by Julie Cross
“Yeah, not really my style. The whole relationship thing. Why do it when you can skip over it and go right to the good stuff?” When his face reveals clear disappointment, I add, “That’s just my way. Doesn’t have to be yours. In other words, talk to Haley before this crush gets any bigger inside your head.”
“Why did I have to take Health instead of Civics?” He scrubs his hands over his face. “We could have been in class together.”
Knowing Cole, he still would have turned red at the mere thought of eye contact with Haley. The entire summer. And I know why he didn’t take the class with me. My aunt Lisa—his mom—is so fucking competitive, she’d have ripped him apart every day he came home with any grade lower than mine. Doesn’t matter that he’s almost three years younger. And school is nothing compared to how she is about hockey. If that kid burns out by junior year, it will be completely his mom’s fault.
This is why I didn’t ask him if he wanted to go to his house or mine. The kid needs a break from that shit.
I’m driving uncharacteristically slow down the rocky dirt road. Cole smirks at me when I start to get that pre-nauseated look from all the bumping around. I pull the car into our long driveway and park near the barn. The doors are open, and my older brother Braden’s boots are visible.
All three dogs leave Braden’s side and charge at Cole and me the second we step out of the car. Prancer and Dancer are chocolate labs and Vixen—she’s mine—is a yellow lab. Cole is taller than me by an inch, but he’s light as a feather, and those dogs plow him over every time.
Braden pokes his head out of the barn and laughs at Cole. “Dude, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you don’t stand a chance against varsity defenders.”
While Cole is rolling around on the gravel with the dogs, I head for the backseat, hoping to remove the remaining evidence of last night’s birthday celebration. I’ve got three pairs of panties scrunched in one hand and I’m reaching for the fourth when I notice Braden leaned over my shoulder.
He lets out a low whistle. “Hey, Gramps! Come check this out.”
I elbow my brother in the ribs, but he’s bigger and stronger and gets his arms around me, forcing me to release the panties in my hands. Before I know it, Grandpa Scott, with his gray hair, worn jeans, and muddy boots, is opening the other door to the backseat and looking things over.
“Yep.” He shakes his head, mock shame on his face. “I told your dad, this is what happens when you don’t go to church.”
Of course, my dad chooses right then to bring the tractor up to the barn. He hops off, and Grandpa Scott shouts the same warning about church at him. My dad takes off his hat and sunglasses to get a good look in the car. He gives away a small smirk but says nothing more.
Dad reaches down and grabs Cole’s shirt and pulls him to his feet. “You boys hungry? Let’s go make some lunch.”
“But we still have—” Braden protests, but Dad waves away his concern.
After I’ve tossed the panties and we’re all filing into the big kitchen, I’m as surprised as Braden that they’re gonna stop for lunch. We only get about ninety-six frost-free days each year in northern Minnesota, so it’s pretty rare during one of those days to see Grandpa, Dad, or Braden inside when it’s light out. I’d be out there with them, but Dad and Braden have both made it clear that my job is school.
Well, that and Saturday nights in an old warehouse right outside Longmeadow. A job they love to tease me about, but I don’t mind. I’m doing something I enjoy. Dad is all about enjoying the moment. It’s kind of his thing. And the job pays a shit-ton of money. Especially lately. I’ve really been bringing in the cash over the past six months. That’s how I was able to buy the used SUV.
Lunch in a house with four men means everyone opening cabinets, drawers, and pantries all at once, throwing meat and bread together. Cole isn’t a Scott like me, but he joins in with no apprehension, piling turkey breast onto a piece of bread as fast as I’m slicing it.
“Hey, enough.” I shove his hand away from my blue cutting board. “I’m gonna be here all day slicing meat.”
“Cut me some, will ya?” Braden says.
I groan, the hangover hitting me hard. I need food. And food has always been the most complicated part of my life. Thanks to Grandpa Scott’s system, our kitchen is the easiest place for me to eat. Blue cutting boards are mine. Blue baskets in the fridge and pantry are mine.
