Much Ado About Something

by Michelle Ray

  Clay interrupted with, “Okay, but you have more experience.”

  “Yeah, I don’t get how that’s possible. Girls like you.”

  “I get nervous. Jesus, that sounds so pathetic. But I want to be a gentleman—”

  “There’s your problem.”

  Clay laughed and turned on the radio. After we picked up food, he broached the topic again. “Hope is sweet, though. And pretty.”

  “Well,” I said, sipping at my milkshake, “if B didn’t have a temper that made her face squish up all the time, she’d be prettier. But, yeah, Hope’s cute. Got that whole Colombian-Irish thing going on.”

  “That’s what I think.” He shoved a bunch of fries in his mouth.

  I crumpled my bag of fries. “You gonna ask her out?”

  Clay lifted one shoulder.

  I studied his face. “You don’t expect this to be something serious, do you?” I shivered when he just shrugged. “Watch out. Girls aren’t called ‘the ball and chain’ for fun reasons, dude. Believe me.”

  * * *

  “So Mr. Richardson, what was your involvement with the Rojas girl?”

  “There was no involvement, Mr. Robertson,” Ben says to the headmaster, fidgeting in his seat.

  “You were seen on campus with her on several occasions.”

  Ben looks at his parents, who are glaring at him. “She was dating my friend.”

  “Clay?” asks Mr. Robertson, though it is more of a statement than a question.

  Ben nods.

  “Would you say the relationship was a positive one?”

  Ben grinds his teeth and takes a moment to study the long table of angry people facing him. Members of the faculty. Members of the board. His parents are friends with some of them. He wonders how he could ever face them again. “Up until the end I think it was.”

  “You think?”

  “It was. It was.” Ben clears his throat, wondering if that was true. He had advised Clay to steer clear of Hope.

  If only Clay had listened.

  2

  Peter Donato Party’s for team and close friends only. Can’t risk having the cops come again. No freshmen, sophomores, or kids from other schools — No exceptions.

  Kai Maiorano What if they’re hot?

  Peter Donato No.

  Kai Maiorano Slutty?

  Peter Donato No. No. No. Dude, come on.

  Ben

  A half hour later we were at Peter Donato’s, moving the valuable stuff (meaning awards Peter’s dad won for directing really boring movies where people do things like watch grass blow and slowly stir coffee) out of the reach of our classmates.

  Lifting the last award off the shelf, I announced, “So young Clay here is in love.”

  Clay’s head snapped toward me and he whacked my head. What was it with everyone messing up my hair? “I never said love. I like Hope.”

  “She’s hot,” said Peter. “What’s the problem?”

  “What’s the problem?” I asked. “What’s the problem? Think of the potential distraction to his game. Think of the team.”

  “You’re ridiculous,” said Peter, locking the cabinet and leading us to the kitchen. “His liking Hope won’t affect us.”

  “If he starts ditching practice to buy her flowers or stops mid-play to serenade her that could be a real problem.”

  Peter rolled his eyes. “Serenade? Jesus, Ben.”

  You might think I’m overeating, but I have my reasons. Last year some of our friends got all crazy for girls, agreeing to dinners at country clubs and going for walks (walks!), like at the botanical gardens (need I say more?) when they could have been out with us. Also, when I was with B, I stopped caring about soccer. I just wanted to hang out with her all the time, and I spent all my energy trying to impress her. Not that it worked. So you can imagine why I didn’t want to let my buddy get sidetracked. You only get one senior year in your life. Why mess it up?

  “Ben, you’re with girls all the time,” Peter argued, passing me a bottle of water from the fridge.

  “Girlfriends and girls are very different beasts. He’s talking ‘girlfriend.’ The creature who wants you to hold her door open and meet her after practice and have serious talks about feelings and crap like that. Just say no, Clay. Don’t let it happen to you.” A movie I’d been watching the night before popped into my head, so I turned my hand into a claw and acted like some disgusting alien had crept up and attached itself to my shoulder. I yanked and pulled at the imaginary being, pretending it had reached my chest and was burrowing its way inside. I screamed as I pulled at my shirt . . . then tripped over a cooler, tumbled backward, and slammed my head on the marble floor, my feet sticking straight up in the air. I groaned, “See what girls’ll do to you?”

