Perfect Shot
How NOT to Spend Your Senior Year
BY CAMERON DOKEY
Royally Jacked
BY NIKI BURNHAM
Ripped at the Seams
BY NANCY KRULIK
Spin Control
BY NIKI BURNHAM
Cupidity
BY CAROLINE GOODE
South Beach Sizzle
BY SUZANNE WEYN AND DIANA GONZALEZ
She’s Got the Beat
BY NANCY KRULIK
30 Guys in 30 Days
BY MICOL OSTOW
Animal Attraction
BY JAMIE PONTI
A Novel Idea
BY AIMEE FRIEDMAN
Scary Beautiful
BY NIKI BURNHAM
Getting to Third Date
BY KELLY McCLYMER
Dancing Queen
BY ERIN DOWNING
Major Crush
BY JENNIFER ECHOLS
Do-Over
BY NIKI BURNHAM
Love Undercover
BY JO EDWARDS
Prom Crashers
BY ERIN DOWNING
Gettin’ Lucky
BY MICOL OSTOW
The Boys Next Door
BY JENNIFER ECHOLS
In the Stars
BY STACIA DEUTSCH AND RHODY COHON
Crush du Jour
BY MICOL OSTOW
The Secret Life of a Teenage Siren
BY WENDY TOLIVER
Love, Hollywood Style
BY P.J. RUDITIS
Something Borrowed
BY CATHERINE HAPKA
Party Games
BY WHITNEY LYLES
Puppy Love
BY NANCY KRULIK
The Twelve Dates of Christmas
BY CATHERINE HAPKA
Sea of Love
BY JAMIE PONTI
Miss Match
BY WENDY TOLIVER
Love on Cue
BY CATHERINE HAPKA
Drive Me Crazy
BY ERIN DOWNING
Love Off-Limits
BY WHITNEY LYLES
The Ex Games
BY JENNIFER ECHOLS
Available from Simon Pulse
Perfect Shot
the romantic comedies
DEBBIE RIGAUD
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SIMON PULSE
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
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www.SimonandSchuster.com
First Simon Pulse paperback edition December 2009
Copyright © 2009 by Debbie Rigaud
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in
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Designed by Ann Zeak
The text of this book was set in Garamond 3.
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Control Number 2009927872
ISBN 978-1-4169-7835-0
ISBN 978-1-4169-8551-8 (eBook)
To my mother, “Mummy,”
who loved to read;
my godmother, “Dada,”
who loved to write;
and my grandmother, “Mummum,”
who loved to tell stories
Acknowledgments
A soul-deep thank-you to my husband, Bernard, for inspiring me in so many ways. And to my family—Pappy, Shirley, Judy, Golda, Jerry, Natasha, Vanessa, Jessica, Fifie, and Micheline—for their awesome support and encouragement. Thanks to my father-in-law, Kwaku, for sharing stories from his high school teaching experience. A shout to my own teen advisory board: Ana, Victoria, Amanda, and Jamal Jr. A special thanks to the middle grade/high school teachers, librarians, and bookstore owners of Bermuda for welcoming me and introducing me to new readers. Utmost gratitude to Michael del Rosario, a gifted editor who understands my characters, and to my fabulous agent, Adrienne Ingrum, for believing in me.
One
“Heads up!” was my only warning before it was launched over the aisle toward me. Even though I was on one knee, stocking shelves with acrylic paint tubes, my reflexes were on their feet. My long forearms met the ball of rubber bands with a force that sent it hurling back toward where it came from.
“Ouch!” Pam, my coworker-slash-best-friend, yelped.
Snickering to myself, I rushed over to her aisle to apologize. She gave me the dramatic, injured look, so I knew it wouldn’t be easy.
“C’mon, it was just a few soft rubber bands,” I offered sweetly.
“Yeah—and not a volleyball.” She pouted, rubbing her forehead. “I swear, London, from now on, going to one of your volleyball matches is gonna feel like watching a scary movie.”
“Seeing as how you overact worse than a Hollyweird D-lister,” I teased, “that would be a step up for you.”
Pam forgot about her wounded act and coughed up a boisterous laugh that I’m sure all of northern New Jersey heard. She’s not usually the loud type, but the girl is known to turn up the volume on just about every aspect of her personality.
“You’re never gonna let me live that down, huh?” Pam placed her hand—the one not holding a stack of colored pencils—over her heart and squinted as if the sun was in her eyes. “I did it for you. The ref had to understand how foul his call was.”
Her theatrics aside, I appreciate that she comes to almost every one of my home games to show her support.
“Mmm-hmm,” I teased. “Next time you get the urge to run screaming across the court during game time, don’t do me any favors.”
“Owww,” Pam whimpered. Going for the right distraction to change the subject, she started stroking her forehead again. I grinned and wrapped my long arms around Pam’s shoulders, giving her a quick, apologetic squeeze. My five-foot-ten frame extended half a head taller than her.