And this turkey breast is mine. I roasted it myself all day on Sunday. I’m about to tell Braden to cook his own, but Grandpa Scott has already pulled a ham from the fridge and is slicing it on a white cutting board. Braden snatches four thick pieces of ham.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re all spread out around the dining-room table, our plates piled—mine with at least a pound of meat, three baked potatoes, and one of each fruit in the basket on the counter.
Dad glances at my plate, does a double take, and then lifts an eyebrow. “So you really are going for this bulking-up, starting-defense-position thing?”
I shrug. I don’t want to jinx it.
“It’s summer,” Grandpa says. “Why the hell are you boys skatin’ around on ice in the middle of the goddamn summer?”
“He was up before five this morning,” Braden says. “I thought those practices were optional?”
Cole and I look at each other. We both laugh. “Optional as in everyone knows the starting positions are determined from summer training and scrimmages,” I answer.
“You don’t see the football team out there before August,” Dad says, his mouth full of sandwich. Grandpa, Dad, and Braden all played football. And apparently, a generation or two of Scott men before them. They love to rip on the hockey team, rightfully so. I can’t imagine what it must be like to play a sport other than hockey at Juniper Falls High.
Cole tears the crust from his sandwich. “And you don’t see anyone talking about the football team. Like, ever.”
We all crack up because Cole rarely dishes out the dirt when my elders all gang up on us.
“Guarantee that came straight from your mother’s mouth,” Grandpa says, and Cole’s face flushes.
That does sound like something Aunt Lisa would say.
The subject moves back to teasing me about the panties in my backseat—which always includes mention of the misuse of the skills my late grandmother passed on to me—and eventually we end up on Cole’s infatuation with Haley Stevenson.
“Haley Stevenson,” Braden mutters. “Why does that name sound familiar?”
“Probably because she’s the current princess of our town and her name is everywhere.” Juniper Falls Princess is described as a political position for a chosen high-school girl to represent the local youth each year, but it’s really just a popularity contest that’s been around for more than a hundred years. I turn to Cole. “Why don’t you just grow a pair and talk to her? If she shoots you down, then you get to move on.” She will definitely shoot him down. But he needs to learn this for himself.
“You’re in class with her.” Braden points his fork at me. “Why don’t you chat Cole up to Haley?”
My eyes widen. This is not something I would ever do. And Braden knows that. I don’t really socialize with people at school. All small towns have their gossip, but Juniper Falls takes getting in other people’s business to the extreme. My family has a history of being the center of town rumors for some very private matters, and though we’ve fallen off the radar for several years now, I’d like to keep it that way. I haven’t heard gossip about my parents in years, my grandmother only through stories Grandpa Scott tells about events before I was even born. My brother’s brushes with the law in the past seem to be old news now. And I’ve managed to go from being the-one-to-harass to the-one-I-can’t-remember, proving that how people perceive me is very much within my control.
“Haley doesn’t want to talk to me.” That’s my best excuse. “Cole’s the star varsity hockey player. He’s got a better shot at conversation with her than I do.”
“You’re the one in class with her. Besides, Cole isn’t even ready to ride the bench when it comes to chatting up girls,” Braden says, then he tosses Cole a sympathetic look. “Sorry, man, but it’s true. I’ve seen you in action. It’s pathetic.”
Cole stabs a piece of meat, poking it several times before forking a bite. “Yeah, I know.”
“And if Fletch can get all those panties in his backseat, obviously he knows his way around the opposite sex.” Dad flashes me a sly grin, like it’s completely his genes that contributed to my apparently wild night last night.
“The panties were a joke,” I point out.
Dad shakes his head. “Scott men are known for having a way with women. It’s one of our best qualities. And really, it’s not rocket science. It all comes down to understanding the differences in male and female pleasure.”
I expect Cole to turn red again, but instead, he’s wide-eyed, looking ready to take notes.
I roll my eyes. “We’re corrupting a fifteen-year-old. Maybe we should go to church.”
