Breaking the Ice (Juniper Falls)

by Julie Cross

  She looks pleased with herself, and I’m hoping that will result in her turning around. “I still don’t believe you about the Cheerios at daycare thing. So what else do you know about me?”

  Apparently, I’ve stepped unwillingly into an I-know-more-about-you pissing contest. What do I know about Haley Stevenson? Probably not nearly as much as she assumes. First off, she really did shove Cheerios up my nose when we were three. I know she dated Tate Tanley for a long time, but they broke up.

  The other thing that I know about Haley Stevenson: my fifteen-year-old cousin, Cole, is hopelessly in love with her. Though I doubt he’s ever said more than two words at a time to her. I also doubt that Haley realizes rising-star freshman varsity player Cole Clooney is related to me.

  Haley huffs like my silence proves her win.

  “I know that you…” I say, and Haley lifts an eyebrow, waiting. “Have tumbling practice at six.”

  Her mouth falls open. “You read my—”

  “I also know that you should probably focus on note-taking instead of socializing.” I wave my hand, suggesting she turn and face forward again. “Sounds like you have some catching-up to do.”

  She blows the loose hair from her forehead and waits, like she’s considering this carefully. “Whatever.”

  I sigh with relief when she finally turns, giving me a view of the back of her white tank top again. Our break ends, and Mrs. Markson goes back to her lecture.

  For a while, I’m taking notes and enjoying the quiet. My body relaxes, and even my headache begins to fade.

  The peace lasts about ten minutes. Then I hear the tap, tap, tap again. Not from the pen this time, but from Haley’s leg bouncing up and down.

  Hopefully, Mrs. Markson is willing to edit her seating chart. Otherwise, I’m never gonna make it through the summer.

  Chapter Two

  –Haley–

  I can’t believe he read my list. Could I get any more cliché? God, what a disaster.

  I’m too distracted the rest of class to actually learn anything. I’ve written random words in my notebook, but most likely I’m missing too much information for any of it to make sense. And to make matters worse, when I’m walking out of the classroom, Jamie beside me and Fletcher Scott two paces in front of us, Mrs. Markson stops me.

  “You two…” Her eyes narrow at Jamie and me. “Given the fact that you both are taking a second stab at this class, I highly recommend that you seek out different partners for our group work, understood?”

  Jamie laughs, his head still held high. I turn bright red, of course. I hate this part of my life. The part that defies the typical Juniper Falls Princess résumé. Over a hundred years of princesses in this town, and I bet not one of them dropped out of Civics because they were getting a D. And that’s without even mentioning how much I had to pester Mr. Smuttley, our guidance counselor, to get him to remove evidence of that D from my transcripts.

  Now that I think about it, changing a transcript might be illegal. Does this mean I can’t run for a political office?

  Maybe if I had aced Civics, I’d be able to answer that question.

  But I have too much to do today and can’t stand around contemplating a future career in politics. I shove Jamie toward the door, promising Mrs. Markson that we won’t sabotage our grades by working together.

  Jamie, who can’t receive his diploma yet because he failed this class the first time around, is completely calm and unconcerned with Mrs. Markson being onto us. As soon as we’re in the hallway, he shouts to someone standing less than ten feet away, “Clooney! What’s happenin’, little dude?”

  Cole Clooney opens his mouth to respond to Jamie, but stops when he sees me. His face goes completely red, and he’s suddenly lost the ability to speak. It takes great effort on my part to not roll my eyes. I keep telling myself that any day now he’s going to grow out of this afraid-to-talk-to-girls stage. The better he gets at hockey, the more he ends up hanging out with my friends. I’m now running low on one-sided conversation topics.

  Still, I flash him a smile and try yet again. “Hey, Cole.”

  He turns a deeper shade of red and looks anywhere but at my face.

  Before I can even contemplate making a bigger effort to engage the kid, Fletcher Scott eyes him and silent words seem to flow between the two of them. I think he’s lying about the Cheerios. He has to be.