“Sorry.” I picked up the rubber orb and carefully pulled off the red band on top. “Anyway, I only asked you for one.”
“Next time I won’t be so generous.” Pam got in the last word before she carried on placing colored pencils into separate slots on a fixture.
I smiled to myself and headed back to my acrylic paint duties. Without intending it to be, working the same shift at Art Attack was becoming the perfect chance for Pam and me to hang together. Even though we’re both sophomores at Teawood High, my volleyball season being in full swing and Pam’s double passions for fashion and her boyfriend Jake have kept us preoccupied. Before this job, we’d mostly been keeping in touch via text.
Unexpected bonus BFF time aside, Pam got me a job here for another reason altogether. Once she heard I was passed u
p for the volleyball summer camp scholarship and had to raise the fifteen-hundred-dollar fee on my own, she put in a good word with her boss. Now here I am, two weeks later, proudly rocking the faux-paint-splattered, red employee vest.
Art Attack was one of a few artsy stores to pop up on Main Avenue in recent months. The seven-block strip, known to locals as “the Ave,” always had potential. Just a few miles from New York City, Teawood, New Jersey, is a large suburb with a metropolitan vibe. Cozy coaches—or as we like to call them, adult school buses—make their way down the Ave, shuttling Teawood residents to and from their New York City jobs every workday morning and evening. On Saturdays kids either head across the bridge to shop in Manhattan or parade down the Ave in celebs-on-a-coffee-run attire. For them it’s all about comfy boots with oversize handbags and shades.
In the heart of the strip, the brick sidewalks are spacious and lined with benches and old-world lampposts. Luxury car dealerships, designer shoe stores, and fancy evening gown showrooms stand alongside busy restaurants, open-late ice cream shops, and trendy clothing stores. Lots of famous folks who live in nearby, more upscale towns— including a few rappers who publicly claim to still be living in New York City—can be spotted shopping or lunching here. (Reverend Run’s kids are known to pass through, reality show cameras in tow.) Shiny cars cruise up and down, looking for both attention and parking.
No celebrity sightings in Art Attack to report yet. That’s probably because my part-time working hours are spent avoiding customers and their art-related questions. Pam, in her artsyliciousness, is a much better fit for this job. Honestly, if I’d known that a prerequisite for working at an art supply store was creativity, I would’ve found another way to earn the money.
But it’s all worth it. The Peak Performance Volleyball Camp in upstate New York trains top high school players from the tristate area and gives them a shot at making the national team. I’ve wanted to go to Peak Performance camp ever since my gym teacher told me about it in the eighth grade. It has the best reputation. Plus it lands athletes on the radar of prominent college scouts—which is right where I want to be.
Trust, I would walk around stuffed to the gills in grills like rapper Plies if you told me gold teeth had transmitters that blip on the radar of college scouts.
Crazy ambition aside, what’s fun about Peak Performance is that after weeks of intensive training in the art of spiking, blocking, serving, and winning, the camp squad flies to Miami to play against teams from other regions across the country.
Even though scholarships were awarded to only two star athletes from my school— seniors who have already been handpicked to play volleyball in college—I was selected to join the camp. My parents said they’d gladly pay the hefty fee … but only if I enroll the summer after my junior year. Trouble is, who even knows what chance I’d have for getting picked next year! Considering there’s no guaranteed placement, I just can’t pass up this summer’s opportunity.
So for now I’m all about improving my game, which it turns out, has been the therapy I needed to get over my ex-boyfriend Rick Stapleton. Correction: I didn’t need to get over him, so much as the humiliation of being dumped publicly. Of course, all of that intensified volleyball focus has been reflected by my wardrobe (I pair a v-ball jersey with jeans, like, every day) and the number of v-ball clips on my Facebook page.
I’m finally shaking off the heartbreak, but I still feel stupid when I think of how, right before it went down, I was beaming like SpongeBob because I was genuinely happy for my then boyfriend. Picture gullible me, all chipper in the bleachers, watching Rick get honored as Peak Performance’s Top Athlete in his age group. I jumped up and cheered so loudly when his name was announced that I gave myself laryngitis and a migraine. That was mere minutes before I found out that Rick had also worked on his playa-playa game during his summer away.
Yup, in August Rick returned from camp with a new girlfriend—the hot v-ball star from a rival school. After practically skipping off the bleachers, intending to congratulate Rick and welcome him back with a kiss, I caught the sight of him hugging up on a Keke Palmer look-alike. He didn’t even unglue himself from her when he saw me staring, frozen in shock. It didn’t matter, because by then my voice was too hoarse (and my head too achy) to confront Rick.
We haven’t spoken since.
But despite the prime-time shaft— witnessed by the entire athletic student body, by the way—I’m turning things around. It’s October, and I’ve established myself as a new, strong player on Teawood High School’s varsity squad. Not even the sight of Unslick Rick watching from the stands (with her) can throw off my game.
