose eye contact with Dean and half walked, half rolled backward as Dean strolled backward out the door.
I’d never pretended to understand testosterone.
As soon as my wheels touched the smooth floor, I worried that I’d made a huge mistake. I should have let them fight it out while I put my shoes back on instead. Foster held me up for a few seconds until I found my center. We started rolling without speaking until I felt myself falling back into place, piece by piece. Like riding a bike, to overuse a cliché, something a good reporter is never supposed to do.
“Why are you here tonight?” I asked. The roller rink wasn’t really high on places Foster would like to spend time now that he wasn’t thirteen.
“You’re welcome, of course,” he answered.
“No, really. Why?”
“I’ve gone on all your dates.”
My lovely rhythm suddenly faltered. “What? Why?”
“For times like tonight.” Foster put his hand out to catch my fall, just in case. “Look, I know you get off casting me as the bad guy in your little dramas, and most of the time I’m happy play the part. That doesn’t mean I’d let you go out with twelve strangers without backup.”
As my mind whirled into action, my motor skills kicked in and I was able to fall into the easy gliding of my youth. Because I couldn’t concentrate on my feet and my mortification at the same time. He’d been on every date? “Where? How?”
“Usually in the manager’s office. I stay out of the way. Before you ask, I didn’t tell you because I was hoping it wouldn’t be necessary. I figured you might be self-conscious if you knew someone was watching—”
“Spying.”
“Watching.”
We cruised another loop with no words. I was just fresh out of them.
I don’t think I’d been at the roller rink for more than half an hour, but I felt like I’d been put through one of those old-fashioned wringers they used to use to wash clothes. At some point, I was going to have to apologize to Dean for turning all wacky on him and letting my partner cause a fight, but I didn’t want to think of that at the moment. Nor did I want to dwell on my little episode brought on by the smell of the whiskey on Dean’s breath.
That left either how I felt about Foster going caveman when I felt threatened or the bittersweet nostalgia I was feeling for days of yore.
Neither were safe zones.
“This place hasn’t changed much.” Foster’s gaze swept over my face briefly, and in it I remembered a very different boy and a very different girl. The young boy with less cynical eyes and a quicker smile.
What would I tell them now if I could go back and give little Layney and little Jimmy advice about treading the treacherous waters of the eighth grade? Not that they would listen. Why would they? Layney Logan and Jimmy Foster would have LOL’d their way across the rink. Everybody knew they were rock solid. The L word had been passed between them. Two bases had been stolen. He’d given her a heart necklace for Valentine’s Day. She promised third base when they got to high school.
They were in love.
“No, it’s still the same here,” I answered. The memories tasted like an unripe berry dipped in sugar—sweet with a bitter ever after. Still, I smiled. The music pumped out Beyoncé, my body remembered the groove, and the movement felt good—like a stretch after a nap.
He smiled too, loosening up. “I’d forgotten how fun skating is.”
“You going to start coming back every weekend?”
“Maybe.”
“Careful. You’ll be eighteen soon. They’ll label you a pedophile.”
“Seriously. It’s fun, right? You’re having a good time?”
I cast him a sidelong glance and decided to dam my first instinct to resort to sarcasm. “I’m not…wishing I was someplace else right now.”
Foster clutched his chest. “Don’t phunk with my heart, Logan.”
I answered with a playful punch. “You’ll need to get one first. I hear they sell them at Evil ’R Us. You have an account there, don’t you? Maybe you can pick one up on the ‘still beating/just pulled from a sacrifice’ aisle.”
“Do you have any idea how expensive those are? Even with my discount—”
The song ended, but instead of immediately sliding into the next one, the lights dimmed, and the announcement proclaimed “couples-only skate.”
We hit an awkward patch that was hard to navigate, and clearly neither of us knew what to do. Our past collided with our present and the two of us were trapped in the wreckage. Leaving the rink would mean giving too much importance to a should-be-forgotten childhood pastime. Staying meant…well, the same thing probably.
Foster kept his eyes forward but silently reached for my hand.
Children all around us paired off. At first, holding hands with Foster was like driving someone else’s car—everything seems weird and wrong, but you still know how to drive it, and and after a minute or two, you don’t have to think about it. You just are.
Transported to another time, another lifetime, we eased into our old selves. Never more aware of his body, I allowed myself to sync to his movements and found that we still made a pretty good team.
“Do you remember how to skate backward?” he asked me.
“Huh?” Then as he tugged, I answered, “No Foster, don’t.”
