Rumors and Lies at Evermore High Boxset: Three Sweet YA Romances

by Emily Lowry

  Dylan hadn’t been wrong when he said I didn’t have a choice to come: my attendance at these backyard football parties was basically mandatory. When you became the starting quarterback, there were certain expectations about how you would act. The expectations came from your teammates. Your friends. Your teachers. Your coaches. Your community. Everyone wanted you to be everything at all times. I didn’t want to complain. That was the part of the job description. If you wanted the glory, you had to live with the grime.

  Adam lifted his cup in the air and made a toast. The same one I’d heard a thousand times. We were the best. We would go undefeated. Absolutely nothing could stop us. This was a party for state champions. I remembered this speech. It was the same one I’d heard last year the week before we got bounced from the playoffs.

  I held up my water bottle halfheartedly as everyone cheered. A girl I didn’t recognize bounced over. Probably a new freshman on the cheerleading team. She twirled a finger through her hair and blinked at me. “Great game, Chase!”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Oh my goodness, are you hurt? Do you need anything?” Just like that, she was at my side, her hand on the ice pack. I noticed a flash as someone snapped a picture.

  “Just a flesh wound,” I said, gently pulling away from her.

  She looked confused. “I don’t get it. Is that bad?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Okay. Well, if there’s anything, I’m around. It’s Kimberly, by the way.” She blinked at me again before bouncing back over to her friends, giggling. One of them showed her their phone. I guessed that’s where the flash had come from.

  “What’s it like to be a photo op?” Dylan asked. He finished his drink and balanced the empty cup on the armrest. “The mood you’re in tonight, I bet we could replace you with a cardboard cutout and no one would know the difference.”

  I laughed. “We should try that at the next party. I’ll print a picture of my face and staple it to a pillow. Put the jersey on it and everything. You can just say I gained a few pounds.”

  “You joke, but when the Chase Jones body pillow takes off you’re gonna have some serious regrets.”

  I didn’t even want to think about that.

  Dylan stretched and yawned. “Wanna head out?”

  I nodded. “Definitely.”

  We said our goodbyes — and patiently listened to the complaints. No! Dylan, Chase, you can’t go, it’s too early. The party is just getting started. We’ll get in trouble without you here to watch over us — as if I was the team’s babysitter or something. I indulged my teammates as best I could, then pushed the gate open.

  “You’re not coming in. So beat it. Find someone else to piss off.” The voice belonged to Brett, one of the sophomore guards for the JV team. Adam had told him to post up near the entrance and not let anyone through. Brett had happily obliged. Anything to get in the varsity team captain’s’ good books, I guess. That was life at Evermore. I rolled my eyes at the very thought. As if a backyard high school football party needed a bouncer.

  I was instantly more interested in the situation when I recognized the girl he was talking to — Abby, the weird reporter from the school paper, who was standing there in front of Brett with her hands on her hips. What a strange girl.

  I noticed she looked cute, though. Different from when I’d run into her at Peak’s. For the first time since the game ended, I felt something besides pain. I was genuinely curious: Why was she here? This wasn’t her scene.

  She spotted me and her lips parted, but she said nothing. It was probably for the best. I was tired and definitely not up to do an interview right now.

  I smiled. “Did you run over anyone on your way here?”

  Her face split in a grin. “I was waiting for you. Thought if I caught you on a dark road I’d have a better chance of taking you out.”

  I laughed. She really was cute, I realized, with that dimpled smile and sparkly green eyes. I motioned towards Brett. “He giving you guys a tough time?”

  Brett’s fearsome demeanor dissolved into that of a frightened child. “Oh, man, sorry, I didn’t know. Yeah, sorry, you should’ve said you were with Jones, yeah, sorry. Sorry.”

  “All good, my man.” I gave him a fist bump, then nodded to Abby and her friend. “A couple of spots just opened up by the fire. Enjoy the party.”

  Her friend looked to Abby, then to me, then back to Abby, clearly confused.

  Abby eyed the ice pack on my shoulder. “Rough night?” she raised her eyebrows.

  I nodded my head to Dylan. “This guy forgot to pick up a blitz.”

  “And he’ll never let me live it down,” Dylan said, smiling.

  “How bad is it?” Abby asked. “I wasn’t at the game. I went looking for my school spirit but I couldn’t find it.”

  Of course she wasn’t at the game. This chick was one of those girls who danced to the beat of her own drum. She was probably the only girl in the junior class who hadn’t been there.

  “Nothing I can’t walk off.” I grinned at her.

  “I’d hate to have you knocked out for the season before our interview,” Abby said. Man, she was relentless. She flashed me what I’m sure she thought was a winning smile. “Glad to hear it’s just a flesh wound.”

  For a second brief moment, the pain in my shoulder vanished as I eyed Abigail Murrow with interest. She wasn’t like any other girl at our school, it seemed.

  “Have a good night.” I said, meaning it.

  “You too,” she looked away without her gaze lingering.

  Dylan and I left the girls standing by the fence. He continued our previous conversation immediately, as if nothing had happened. “This whole thing with Savannah is weird.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “Like, dude. Another girl breaks up with you exactly three weeks after your blasted on Click? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were cursed. Or you’ve got one vindictive ex-girlfriend.”