“London Abrams, you’re on register.” My manager’s squawky voice yanked me back from my daydream.
I noticed that I’d been squeezing a helpless tube of paint, leaving it misshapen and crinkled. As best I could, I flattened it to its near-original figure before placing it at the back of the shelf behind the undamaged tubes.
My boss didn’t notice—he’s in his own world. While other managers and employees of Art Attack are funky, creative types, this one is offbeat in a chop-off-an-ear van Gogh way. The poor guy seems tormented by a million unfinished personal art projects. He wears that torment in his hair. It looks more mad scientist than everyone else’s bed-head vogue.
“Great, my favorite place to be,” I said sarcastically, sidestepping his attempt at authority. With a million different possible payment transactions—cash, credit card, Art Attack bonuses, promotional codes, coupons, employee discounts, buy-two-get-one-half-off deals—I still wasn’t completely comfortable manning the checkout counter.
“Would you rather advise customers on how to put their art projects together?” he asked.
I suck at art advice. So, after stocking the shelves, I went to relieve the lanky goth guy signing off of register 1.
Fortunately for me, it was smooth sailing for the first two hours—just simple cash and credit card customers. But about a half hour before my lunch break, things started getting busy. The checkout lane signs— wide lamp shades displaying red numbers— blocked the shorter cashiers from view. On the flip side, my head towered above my lane’s sign. Because they could see me, customers assumed I was the only employee on duty. So a long line formed at my register, while my coworkers at registers 2 and 3 seemed to be hiding behind their signs on purpose.
Just when I thought my boss would take notice of what was going on, an inquisitive customer whisked him away on a calligraphy ink hunt. It was up to me to handle the situation. I still had too much of that new-employee uneasiness to call out my coworkers, so I addressed the customers instead.
“Registers two and three are also open,” I informed the back of the coiling line.
My announcement totally backfired. A cutie had been heading to my line, but just as I said this, he queued up behind the two customers who had also just switched to register 2. Dang. Curious, I stole a quick glance at him. He struck me as a cross between a teenage Lenny Kravitz and a modern-day Jean-Michel Basquiat. (Yes, working here has taught me a thing or two about famous dead hipster artists.) Dressed in a plaid button-down and khakis, he looked retro and current at the same time.
In the two weeks that I’d been an Art Attack employee, I’d come to recognize the look of a person with creative swagger. And Kravitz Cakes’s air of creativity was more timeless than most hot-for-the-moment, trendy customers who pass through. Something about him made me want to act supergirlie, like twirl my hair around my finger or tilt back my head while laughing. I think it’s called “flirting.”
I wanted to meet this guy. For one, he was taller than me—and possibly a full two inches taller at that. A lot of guys my age seem ten times more likely to catch mono than a growth spurt, so it’s nice to come across a tall boy. Second—and this was huge—the mere fact that a guy caught my attention meant I must have been getting over Unslick Rick.
I started ringing up customers at double speed. I couldn’t move faster if my name
was Taylor Swift. Forget the checkout counter small talk I’d normally have. I just wanted the cutie to switch back to my lane when he realized it was the quicker option.
Funny how total strangers operate on the same timetable without even realizing it. There were solid blocks of time when not a soul walked into Art Attack. Then suddenly, as if a sightseeing tour bus had pulled up and parked outside the door, folks swarmed in all around the same time.
My coworker at register 2 and I both had two customers waiting in line. The cutie was at the end of her line. As she rang up stuff, I stole a glance over my shoulder to her lane like a paranoid marathon runner. She had two more items to ring up—a roll of satin ribbons and a box of fancy transparent paper, apparently for a bride to be into DIY wedding invitations.
Yes, I thought. Those items take mad long to ring up because the UPC has to be typed in.
The two high-pitched beeps I heard in the next heartbeat meant that my coworker had somehow successfully managed to scan the wrinkled sticker codes on both packages. In a panic, I scanned my remaining three items and totaled the purchase. In a rare retail move (and without once removing his dark shades), my customer handed me glorious exact change.
The cutie looked over with anticipation when he noticed my now shorter lane. He took a step in my direction when, out of nowhere, a trio of loud Jersey types beat him to the punch. Only one of them was purchasing anything, but the obnoxious group made my lane look extra crowded.
“I know,” one of the women heaved out in a raspy smoker’s voice. “I would just die-yah if they had it—I’m tawkin’ flat out die-yah.”
Then, like a killer block at the net to save the game, my boss walked up and pulled through.
“We have that size of canvas panels you asked for in stock,” he told the trio. “It’ll be out in a few minutes if you want to wait for it.”
The raspy-voiced woman was so excited, she did almost die-yah. Her painful attempt to squeal with delight threw her into a coughing fit. Once she recovered, the excited group christened the store manager a “dawll” as he led them down a side aisle.
Perfect Shot Page 1