Too late, he swept me into our old waltz-pose and I didn’t lose a beat as I began skating backward while he held me. Exhilarated, I felt that zing racing through me, just like when we argue, only we weren’t at cross-purposes for once.
Back in the years of our roller-skating glory, Foster and I spent so much time on wheels that we had our own routines, especially for couples’ skate. Minus lifts, jumps, and bedazzled matching costumes, of course. More or less, they were just patterns we’d developed over time. Except that when we were kids, the weight of his hand on my hip didn’t reboot my nervous system in quite the same way.
After a few minutes, he spun
me around until we faced the same direction again with his right arm behind me, holding my right hand and resting on my hip, and my arm extended in front of him, holding his left hand. That we didn’t trip over each other’s feet amazed me. When he moved so that he was behind me, I instinctively tilted my head because he used to rest his chin on my shoulder. We let go of our hands, and his arms crossed in front of me, pulling me in tightly. We were one person, if only for a few seconds.
And all it took was one kid tripping to undo the moment.
The fall happened in super slow-mo. Not the kid’s fall. My fall.
The kid tripped. I saw it happen and instantly knew he would be my own downfall. Literally. Foster tried to spin around, so he made first contact, tripping on the boy’s skate and landing hard on his butt with me following right after. I thunked my knee hard, but Foster broke my fall. Unfortunately, he couldn’t also shield me from the couple right behind us, who both toppled and landed mostly on me.
Disengaging and getting upright proved to be a lot more awkward than even the falling. Being manhandled by Jimmy Foster at the skating rink used to happen two or three times a week. The difference was he used to do it on purpose so he didn’t apologize when he brushed against my breasts. This time, he blushed and stammered.
By the time we made it to the benches, we were both war weary and said very little while we unlaced the boots. We limped our way to the counter and then finally to the parking lot.
“Well, there’s my car,” I stated, even though it was obvious. “Where is yours?”
“I parked a block away so you wouldn’t spot me.”
It figures. “That’s right. I almost forgot to be upset about the spying part. Thanks for reminding me. Expect that I’ll be angry with you on Monday morning.”
Foster shrugged. “I always expect you’ll be angry at me on Monday mornings.”
He declined the offer of a ride to his car but offered to stay long enough to make sure mine started. As I limped away, I could tell he was staring at my ass by the burn.
Funny that rather than making me angry, it made me smile.
Chapter Six
Mr. May
“I just got a blue slip to see Maple,” I told Tyler, who was on the other end of my cell phone call.
“What did you do?” he asked.
“I have no idea. So we can talk more about my near panic attack later, I guess.”
“You just don’t want to talk about it all.”
“It was no big deal. I have to go.”
And it wasn’t a big deal. I just had a moment of panic that sorted itself out. Talking about it wasn’t going to change how I felt last night or how I felt in eighth grade. Stuff happens; move on.
The secretary was on the phone and waved me into the office. Ms. Maple, our vice-principal, rose from her seat when I entered her office. She’d stuffed herself into a lime green suit today. It went really well with her brassy red bun. I’d watched Facts of Life on Nick at Nite before. She was Mrs. Garrett’s evil twin.
“Miss Logan.”
“Ms. Maple.”
She indicated to a chair. “Please have a seat.” Which meant sit whether you want to or not. She didn’t waste time and started speaking as we both sat down. “I’ll get right to the point, Layney. The district is not happy with your little newspaper club causing so much trouble about the cell phone issue. The topic is already heated enough.”
My little newspaper club? I leaned toward her over the desk. “Are you referring to the journalists of a highly regarded periodical asking questions? I don’t see how that is causing trouble, Miss Maple. I see that as students thinking critically, something your staff attempts to teach us every day.”
“I’ll remind you that there is no longer a ‘highly regarded periodical’ as you say. You are now participating in a campus club and will adhere to the directives of …” She paused briefly as she noticed a memo pad on her desk. Her eyes darted back to me quickly. “The directives of the administration, or we’ll shut you down.”
Nonchalantly—which, by the way, is very telling to bloodhounds like me—she palmed her memo pad and slid it closer to her side of the desk.
What was she going to do with it, and why didn’t she want me to see it? “Ms. Maple, my staff is not out to cause trouble. There is a legitimate story here. Not only do students deserve to know if their rights are being violated, but they also need to know if they are not. We are conducting interviews with key members of your staff as well as…” This time I paused. She ripped the top page of her memo pad off and folded it in her hand several times before pocketing it. Interesting. “As well as members of the governing body of the school. Your bosses, I guess you could say.”
