by M. F. Lorson
I wanted to keep a neutral expression, but there was no hiding my feelings, not from Mom. I pulled open the fridge to form a barrier between us. “She mentioned you’re writing her pretty frequently these days,” she continued. “She seemed concerned, Lane.”
My previously ravenous appetite was gone but leaving the fridge empty handed would have been a major red flag to Mom who was already on high alert. I grabbed a green apple from the veggie drawer and slapped a fake smile on my face.
“Here and there,” I replied, struggling to keep the tremble in my voice at bay.
“Should I be worried?” she asked, rubbing the bridge of her nose.
Probably, I thought. But that didn’t mean I wanted her to know it. Worried Mom meant one thing, Dr. Johnson, and I wasn’t going there, not again.
“No more than usual Mom,” I said with an exaggerated eye roll. I knew she wanted to talk more, but that made one of us. “I’ve got to do some research for my next article,” I lied, popping a quick kiss on her cheek.
Mom sighed, “I’m here if you want to talk,” she offered before putting her glasses back on and reverting her attention to the words on the screen. I was halfway up the staircase to my room when she dropped the final bomb. “Your father called about Thanksgiving.” Goodbye, happy paper day mood. Hello, cold hard reality.
Chapter Eleven
The first game against Pinebrook was quickly approaching. And according to Veronica the starting five weren’t exactly on great terms. Not that I needed her to tell me that. Any idiot with a brain could see that Preston and Anderson were avoiding one another in the halls and that Ryan, Jeremiah, and Mackey were doing everything in their power to ignore the drama.
“Have you seen this?” asked Andie, seeking me out in the hallway. She handed me her pink glitter covered cell phone case.
“Do I want to see it?” I asked, staring down at a YouTube video titled, ‘Desperate skank tries to get back with ex’ cued and ready to go.
“It’s uh...applicable,” said Andie with a grimace. I hit the play button. It only took about ten-seconds for me to get the picture. Immediately I recognized the house. It was where head-cheerleader, Sammi Parson lived, and Charlie Royce was front and center. Charlie’s Halloween costume in the video could best be described as, where has the rest of your outfit gone? To the average viewer it looked like Charlie was begging Anderson to get back together. But that didn’t make any sense considering he had very publicly cheated on her.
The journalist in me said something was suspicious. Sure enough when I checked the source it was crystal clear that there was more to the story.
“Anderson’s YouTube channel?”
Andie shook her head, “He is such a tool.”
“Well then, that explains the icy atmosphere at practice yesterday,” I said, rolling my eyes. “You would think after that split lip Anderson would know not to mess with Preston’s sister.”
“So here is my question,” said Andie. “How many times is it acceptable for guys to punch one another and get over it before they decide to in fact not get over it?”
“I don’t know, but I can’t imagine this doesn’t affect them on the court. I mean can Preston really take direction from Anderson during a game right now? And not just any game, the season starting game?”
“Against his rival,” cooed Andie. “Are you gonna talk about the video? Ya know, in your article?” she pressed.
“This isn’t a tabloid,” I giggled. “How much time have you been spending with Veronica, anyway?”
Andie shrugged, “Hey, I’m just doing what you told me. Getting an idea of what people are interested in around here.”
I shook my head, “I’m going to steer clear of the whole thing when I interview Preston. Now get out of here. Go write something!”
“Go write something,” mocked Andie as she walked away doing her best maternal impression. I was still laughing when I turned the corner to third period and smacked directly into Charlie Royce AKA, the desperate skank herself. She didn’t look desperate to me. More like filled with fiery rage, ready to burn the school to the ground. She glared down at me like I was gum beneath her shoe. I didn’t blame her. There were probably plenty of people giving her a hard time today. She was unlikely to assume the best from the girl who just a week ago wrote a glowing article about her nemesis. I got out of her way and fast.
Preston had agreed to meet me in the cafeteria after school for those fleeting moments between the final bell and the start of basketball practice. In his practice jersey, I couldn’t help but notice that the freckles that covered his nose and cheeks also lightly dotted his shoulders, making him look slightly younger than his teammates. Thanks to Mackey’s advice I came prepared with a Gatorade and a bag of pretzels, my attempt at interview bait. Preston eyed the Gatorade.
“For you,” I said, motioning to the electrolyte ridden anti-soda before him. Preston cautiously twisted off the lid then took a massive gulp. I cringed, never having played a sport I didn’t understand the appeal, especially not for Glacier Freeze, the blue flavor Mackey assured me was his favorite but definitely appeared to be the grossest.
“So,” I started, “Let’s talk about last year.” Preston looked up at me surprise twisting his features.
“What about last year?” The blue-green bruise that had darkened his eye was finally beginning to fade into an off-putting yellow. He could have gone as a zombie for Halloween, no makeup required, I noted.
“The game at Pinebrook. People are calling this game the senior year rematch, so in your own words, what happened last year?”
Preston groaned, “Ask any other question please.”
“Sorry, but I can’t exactly write about the matchup without reminding people what happened the first time.”