  Clay and Peter moved to help me, but they were laughing so hard I had to pick myself up.

  Clay dried his eyes on his sleeve. “You don’t believe in love?”

  “I love my dog,” I said.

  This struck Clay as incredibly funny and he slid to the floor, hysterical once again.

  Peter said, “I like going out with girls.”

  “Why? You spend all that money taking them somewhere and then they freeze you out? My plan is better. Pick girls who don’t expect to go out.”

  “It’s not all about hooking up,” said Clay.

  Peter nodded. “Seriously, Ben, you’ll be lovesick someday, and I can’t wait to see when it happens.”

  I coughed “bull” into the crook of my arm. “I may be sick.” I coughed once more for emphasis. “But not with love. Never gonna happen. And if it ever does, poke out my eyes and string me up on a goal post.”

  Peter shook his head. “I’ll remember that. Even wild horses are broken.”

  “Not all,” I protested.

  “Famous last words,” said Peter.

  We started to set up drinks, and Clay said warily, “Thing is, I don’t want to embarrass myself if Hope’s not interested. And I’m worried Coach is gonna freak out.” I opened my mouth, and Clay pointed at me, saying, “Don’t talk if you’re gonna be a jerk.”

  I pressed my lips firmly together.

  Peter stopped stacking plastic cups and said, “Coach’ll be cool as long as you’re respectful of his daughter. As for Hope, you said yourself she keeps staring at you and flipping her hair and stuff. She likes you.”

  Clay frowned and studied his shoes.

  Peter said, “Listen, if you want, I can talk to her. Try to find out for sure.”

  Those seemed to be the magic words, because Clay perked right up. “That’d be awesome. Yeah. Can you ask her at the party tonight?”

  I couldn’t stop myself. I laced my fingers and rested my chin on them, then batted my eyelashes. “Should Peter ask her if she likes-you likes-you or just likes you?”

  Clay punched me in the arm. Hard.

  Sula Blom Headed for Peter Donato’s. Ms. Garcia — you better show up early and be cheerful!

  Beatriz Rojas Garcia I will! And you don’t have to make your warning so public.

  Sula Blom There are no secrets at Messina.

  Beatriz

  I stood in front of the mirror, looking for imperfections. I’d changed t-shirts three times, and had gone from a skirt to jeans to a skirt again. Having worn a uniform my whole life, I had far less practice than public school girls at perfecting a unique style. The girls from church put me to shame with their perfectly matched this and carefully chosen that. I could calculate circles around almost any girl in the city, but ask me about the finer points of fabrics and trends and I was lost.

  My brother, Antonio, kept yelling through our bathroom door to hurry up, which was only making it harder for me to concentrate.

  I finally gave up and we walked downstairs. When we got halfway to my car, my insecurity kicked in again. “Do I look all right?” I asked, tugging at my shirt.

  Antonio kept his eyes ahead. “You never care how you look.”

  “Yes, I do. I just don’t spend hours at th
e mirror like you.”

  At this, Antonio gave me a sideways glance. “Who exactly do you think is going to be checking you out?”

  “No one in particular,” I said blushing. When he sneered, I added, “Someone might!”

  “So you’re looking for love tonight?”

  I shrugged and unlocked my car. “I don’t see it happening unless someone magically appears. Maybe an alien boyfriend . . . or a sexy vampire?”

  “That’d be about right,” Antonio said with a laugh, opening the car door. “You make guys want to kill you and then you want to drive spikes through their hearts.”

  “I’m so lucky to have a brother like you.”

  He smirked and told me to get going, since picking up Hope would make us even later.

  When we got to Peter’s, Antonio hardly waited for me to put the car in park before he bolted out and into the house. I followed Hope’s wide eyes to Peter’s house. I forgot she was still new to this whole LA mansion thing, and Peter’s house out-mansioned most mansions.