  I stare at Fletcher, studying him. He’s not an easy guy to read, not so far, anyway. Or maybe I’ve gotten too used to the arrogant, say-everything-on-my-mind hockey players. Jamie and most of the other guys on the varsity team love to hear themselves talk. I can pick all their voices out of a crowded hallway. Fletcher is much quieter. But unlike Cole, when he plants his feet somewhere, there’s no awkward shift from one foot to the other, and his head isn’t angled downward, toward the floor, or up above everyone’s heads.

  Jamie snaps his fingers in front of me, and I immediately shift my gaze from Fletcher to him. I rub away goose bumps from my arms and will my face not to turn red like Cole’s.

  Okay, that stare drifted way past acceptable length. So Fletcher Scott is nice to look at. Big deal. Pull yourself together, Haley.

  Jamie lifts an eyebrow, and I quickly turn my attention to my cell. Being both cheer captain and Princess of Juniper Falls means receiving more than twenty text messages during one four-hour summer-school class. I scroll through the first few.

  LESLIE: what color ribbon for the hair bows??

  BAILEY: pls tell Leslie no freakin polka dots this year!

  AMANDA: silver wired ribbon would be amazing for the cheer bows! Just sayin…

  KAYLA: Kyle totally apologized for the other night. He was so sweet, srsly Haley, you have to believe me!

  The last text knots my stomach. When you know your best friend’s boyfriend is an asshole and you tell said best friend this more than once and she chooses not to take your advice, well, that’s where I’m at with Kayla right now. I have no idea what else to do except be civil and distance myself. I can’t enable. That was my mom’s advice, and I think it’s the best plan.

  And because Leslie goes nowhere without Kayla lately, Jamie Isaacs has been forced to become my new BFF. Which probably means I’ll be stuck in these ridiculous hockey conversations on a daily basis.

  I tuck my phone away, holding off on reading any more texts. Otherwise, I’ll break my own rules and reply to Kayla regarding what I think about her supposedly apologetic boyfriend. I tune back in to the hallway chat and take a good, but much shorter, look at Fletcher Scott. The program for the state finals listed his height as five eleven. I’d bet my crown on that being a two-inch lie. Not that those two inches make much of a difference to me. I’m only five one, so standing beside either of these guys makes me feel like a garden gnome. With his hoodie on, I can’t really tell if Fletcher is built underneath it. He’s broader than Cole but smaller than Jamie. Without realizing it, I let my gaze linger on Fletcher a bit too long again, trying harder to read him, to see him—everything about him seems to be buried just out of my reach.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket, probably reminding me of a task I’m late to complete. I tug on Jamie’s sleeve—he’s my ride today. “Isn’t it your feeding time?”

  Jamie perks up. “You’re feeding me? Let’s go.”

  I wasn’t planning on feeding him. I meant that we should hurry so he could get home and feed himself. But whatever, I can make him a sandwich. Or five.

  Before we walk away, I point a finger at Fletcher. “I want those notes tomorrow.”

  His eyes widen. He lifts a hand to shove his glasses back into place. They’re quite a distraction from his blue eyes. He has nice eyes. I got a good look at them when I stole his glasses earlier.

  And nice teeth, too.

  I run my tongue over my own teeth. It’s time for day five of whitening. God, he read that in my notebook. I can’t even imagine how that list looked from Fletcher Scott’s perspective.

  The situation is too hope
less to improve, so I leave the conversation hanging in the air—my demand of notes tomorrow already submitted—and drag Jamie outside toward the parking lot.

  “Haley,” Jamie says. “Did the captain of the cheer squad just force the smart, quiet kid to hand over his notes? I didn’t think you were that type, and I’m a little turned on by this.”

  I smack him on the shoulder. He’s such a flirt. It’s like he can’t even help it. I know he’s not really into me; Jamie’s heart belongs completely to older women—he’s a bit obsessed if I’m being honest. I’m about to tell him he’s full of it, but then I stop and rewind. I did kind of do what he’s suggesting. But only because Fletcher stole my pen. Not that I’d been taking notes anyway, but I couldn’t leave with him thinking I’m a stereotypical dumb blonde cheerleader.