She arched an eyebrow. I’m not afraid to give credit—she does it better than I do. “You are not conducting interviews. You’re conducting witch hunts.” She tucked the pad between a couple of folders and then folded her hands in front of her again. “Do you think we came about this decision lightly?”
No, but I did think she was hiding something from me. “Of course not. The paper will lay out the story in an unbiased way, I assure you.”
“There is no paper, Layney.”
“The Follower is not dead.” I stood. “We are coming back and we’ll be even better than before.”
“You have no print press. And don’t think you can use school materials to xerox your little newsletter, either.”
Getting angry would not help. In fact, that is probably what she wanted me to do. Then she could punish me and maybe even bury the Follower forever. The question remained—why? “There is such a thing as free speech still, isn’t there?”
Ms. Maple stood. “This isn’t a democracy. This is a high school. You’d best remember that if you want to keep your club on school grounds.”
I fished out my recorder. Luckily, I had one that didn’t double as my cell phone. “I’d like to make sure I understood you correctly, Ms. Maple. Is it okay if I record the rest of our conversation so that I can relay accurate information back to the other members of my little club?”
She glared at me. You’ll have to take my word for it because it won’t show up on the audio. I sat back down and turned my weapon on. If she wasn’t going to say no, I was going to assume she meant yes.
“Ms. Maple, is it true that you do not want the newspaper to cover the story regarding the recent student cell phone mandates because you feel the issue is too heated? Therefore, in your opinion, stifling an honest exchange of information will be better for the school board than full disclosure?”
“That is not what I said.”
“I see. So you don’t intend to shut down the Follower if we pursue our first-amendment right to free speech?”
She pursed her lips like a constipated fish. “If the newspaper club follows all the school rules regarding campus groups, then of course it is free to remain a school activity.”
I sent her my perky smile. The one that gives Foster hives. “Perhaps you’d like to give me an exclusive. Tell me—”
I was interrupted by her cell phone ringing. People would pay good money for this kind of irony.
“Do you need to get that?” I asked. “It’s okay if you do. We still have six weeks until November first.” She knit her brow in confusion. “I’m assuming that since the regulations came down because cellular devices were detracting from children’s education, that means all teachers and staff members will also have to abide by the rule, right?”
“I think you better get back to class, Ms. Logan.”
“Okey dokey.” I bounced off my seat and to the door. “Thanks for all your help with the story.”
For the rest of the day, I was distracted by the secret memo incident. She really didn’t want me to see that note, so of course I had to find a way get the goods.
After school, I skipped out of our newspaper meeting a little early. As I used my “cartoon classic-sneaky-walk”—you know, the one Shaggy and Scooby use when they are trying to hide
from a ghost—I got almost all the way to Ms. Maple’s desk when I felt the hand on my shoulder.
“What the hell are you doing?”
I’ll admit, I also performed the “cartoon I-am-a-statue” move for a second. Then I realized it was Foster.
I pivoted toward him and shushed him. “I’m investigating if you must know,” I whispered.
“Investigating what? How did you get in here? Bobby pin or credit card?”
I held up a key. “I have friends in very low places.” He rolled his eyes, but I know he had to be impressed. I’d bet another date at the rink he only wished he had keys to the administrators’ offices.
The undeniable clip-clop of heels sounded in the hall, and my whole high school career flashed before my eyes. I’d gotten into a few scrapes over the years, but getting caught breaking and entering into the vice-principal’s office was going to be a little deeper of a cut. My panicked brain started me toward her desk, but Foster grabbed me and hauled me into her closet with him. The closet was good. Better than the behind-the-desk I was shooting for. Unless, of course, Ms. Maple had come back for her coat.
The pitch black of the closet didn’t exactly make me happy. I’m not claustrophobic or afraid of the dark, but I was actually glad I wasn’t alone, even if it was Foster with me.
We’d pointedly ignored each other most of the day, not wanting rehash the whole couples’-skate fiasco. We shared one brief moment during lunch when we caught each other wincing as we sat down in the newsroom, reminding us of our mutual roller-skating injuries. I offered to track down a doughnut pillow for him to sit on, and he offered me a box of tissue to stuff my bra with.
So things were pretty much back to normal.
Except for the fact that we were hiding in a dark closet. There were boxes or something on the floor to our right, so we had to mush together with me in front and both of us facing the same direction. We could hear Ms. Maple ratting around in her desk drawer for something while she talked on her cell.