  I walked around to her side of the car. She made no move to get out, so I opened the door for her and leaned down.

  Her voice weak, Hope asked, “Are you sure we’re invited?”

  I nodded and she stood. Looping my arm through hers, I pulled her toward the gate. “Peter’s a regular guy,” I assured her. I knew that military housing, which was where she and most of her friends back home lived, looked nothing like this. But this was her new life, and I can tell you that the size of your house doesn’t change who you are. Well, for most people.

  “Peter’s the same guy who ran by smelly and sweaty just a few hours ago at school.” She didn’t look convinced, so I added, “And his best friend is Clay, so he must be okay, right?”

  She looked slightly reassured.

  Just inside were my closest friends, Sula and Maggie. We were the bunch you’d take a picture of to show the “diversity” of our school, which was funny because beneath the varied skin and hair colors we were all nearly the same — Ivy League bound, well-rounded girls with rich parents. Sula’s skin was slightly darker than mine and her hair was constantly done in elaborate do’s. (She had spent years teaching me to distinguish between cornrows, braids, and twists, and the subtleties within each of those categories.) Maggie was a redhead with just the right number of freckles on her creamy nose and cheeks, though she was always complaining that Sula and I were lucky because we didn’t need SPF 100 sunscreen. We would make the perfect action-figure box set if toy makers designed studious girls.

  “Hope! B! We thought you’d never come,” said Sula.

  “Don’t be so dramatic. It’s not that late,” I answered.

  “Yeah, but we wanted to hang out,” Sula said, “and once Bryce arrives, you know we’re gonna lose this one.” She threw her arm around Maggie, whose cheeks went crimson.

  Hope chimed in. “Bryce is John’s friend, right B? They’re the guys you said aren’t very nice?”

  My eyes widened. I had told Hope what I thought without thinking she’d say it in front of Maggie, the one person who actually liked them.

  Hope, seeing my face, fumbled, “Maggie, are you and Bryce dating?”

  “Uh . . .” began Maggie.

  “I’m not sure that’s what he would call it,” Sula said dryly.

  I frowned. I hated Bryce and I hated the idea of Maggie, fabulous Maggie, wasting her time with someone so mean and who seemed to care so little about her. “Maggie, is it so impossible to spend one night away from him?”

  “I’m with you guys all the time,” Maggie said.

  Sarcastically, I asked, “Like last Saturday night and the Saturday night before that and the Friday before that?”

  Maggie straightened up. “Well, I like to be with Bryce and he asks me to hang out, so—”

  “So some guy is more important than your friends?” I pressed.

  Maggie hesitated for only a second, twisting stands of hair around her finger nervously. “Right now, yes.” When I opened my mouth to argue, Maggie said a little too forcefully, “B, he’s fun.”

  It was Sula’s turn for skepticism. “Bryce? Fun? He usually looks like someone’s peed in his oatmeal.”

  Maggie let go of the strands and fluffed her hair. “Not when we’re together. When he’s away from John, he’s, like, a totally different guy.”

  “Whatever,” said Sula. “Let’s just go hang out until he does show, okay?”

  Hope’s eyes were darting around and I couldn’t tell if she was impressed, horrified or both.

  “You okay, Hope?” I asked, but she didn’t answer.

  Clay Chen I’m lucky to have friends who always have my back.

  Ben

  “There she is, Peter,” Clay finally said, checking to see that his shirt was untucked just the right way.

  I barely contained a snicker, and Peter elbowed me. I tried not to make it worse, but it was really funny — and sad — to see Clay getting all goofy like that. If I thought it would help, I’d offer advice and a recap of my philosophy, but I knew neither of them wanted to hear it.

  “Chill out,” said Peter. “Hope’s the same girl she was on Monday when you didn’t care if your hair was smooth.” When Clay looked both embarrassed and annoyed, Peter grabbed his shoulder and said, “Never fear. Peter the Matchmaker is here. I’ll be right back. Ben, make sure Clay doesn’t spontaneously combust.”