  Well, that much we knew was true.

  8

  Abby

  Over the summer, I read countless articles and stories by the investigative journalists I longed to call my peers. Inevitably, the question would come up time after time: if you wanted to be a journalist, what was the most important skill to develop? And the answer was always the same — you needed to hone your instincts, so you knew when to keep digging.

  As I laid in my bed on Friday night, my heavy comforter squishing me in place, my instincts were shouting. Before our short-lived appearance at the backyard party — where we clearly weren’t welcome — I’d overheard Dylan Ramirez mention that multiple girls had broken up with Chase Jones exactly three weeks after their relationship was put on Click. High school relationships were almost always short-lived… but for consecutive relationships to end at the exact same time? Was that what he was so upset about on Monday at Peak’s? That this Savannah girl had broken up with him?

  Something was going on.

  Izzy laid beside me, her eyes closed. She was already half asleep, but I was wide awake, my mind running at full speed.

  “What do you think?” I asked. “It’s weird, right? Three weeks, every time?”

  “I think you’re thinking too hard.” She yawned. “And that you should just let this go. I’ve seen guys get dumped because they didn’t text their girlfriend every morning.”

  “But three weeks to the day… and this is Chase Jones we are talking about. Not some randos who never text their girlfriends back.”

  “It probably wasn’t three weeks exactly,” Izzy said sleepily. “Boys don’t remember dates… and since when do you care about Chase Jones? And how do you know him, anyway? You never explained.”

  Maybe Izzy was right. But while she was about to pass out into a blissful sleep, my instincts were running in overdrive. I rolled onto my side and stared at my window. Streaks of orange streetlight filtered through the blinds. There were a handful of glow-in-the-dark stars still stuck to my wall. When I was little, I�
��d desperately wanted to decorate my ceiling with those Dollar Store stars. I even drew a map with all the constellations I wanted. But when I approached my parents with my plan, my mom refused. She didn’t want to wreck the paint. When she left, I’d bought the stars and put them up as a small act of rebellion, even though I was way too old to have neon stars on my ceiling. Ironically, all they did was remind me of her.

  “But what if it was three weeks exactly?” I said, pushing the thoughts of my mom from my mind.

  Izzy snorted awake. “Are you still on this? Maybe there’s just something wrong with him. And it takes three weeks to figure it out.”

  “He dated Madison Albright for some of freshman year and then most of sophomore year,” I pointed out.

  Chase and Madison’s relationship — and subsequent break up — was all anyone had talked about for weeks last spring. Click overflowed with rumors and lies. Somewhere in the swirl of speculation, the truth hid. I didn’t investigate that mystery. Madison would rip my head from my body if I tried to talk to her. I shuddered, remembering the disgusted look she had shot me earlier in the night, as I had walked into the backyard party. “What if Dylan is right? What if something else is going on?”

  “Not your circus, not your monkeys.”

  She was right. If — and it was a big if — something was going on in Chase’s love life, that was his problem. But his friendliness was also the only reason we could get into the party this evening for our three minutes of terror. There’s nothing like walking into a party where you literally know no one. I’d never felt so uncomfortable. If Chase had stayed, that would’ve been one thing. At least I felt like I could talk to him.

  Not that he would have talked to me, I reminded myself. I’m sure everyone wanted to talk to Chase Jones at every party.

  An idea popped in my head.

  “What if it was my circus?”

  Izzy groaned and smothered herself with a pillow.

  “Seriously!” I said, excitement bubbling in my voice. “There might be something wrong with Chase, or maybe someone is sabotaging his love life. If there’s something wrong with him, no one will tell him, because he’s the star quarterback. And if someone is sabotaging him, he will never know. But what if he could know?”

  “Why don’t you sleep on it?” Izzy said from beneath her pillow.

  “I could tell him. I could help him find out.”

  She lifted the pillow from her face. “You sound crazy right now. What are you going to do, start by stalking anyone he dates to look for suspicious behavior?” she asked sarcastically.

  I sat up with a start. “YES! Great idea, Izzy!”

  “It was NOT an idea, I was being sarcastic, you creeper. Anyway, what about your paper editor, He of the Dreamy Cheekbones? Surely it won’t be great for your chances with him if you get muddled up in the love life of Chase Jones, of all people.”

  “That makes it even more perfect.” I couldn’t contain my excitement. “I help Chase find out why he’s being dumped. He can repay me by getting me into all the best parties and help me live out the cliché high school life. What better vantage point is there for the social feature than tagging along with the quarterback? Then, when I’m done, I’ll have loads of material and I’ll be able to write an amazing story. Which will impress Nicholas so much that he’ll be dying to discuss it with me. Maybe over dinner?”

  “Have you considered just telling Nicholas you like him?”

  The very idea nearly gave me a heart attack. “My plan is much better.”

  “Abs. I love you. And you know I hate to use the word insane. But… you’re insane.”

  “It’s foolproof.”