  But seriously, why does that even matter?

  I scrub my hands over my face and groan. Just forget about it and move on, Haley. That’s the mantra I’ve been trying to adopt over the past several months. It’s working so far. Sort of. Mostly.

  Okay, sometimes.

  At least I’m no longer creating heartbreak-filled set lists to try to get the attention of my ex-boyfriend who did not, in fact, want to give me his attention.

  “What year is Fletcher?” I ask Jamie once we’re in his truck. Across the parking lot, Fletcher and Cole climb into a newish-looking SUV.

  “Same as you.” Jamie gives me a sideways glance. “He wasn’t the only junior on JV last season.”

  “I know that.” I shrug, hating that he read my thoughts. “He played in the state finals.”

  “For less than a minute,” Jamie says.

  “Was it a good less-than-a-minute?” I don’t know why I’m drilling him for information. Maybe I’m planning ahead to make sure I win the next I-know-you-better contest. I totally won today. And humiliated myself in the process.

  “Don’t know. I was too busy playing. The whole fucking game.” Jamie looks at me again. “He doesn’t go in much ’cause he’s got that thing.”

  “What thing?” We’re on the road now, so I crank up the radio and roll down the window.

  “You know…” Jamie clutches his chest with one hand and makes weird gasping noises.

  I stare at him, completely confused. “What? A heart attack?”

  “Not a heart attack. Like when you can’t breathe…what’s that called?”

  “Asthma?” I guess.

  He snaps his fingers. “Asthma. That’s it. Remember him in grade school? He was always sick. He missed two years of school.”

  “Nobody misses two years of school.” But now I’m trying to remember him. Believe it or not, our tiny town actually has two elementary schools. Jamie went to West school. I went to South. I’m guessing Fletcher Scott went to West.

  “Fine. Don’t believe me. Just ask him yourself.”

  I wave a hand, indicating that it’s not important and probably none of my business.

  “But before you do that,” Jamie continues. “You should probably break his cousin’s heart. That kid is two seconds from stalking and shrine building in your honor.”

  I’d been scrolling through texts on my phone, but my head snaps up. “Who?”

  “Clooney. He’s got it bad for you.”

  “Cole and Fletcher are cousins?” I refuse to address Cole Clooney’s apparent little-boy crush on me. He’ll find his way eventually and meet a girl his own age to practice on. Then break up with. Because that’s what happens with your first love. That’s what happens with all high-school loves. Either that or you don’t break up and end up accepting too many of the other person’s faults. Imagine if Tate had gotten back together with me? I probably never would have seen the light and wormed myself out of the pain-in-the-ass I’d become. Exactly why I’ve decided to hold off dating until college. I was definitely not my best self while dating Tate, and especially not right after we broke up.

  “I know, right?” Jamie says, but doesn’t elaborate on why he finds their familial connection shocking.

  I lean against the window, feeling way too overwhelmed for such a beautiful summer day. I need to figure this class out. I need to be so much better than I am. How do I make that happen?

  I flip my notebook open and start a new list.

  Ideas for Getting Ahead in Civics Class

  1. Sit by someone who knows the answers.

  2. Ask more questions.

  A few more items on the list and my confidence will make its way back.

  “Jamie, we gotta pass this class. No fucking around.”

  “What’s that you say?” Jamie grins wide. “You want to fuck around with me?”

  I give him a look that indicates the exact opposite. The grin fades, and his expression darkens, his gaze refocusing on the road. “Yeah, okay.”

  Guilt washes over me after seeing Jamie, who never worries, nearly as tense as I am. I touch his arm. “You’re not failing again. I won’t let you. You’re gonna pass, get your diploma, and in September you’ll be flirting with college girls instead of student teachers, got it?”

  “Student teachers are college girls,” Jamie points out, but he nods and blows air out of his cheeks.

  I add Jamie’s name to my list. He’s my friend, and the one thing I have a perfect record at is being there for my friends. He’s not failing this class again.

  I add another item to my getting-ahead list of ideas: bring more than one pen to class tomorrow.