“We are not corrupting him,” Grandpa Scott says, even though he made the church joke earlier. “We’re providing him the same education you and your brother both received.”
“That’s right,” Dad agrees. “Just because he’s not a blood relative of mine, Gramps, or your brother’s, doesn’t mean we don’t care about his future.”
I still remember clearly the first time I admitted to fooling around with a girl to Dad, Gramps, and Braden. I was probably close to Cole’s age, maybe a tad older, and the first words out of Dad’s mouth were, “Did she enjoy the experience?”
If I were someone who had friends at school or on the team—good thing I’m not—then this approach to fathering and grandfathering might seem really weird, but I guess I’m used to it. To them. Grandma Scott, before she passed away two years ago, had a big hand in my “education” as well.
After a lot more prodding, I finally agree to say something nice about Cole in front of Haley. I only say yes to get them off my back. Today’s conversing with her already took too much of my patience. But after lunch, when Cole and I are sprawled out on the couches watching a baseball game, I have this strong desire to grab a notebook and create my own “Hump Day To-do List.” I wonder what Haley is doing right now. It isn’t time for tumbling practice yet—that’s scheduled for six o’clock. Maybe she’s whitening her teeth or teaching Kayla Squared some eight-counts.
Maybe I won’t change my seat tomorrow.
Chapter Four
–Haley–
I tried to read the three assigned chapters last night. I really tried. There was all this drama over the cheer bows, plus Kayla S—not my BFF Kayla but a different one—has been all insecure about not being able to learn our new choreography, so I spent three hours going over it with just her and me. She’s doing awesome, as I knew she would if she could just stop worrying about what everyone else thought. But still, three hours is three hours. Then Leslie got on my back about blowing off Kayla B. If Leslie would just join Team Don’t Enable the Girl with the Asshole Boyfriend, I think Kayla would crack. But she won’t. Anyway, I ended up reading half of the assignment, retaining nothing, and falling asleep at my desk, drooling on the textbook.
So when Mrs. Markson announces that she’ll be drilling us with questions on the reading and scoring our participation, I’m a hot mess. My palms are sticky with sweat, and I have to keep wiping them on my jean shorts. Several students stumble to answer questions, but many of them still get the answer right. I hold my breath when Mrs. Markson says, “Jamie?”
He jolts up, a red mark on his cheek from leaning against one hand. “Yeah?”
“Who is the father of our country?”
Before I can even think the name George Washington, Jamie is shouting, “God!”
Mrs. Markson purses her lips. “George Washington.” Then she makes a note in her gradebook.
Shit. That was Jamie’s first grade in this class, and he just flunked. A minute later, she’s glancing my way. “Haley, a U.S. senator is elected for how many years?”
Oh God, I know this. I know this. The president is four years. So, a senator is either two or six years and a house rep is whichever the senator isn’t.
“Uh…I think it’s…” I toss the two numbers back and forth in my head, and then I feel a soft kick against my seat and the word six is coughed out skillfully. “Six,” I blurt out.
Mrs. Markson nods and spins, turning her back to me. I blow out a huge breath and then glance over my shoulder. Fletcher Scott is busy scribbling in his notebook, not making eye contact with me. But he just gave me the answer. Unless I imagined a six in that cough. I didn’t imagine it. And I didn’t miss the fact that Mrs. Markson obviously gave Jamie and me two of the easiest questions. I’ve got to step up my game. I grab my pen and begin a new list.
Ways to Step Up My Civics Game:
1. Study twice a day.
2. Get to bed earlier.
3. Ignore Leslie’s guilt trips.
4. Make flash cards (color code them).
5. Memorize any answers that contain a number by making up a cheer or song (“six is for senators, four is for presidents, two is for house of rep…”).
“Fletcher, the house of representatives has how many voting members?”
Fletch shifts in his seat behind me, but he doesn’t hesitate before quietly answering. “Four hundred thirty-five.”