  “You’re insane,” Izzy repeated. “And you’re also forgetting something. Yes, ok, so Chase Jones was nice to you tonight... but do you really think he would be up for you digging into his love life?”

  Isabel had a point.

  9

  Chase

  I plunged my spoon into a bowl of frozen yogurt — birthday cake mixed with dark chocolate, topped with crushed peanut butter cups — and tried to calm my nerves. Abby, the strange, intrepid wannabe journalist that she was, had cornered me on my way to practice and asked me again for an interview, telling me we could meet here after my practice was over. Normally, school reporters just asked me a handful of questions while I stood on the sidelines with a dixie cup of Gatorade.

  But not Abby. She had worn me down to do the interview in the first place by assuring me we would focus mainly on football.

  “Didn’t you say sports were Payton’s thing?” I eyed her warily, but she laughed it off.

  “Oh yes, but today, it’s mine!” And then she insisted we meet for frozen yogurt.

  “I want to see Chase Jones out of his element,” she said, squinting against the late afternoon sun. “And besides, if we get froyo, I can expense it.”

  I regretted that I’d ever conceded to the interview in the first place as she looked at me expectantly.

  “The Pinnacle has an expense account?” As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them. It was a joke. Way to play up to the dumb jock stereotype, Jones.

  “See you after practice?” she asked.

  I sat on a bench outside of Peak’s as I waited. My legs were jumpy, my feet nervously tapping the brick. Main Street was packed. It felt like the entire town had taken advantage of our unusually warm September.

  I was midway through my bowl of frozen yogurt when Abby arrived. She looked — for lack of a better term — smart. Different than she had looked at the party the other night. She carried a notepad that was covered with blue ink.

  “Please tell me you don’t have an entire page of questions for me.”

  She grinned. “Double-sided. And I was meant to be buying your yogurt this time around.”

  “I don’t know if I have enough stock answers for you.” When you gave enough interviews, you developed routine answers for the questions reporters typically threw your way. Team played well tonight. We executed. Good game plan. Was nice to hear the crowd. Stuff like that.

  Abby sat beside me with an enormous smile, her eyes wide. “So. Shall we discuss your deepest and darkest secrets?”

  Why did I ever say yes to this strange, persistent girl?

  10

  Abby

  The interview was going well. As long as I was in reporter mode, I wasn’t too nervous around Chase.

  He was a great interviewee and put me at ease immediately. I couldn’t believe how easy he was to chat with. He had a calm, pleasant demeanor, and he made me laugh. Even better, I made him laugh. Repeatedly.

  I noticed he was tapping his foot… nervously? I wasn’t sure why he would be nervous, but either way, I did my best to put him at ease, too. I could sense he wasn’t a fan of interviews and I was also painfully aware that I wasn’t sure why he had agreed to this in the first place, when interviews clearly weren’t his thing.

  I reassured him the interview would be mainly about sports, so I started with sports to get him talking. He was more than willing to chat about football and was always quick to give credit to his teammates. He talked carefully, thinking about every word before he said it, which made it difficult to skew him towards saying anything that would be at home in the social feature. I got a slight popularity angle for my piece as he talked about the pressure he felt being the quarterback for the varsity team. The only real hiccup came when I asked him about his family. He joked that he thought the story was supposed to be about football, but I could sense that he was putting his shields up. I decided not to push him. Not everyone was comfortable talking about their family life. I, for one, certainly wasn’t.

  As the interview neared its end, my own nerves returned.

  Chase took my empty yogurt bowl from me and tossed it in the recycling bin. He rubbed his throat. “I think that’s the most I’ve talked all week.”

  “And all I had to do to get you to open up was almost hit you with my car.”

  He gave me
an earnest look and put his hand on his heart. “I take threats against my life very seriously.”

  “As you should. I’m incredibly dangerous.”

  Chase laughed, and his navy-blue eyes sparkled. The sound was infectious.

  “Well, thanks for choosing me to interview. I hope I was a worthy subject,” he said.

  Oh no. He was wrapping things up and I hadn’t brought up my plan. “Wait,” I said. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

  He raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

  “Off the record.” I assured him.

  He folded his arms and looked at me curiously, still saying nothing. I took a massive deep breath and proceeded.

  “When we were at the party, I overheard Dylan. He said you’ve been getting dumped a lot.” Oh, Abby. There were about a thousand better ways to start this conversation. “Not that it’s your fault, I’m sure.”

  “This isn’t going in the article, is it?” I saw the betrayal flash through his eyes immediately, all of his walls suddenly up.

  “No. Completely off the record. I’m a woman of my word.”

  He looked uncertain, guarded.

  “I promise.” In slight desperation I offered him my pinky, like I was eight years old or something.

  He suddenly laughed. “You might be the weirdest reporter I’ve met.”

  “I take that as a compliment!” I said, and he laughed again.

  And then, by some miracle, he reached out and locked his pinky with mine, casually bumping our fists together.

  “You could say I’ve had some bad luck.” He suddenly looked tired. “But nothing you need to worry about, seriously. Thanks for the… concern. Or whatever it was.”

  “What if it was more than bad luck?” I pressed.

  “Do you know something?” He suddenly looked suspicious again.