Preston sighed, “We were down by one. Coach had drawn up the perfect play to get me the ball. Our bigs set a staggering screen, leaving my path to the hoop wide open. I caught the ball with only one defender in my way. All I needed was two dribbles, and I would be at the rim for a game-winning layup.” I nodded enthusiastically, writing down every word he said. I would definitely be needing Mackey to translate for me later. “I had rehearsed this play hundreds of times by myself at the park,” continued Preston. “But it’s different in a game. I didn't get low enough as I brushed by the second screen and as a result, I caught the ball off balance. It careened off my foot instead of the hardwood. All I could do was dive hopelessly to the floor watching as the ball bounced straight into the waiting arms of Brooks.”
“Brooks?” I asked, pretty sure I knew the answer but hoping he would elaborate.
“He plays for Pinebrook, and..we don’t exactly get along,” said Preston with a grimace.
“Because he cost you the game?”
Preston grumbled, “More than that lately.”
I nodded, choosing to avoid the obvious questions about he and Brooks’s rivalry extending past the basketball court. Of course, I wanted to know more, but asking when I had no intention of using it for the article wasn’t a shining example of journalistic integrity.
“What makes next Friday's game different?” Preston looked up appearing grateful that my follow up question was about basketball and not his personal life.
“I’ve been working my butt off. And so has the team. Extra practices without coach, really looking at what our soft spots are and addressing them.”
“You think you’ll win?” I asked.
Preston’s eyes flashed, “I don’t intend to lose to Brooks.” My eye wandered to the bruise on his cheek. Hopefully that temper of his resulted in extra baskets and not bruises.
“I see. Well, that's about all I need from you.”
“That’s it?” asked Preston, looking both relieved and perplexed. “You don’t want to ask me anything else?” The interview had been shorter than I originally planned but thanks to all this ‘senior year rematch’ junk I didn’t have the option of taking the story in any other direction. If I wrote abo
ut Preston as a player people would be disappointed. They wanted Preston vs. Brooks, the big showdown on the court. That’s what they would get. I just hoped all the tension on his own team didn’t leave them handicapped.
“I’ll be at the game,” I said. “That way I can describe the mood, tension, result, etc.”
Preston smiled wickedly, “You’ll be describing Brooks hobbling off the court to cry to his mother.”
I raised one eyebrow. “You’re going to get remarkably better between today and next week are you?”
Preston flushed, “You’ll see. Just come prepared to cheer.”
I laughed, “I’ll be leaving that to the cheer squad thank you very much. I’m not a huge sports fan, you know.”
Preston frowned. “Yeah but, writing all these stories? Getting to know the guys? It makes it more interesting, right?” He had a point. Before watching a basketball game was just sweaty jocks running up and down a hardwood floor. I spent most of the only game I had seen trying to figure out what on earth Jillie saw in number four. This time it would be the guys from the diner and Mackey, of course. As far as sweaty jocks running up and down the court went, the idea of it being Mackey wasn’t so bad. I certainly didn’t mind watching him during practice. Suddenly I had an urge to buy a Rosemark hoodie and yell offensive things at the fans from Pinebrook.
With our interview wrapped up, Preston joined the rest of the guys in the gym. I gave a wave to Mackey as I headed back to the newsroom to type up my notes. I didn’t know if it was a compliment or a sign of clumsiness but my catching his attention on the way past resulted in a major airball.
Was I wishful thinking that I made him so nervous he missed? He had the opposite impact on me lately. Instead of being nervous when he tossed an arm around my shoulder or said something flattering the way I normally was around a cute boy, I found myself leaning in closer to soak it all in.
Andie and Elliot were hunkered over a computer when I arrived at the newsroom. Elliot clicked shut the browser the moment he noticed me but not soon enough, not before I saw Jillie’s face on the monitor.
“What ya doing?” I asked. Unable to mask the warning in my voice. Elliot looked uncomfortable but not as uncomfortable as Andie who hurried out of the room with a thinly veiled excuse about wanting to catch the end of Ryan’s practice.
Elliot shrugged, “Facebook stalking, the usual.”
“With Andie?”
“No offense, Lane, but it’s none of your business.” None of my business? Jillie was none of Lane’s business, or Elliot's for that matter. It’s not exactly like they were bosom buddies. Jillie didn’t even like Elliot. Heck, Jillie actively did not like Elliot.
“What are you doing here so late, anyway?” asked Elliot.
I did my best to shake off what I’d seen. “I just interviewed Preston for next week’s article. There is a lot of buzz going around about this Pinebrook rivalry but mostly about Preston and a player from the other team.”
“Brooks,” said Elliot matter-of-factly.
“Yeah, how do you know that?” I asked. Elliot had never come off as that interested in gossip to me before.
Elliot laughed. “I don’t live under a rock you know. Besides Veronica won’t shut up about the whole thing. Did you know his sister Charlie is dating the enemy?”
“I did not,” I replied, although that certainly lent credibility to my theory about his black eye. “I also don’t care,” I said. “Seeing as how that has nothing to do with my article.”