  Chapter Three

  –Fletcher–

  “Just say it,” I snap at Cole. “Just fucking say it.”

  Apparently hungover me forgot to inspect my backseat this morning before taking off. It was dark out. I couldn’t see. But Cole can see clearly now. And since I’m his ride home from summer school—at least for today—I get to enjoy his awkward silence all the way out to the country where my grandpa’s farmhouse sits.

  Cole chances another lightning-quick glance into the backseat and then turns forward again, his face redder than when he’d laid eyes on Haley a few minutes ago.

  “I didn’t say a-anything,” Cole stutters.

  I rub a temple with one hand. “But you want to, so go ahead.”

  “Did someone…I mean did somebody actually…” He snorts out a laugh, reminding me how much maturing he’ll do over the next couple of years. “Did someone wear those?”

  After turning the car out of the parking lot, I look over my shoulder at the backseat, counting quickly. “Probably four someones.”

  “Probably?” Cole says, his voice rising an octave. “You don’t remember?”

  I shake the fog from my head. I remember bits of last night. Basically, everything before my fourth shot. But I think that was around six o’clock, and it was after midnight when I finally fell into bed. A lot can happen in six hours. A lot of panties can happen. Obviously. Considering my backseat is littered with four different pairs.

  I’m hit with a flash of me jumping in the lake buck naked. My guess is that I didn’t swim alone.

  “I was drunk,” I tell Cole after remembering that he’s waiting for my answer. “Now, I’m hungover. In case you haven’t noticed.”

  He goes silent, and I feel like an asshole for being such a shit example. I glance at him before turning onto the bumpy country road that will take us home. “Hey, just so you know, this is a very bad way to wake up in the morning.”

  “You mean hungover?” He relaxes into the seat. “I know that. But usually you don’t do that on a school night.”

  This is true. Very true.

  “A bunch of people from work took me out for my birthday, and we got carried away. Next time I wake up with several pairs of thongs in my backseat, I’m gonna be damn sure that I remember how they got there, okay?”

  He turns red again at the mention of the thongs. “People from work?”

  The word work comes out as a squeak. Before he starts getting the wrong idea, I elaborate. “People who are also employed at my place of employment. Friends. Obvi
ously, some female friends.”

  “So, you didn’t…”

  When he can’t finish the sentence, I do it for him. “Screw four girls in my backseat?” Cole nods, and I shake my head. Then with a smirk, I add, “Not last night, anyway.”

  That gets him to laugh and loosen up a bit. But he still works way too hard to keep his eyes forward. “Dude, if you can’t even look at a pair of panties without freaking out, how are you supposed to have a conversation with a girl?”

  Cole drops his gaze and picks at my leather seat. I smack his hand to stop him. This car is my most-prized possession. “I have plenty of conversations with girls.”

  “Really?” I stare at him. “What girls?”

  “Just a few from school.” He shrugs, not even coming close to pulling off this lie. Seconds later, he sighs, giving in. “I only like one girl and she’s…she’s—”

  “Haley fucking Stevenson.” I roll my eyes. “With her pen-tapping and you picking at my seats constantly, you two are a perfect match.”

  He straightens up, looking a little too hopeful. “Really? You think so?”

  “You know what I think? I think you can’t know if you’re a perfect match until you actually talk to her.”

  Cole picks at the seat again and then stops himself. “Do you do that? Actually talk to girls? I mean, I know you do other things with them…”

  “I talk to Ricky and Angel all the time.” I can’t escape even one shift at work without those two forcing me to verbally express some kind of feeling. “And you heard me on the phone the other day, listening to Rosie’s roommate drama for more than an hour.”

  “That’s different,” Cole says, and then he’s silent for such a long time I’m sure that he’s dropped it, but then he adds, “I mean talk and you know…”

  “Hook up?” I suggest, already hating where this is going. “Date?”

  “Yeah.”

  Once. Only once. Two years ago. A girl from work who was much older than I was. I had a massive crush. She didn’t. That’s pretty much how our story played out. “Crushed” is the best word to describe what that did to me. Now I prefer to keep the physical and emotional separate. Much easier this way.