I wait to see if Mrs. Markson says he’s wrong, but like with me, she nods then turns to someone else. Never in a million years would I have answered that question correctly after simply reading the assigned chapters (note to self: add house of rep head count to the Civics number song). And this gets me thinking about the guy in the seat behind me and his apparent secret—or not so secret, I guess—genius.
When we get our midmorning fifteen-minute break, after Fletcher rises from his seat and heads out the door, I turn around and snatch his notebook from his desk. I flip back through at least twenty pages of meticulous notes. By the looks of it, he hasn’t missed a thing Mrs. Markson has given us, and that’s practically an impossible feat considering her race-car pace of delivering information.
I spot Fletcher’s black Nike slides crossing the doorway and return his notes to the original page and place the notebook carefully back onto his desk. I have to be really smart about this development, because in Fletcher Scott’s eyes, I’m the girl who can’t answer the most simple Civics questions, who skips note-taking to write to-do lists that scream ditzy blonde cheerleader, and only brings one pen to class (I have five today). I’m not exactly study-partner-of-the-year material. This could be a problem. But it’s nothing a little charm and genuine kindness won’t solve. That and finding out what it is Fletcher Scott wants as much as I want to pass this class.
No, I need to pass this class. I will pass this class. And so will Jamie. If I can pull off an A in Civics, then my GPA will be a 3.2. It’s not the 3.6 average for UCF incoming freshmen, but it’s better than 3.1.
Fletcher slides back into his seat, and I spin around and straddle mine. “Hey, Fletch.”
The nod he gives me screams dismissal, and let’s be honest, I’m not someone who gets that kind of nod too often, so it’s a little disheartening. “I take it you’re doing all the ‘optional’ summer varsity workouts?”
I glance at his chest. Varsity hockey players practically live in their JFH spirit wear (most of which they get for free from the boosters). But Fletcher is wearing a T-shirt that says No, I will not fix your computer.
“Yep.” He keeps his eyes down and flips a page in his notebook, leaving a clean sheet on top.
“How was practice this morning?”
“Fine.” Fletcher lifts his head, eyeing me cautiously—this reaction isn’t unjustified. I’ve seen plenty of popular kids pull some pretty shitty stuff with the, uh, less-popular kids. “How was tumbling last night?”
My cheeks warm at the reminder of my stupid to-do list. He’s
trying to force me to turn around. What’s his deal? I plaster on a grin and sit up straighter. “It was killer, actually. I’m working on a back full. Do you know what a back full is?”
He shakes his head.
“It’s a layout back flip, and while you’re upside down, you add a full twist. I only got my layout about six months ago, and one of my coaches—Andrea—is like hard core, and she says you gotta have a layout for a whole year before twisting. And then there’s Jonas who’s like, go for it. Just don’t break your neck.”
“Was it Andrea or Jonas last night?”
I’m caught off guard by the intense way he’s listening now. It makes me immediately self-conscious of all the words I’m choosing. I dig my fingernail into the wooden chair I’m sitting in, tracing a pattern. My knee bounces up and down. “It was Andrea, and she had me doing all this awesome strength training, and by awesome, I mean terrible. Terrible today, anyway. My abs are screaming at me.”
Okay, Haley, enough about you. Focus on him.
“So, hockey,” I say, shifting subjects. “It’s going well? Are you excited for a full season on varsity? It really is a different world.”
He stares blankly at me. I take notice of his stylishly messy dark hair. He’s got nice skin, too. “I didn’t realize you played varsity hockey.”
“I don’t, but I’ve spent plenty of time on the bus with the team. Talk about needing a reality check. It’s like, how many people can we crown king of the world at the same time?”
Fletcher cracks a smile and then smooths it out before I can react. “What do you want, Haley? Is this your attempt at an apology for the Cheerios? If so, I accept. Let’s both move on.”
I still don’t believe him about the Cheerios, but now’s not the time for that debate. “I don’t want anything.” Not yet anyway. “Just making conversation. I was really impressed with your knowledge of last night’s reading. She nailed you with a tough question.”