Elliot smirked, “If Veronica were writing this thing. It would be all Brooks and Charlie with a side of Preston. That’s why it’s nice having you on board. I know you didn’t want basketball season. But you have to admit. Your last article went over well.” I wanted to stay mad at him, but it was difficult when he was tossing out compliments. “I don’t want to brag,” said Elliot, stepping closer to me. “But I think my leadership insights were pretty good when I picked you for sports.” My breath caught in my throat as he leaned even closer. I braced my hands on the wall behind me. “I think you’re writing exactly what you are supposed to be writing this year.”
“I—”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you scored one of those awards you want so bad,” he said, his face so close to mine that I could feel the heat from his breath.
“Not one of,” I whispered. “The award.”
“The award then,” he whispered back, his head slowly inclining toward mine. Was this happening? Was Elliot Lambert about to kiss me right here in the newsroom? Like virtually every single one of my fantasies? I closed my eyes ready for a moment six years in the making.
And then a scuffle in the doorway tore us apart. Elliot jerked back like he’d been caught stealing from salvation army bell ringers.
“I forgot my bag,” mumbled Andie, looking mortified. “I’ll be right out. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re fine,” said Elliot too quickly. His face had gone from warm and kissable to paper white. “You weren’t interrupting anything. We were just talking about Lane’s next article.” Andie did not look convinced. Did he not want to be seen flirting with a staffer? Or did he not want Andie to see him flirting with anyone? Either way that happy, nervous, this is the moment feeling I’d just had was seeping away.
“I’m gonna type my notes at home,” I said, grabbing my bag and escaping the room before either of them could say anything. I heard the telltale flip flop of Andie’s flats as she fought to catch up to me.
“Hey!” she called.
I ignored her.
“HEY!” she hollered, this time louder.
I turned around, “What?”
“So it looks like my convo with Elliot went well,” said Andie, pausing to catch her breath before checking the hall to make sure no one else was listening.
“You talked to him?” I asked, shocked by the news.
“I told you I would,” she said. “And obviously it had an impact. Unless I just imagined you two getting cozy next to the wall in there.” My pulse elevated just thinking about it.
“You talked to him,” I repeated, standing still like a robot in need of a battery charge. If she’d talked to him, then he knew I liked him now. Maybe, I had it all wrong. Maybe he hadn’t been reacting to Andie entering the room after all. Maybe public displays of affection just weren’t his thing. Elliot Lambert had almost kissed me. ME, Lane Crawford. I felt like I might faint.
Andie laughed, throwing her arm around my waist and directing me down the hall.
“Yes, Lane. I talked to him. And now you might have to actually kiss the boy.”
Chapter Twelve
Dear Jillie,
Remember the time we watched the Mountaineer’s basketball game, and we were like, “Good thing these guys are cute because they might not know what sport they are playing?” We may have been right. I’m pretty sure Preston confused tonight’s game with a wrestling match. There was a whole lot of contact yet very few baskets made. To think I wore a hideous green and orange school scarf and beanie set just for the occasion.
After nine painful minutes of not-so-subtle elbowing, both Preston and Jackson Brooks (Pinebrook hunk, we definitely should be visiting the other side of the tracks more often) were ejected from the game after receiving a double technical.
Double technical
(Lane Crawford definition)
Two people act like idiots on a basketball court and receive a penalty for doing so. Said penalty effects entire team resulting in a massive plague of crankiness.
The crowd was seriously disappointed. The big “senior rematch” lasted nine minutes! Try writing an entire article on nine minutes. It was so dramatic. I felt like just tossing the article to Veronica and letting her go full National Enquirer on it. Instead, I had to write some bull about the emotion behind basketball. How it’s more than a competition etc. etc. Trust me it was pretty lame, especially since I had to pepper it with irrelevant quotes from Preston about what a dedicated basketball pl
ayer he was — dedicated to what? Letting his team down over personal stuff? I considered writing just that but then I thought about the whole YouTube fiasco from earlier that week and decided to give his family a break.
Besides Mackey was ticked, like no interview at half-time ticked. Preston is going to get plenty of blowback from his teammates, no need for my contribution.
It’s nice that Elliot thinks I can win awards writing this garbage, but after this week’s article, I definitely do not possess the same confidence. Also, he uh, put his hand on my knee the other day so I guess you could say things are getting pretty serious.
See you when I see you.
Love,
Lane
Mackey had gone quiet in the aftermath of the Pinebrook game. After a week of silence it came as a surprise when a set of super long arms scooped around my waist pulling me kicking and shrieking into the air, directly in the center of the senior corridor.
“Put me down,” I hollered. I was struggling to sound authoritative while being swung around like an oversized toddler.
“Pleased to see you too, Cub,” said Mackey, slowly lowering me to the ground.
“You’re talking to me again then?” I asked.
Mackey shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. “About that. I wasn’t trying to be a jerk. A bad game just has that effect on me.” I better get used to it then, I thought, remembering the Mountaineers not so stellar record from last season.
“All is forgiven.”
“Great,” said Mackey, throwing his arm around my shoulder. “Because the Thanksgiving tournament is coming up. Seems like a pretty good opportunity to write something bold.” I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant by bold. All I knew was my Thanksgiving plans were complicated enough without throwing five boys into the mix.