  I nodded with mock earnestness as Clay shifted from one foot to the other, keeping his eye on Peter’s progress through the crowd. Then I noticed Bryce had been standing right behind us, though I don’t know for how long. Eavesdropping, apparently. I shot him a look, and Bryce slipped away. He pulled out his cell phone and I had a sick feeling because a guy that shady had to be sending a message that would lead to trouble.

  Bryce Krunk Clay’s making a play for Hope. Or is it Peter? Oops, I think that was supposed to be a secret.

  Beatriz

  Over Hope’s shoulder I saw Bryce coming, shoving his phone in his pocket. He hardly looked at us, and without a word or a smile, he nodded at Maggie. And that was all it took for her to go trailing after him. Unbelievable — a nod! How romantic.

  I growled. Seriously. Like mad dog. It was quiet, but it was a growl. I literally could not come up with the words to express how much I hated what was happening. But Sula elbowed me and told me to keep it to myself. Some friend Sula is. Why didn’t she say anything to Maggie?

  If I’d known then what would end up happening because Maggie allowed herself to be Bryce’s plaything, I might have fought harder. No, I definitely would have. But at that moment, I had no idea how far Bryce would go to hurt us all.

  Cell phones around us started binging, and when I pulled mine out and saw Bryce’s post, I cringed. Hope asked me what it was, but I said it was nothing. It might have reassured her to know that Clay really did like her, but I didn’t know how she’d react to having her love life be public knowledge. And what was that about Peter? Other kids were staring at their phones and at Hope.

  “I’m going for a beer,” announced Sula, who hadn’t seen the message because she refused to be Bryce’s friend, real or online. “Either of you wanna come?”

  Hope looked like she might say yes, and I elbowed her. “Tío will kill you. And me.” Looking at the very long line snaking away from the keg, I said to Sula, “Stay with us. Why drink?”

  “Cuz I only relax at these things when I do.”

  “They’re the same people we’re with all day,” I protested. “What is there to be uptight about?” The irony was not lost on me, given my stress about getting dressed. I did not, however, volunteer this information to Sula.

  “Coming or staying?” Sula asked breezily.

  “Staying.”

  I frowned and looked around. The party had only just started, but everyone was already acting stupid. Normally I wouldn’t have cared, but that night I wasn’t in the mood. Maybe it was the whole Maggie and Bryce thing. Maybe I just wasn’t in a party pl
ace. Maybe it was the fact that the skirt I’d decided to wear turned out to be a bad idea because it was waaaay colder than I’d expected. I don’t know. Either way, I considered going home. But then I saw Hope inspecting the crowd, probably looking for Clay. I knew it would be cruel to pull Hope away from her first big house party, especially when one of the cutest, most sensitive boys was probably somewhere nearby looking for her.

  Just then I noticed Peter walking toward us.

  “Hope,” Peter said, “can I talk to you for a minute? Alone?”

  They walked away and I almost bumped into John as I walked to the kitchen to get more soda. “Hey,” I said, trying to be nice even though he’d never been even the least bit polite to me. He was pulling out his cell phone and didn’t answer.

  Ben

  I was standing in the kitchen when B walked in. Her step hitched the second she saw me, but she nodded and came toward the drinks. I was struggling to get the cap off of a soda bottle, and she offered to help, which was totally insulting.

  I said, “I got this.”

  B smiled too sweetly, grabbed a bottle of diet and watched me continue trying, which actually made it harder. “Looks like it,” she said.

  Finally, the cap cracked followed by an explosion of fizz that bubbled down the bottle and my arm. I rushed to hold it away from myself and over the sink as the torrent continued. B threw a towel my way and I blotted my shirt.

  “Yeah, you didn’t need my help at all,” she said.

  I scowled from under my brow. Seriously, was that necessary?

  “You the designated driver?” she asked.

  “Yeah. My turn,” I answered, wiping at my pants with a grimace. Bad enough to spill, but on my pants? In front of B? Jesus. I tried to stay cool. “You?”

  “Always.” She tightened the cap and tossed me another towel.