Saturday Special: 2-For-1 Scoop-tacular
Ninety-eight degrees in the middle of August. Home with the family or ice cream alone?
Ice cream. Definitely.
I pull across the road and park out back behind the dumpsters. Everyone else comes here to socialize. I come here to eat run-of-the-mill ice cream and sit incognito in the back booth that’s hidden behind a stand of artificial ficus trees and some green viney-thing that creates a makeshift privacy curtain.
The guy at the counter in the rainbow striped shirt was in my chemistry class last year. His name escapes me. Ricky? Randy? Something with an R. All I really remember about him is that he was quiet and sat in the second row. As I walk up and order my two scoops of chocolate peanut butter, he takes the order, gives me my change and nods. I nod back—the standard greeting for those looking to avoid long-winded discussion.
The dining area is empty except for the few people in line behind me who’re getting their cones to go. I slip into the booth and thumb through my phone, searching the best sites to order parts for my Scout. The door chimes over and over as people come and go, but when one chime is followed by a barrage of loud talking and giggling, I shift forward, peering through the leafy camouflage.
Rayne, Jaycee, and Ainsley stand at the counter with a junior—I think her name is Mallory—from their cheer squad, eyeing the selection of tubs in the freezer case. Non-fat, no-sugar-added vanilla frozen yogurt. Times three. Then Rayne steps up and orders a double scoop of rocky road with chocolate sprinkles.
Hell yeah.
The others stare at her as if she’s an alien who’s revealed herself to the human population, but she just shrugs and plows a spoonful in her mouth.
I told Preston this girl had some fire in her.
They sit down in the adjacent row, two booths up from me, and I slump further down against the hard plastic bench. No need to take a chance that anyone sees me. No sooner do they slide into their seats does Jaycee’s shrill voice kick into its usual mile-a-minute jaunt.
She grabs Rayne’s hand, holding it up in front of her nose. “Why’d you pick out that color?”
“Because I’m wearing a pink blouse tonight. This matches,” Rayne says, slurping another bite off her spoon as she wrenches her hand from Jaycee.
Jaycee narrows her eyes, shaking her head. “It looks little-girlish. Preston should feel like he’s dating a woman, not some high school kid.”
“I am some high school kid.”
“Obviously.” Jaycee packages her smugness into a few side-eye glances at the other two girls across the table. A phone vibrates against the laminate top, but as Rayne reaches for it, Jaycee snatches it first and waves it around. “It’s your mama.”
Everyone giggles, except for Rayne, who frowns and drops her head. “Shit. I gotta take this. Be right back.” She gets up and walks out the front door, the chime echoing behind her. In the plate-glass windows, she paces back and forth as she talks.
I’m staring at her when Mallory’s voice catches my attention. “Are we living in an alternate universe? Since when does Preston Howard date Rayne?” She takes a bite, continuing through the lip smacks. “Y’all. I can’t even. I mean, I heard the rumors. I saw them together at the bonfire. But I never thought it’d go this far.”
“I know, right?” Ainsley pipes up, tossing her spoon into the empty cup in front of her. “When Trevor told me, I asked him like five times—Rayne Davidson? Are you for real?” She pauses to drag a napkin over her mouth. “She’s a sweet girl. That’s why we keep her around, but she’s just socially… inept. Then you add her Mama into that equation, and…” She whistles the cuckoo sound.
Jaycee leans back in the booth, waving both hands out in front of her. “Don’t even get me started on her mama.” She shakes her head, clicking her tongue. “I pity her, really. Rayne’s basic and doesn’t see what an opportunity this is.”
“What do you mean?” They ask almost in unison.
Jaycee rolls her eyes. “Come on. A girl doesn’t date Preston Howard for intellectually-stimulating conversation. She dates him for that hot body and the fact his popularity can open doors for her.”
“So you’re saying she should totally use him?” Ainsley asks.
“Why not? I’m sure he plans on using her if he lives up to his reputation. She should get it while the getting’s good.” She giggles through the snide grin on her face. I want to slap her. How dare she talk about my brother that way? My calf muscles twitch, responding to my brain that’s screaming for me to get up and confront her. But I force it down and keep listening.
Jaycee continues. “This whole thing is a positive for me as her best friend, because all that newfound popularity will trickle right on down to me.”
Best friend. Yeah, right.
Ainsley gathers their trash and pitches it into the receptacle at the end of the row and walks back standing beside the table. “If dating Preston can open so many doors, Jaycee, then why didn’t you go after him?”
Because he wouldn’t want her. Preston might’ve dated dumb girls, but not bitchy ones.
“You can’t go after Preston. You can put yourself out there, make sure he sees you, but he picks you.” She looks down and bites her lip. “And for some reason he picked Rayne. Must be some sort of a moral cleanse. Least we can do is take advantage of it.”
Mallory reaches over for a high-five. “Damn Jaycee, you have this all figured out.”
“Yeah,” inserts Ainsley, “but do you think it’ll last?”
Jaycee glances out the window to where Rayne is still pacing back and forth, talking. “Unlikely. She’ll find a way to screw it up. I give it two weeks max. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
She leans in close across the table. “We all ensure they have the best possible shot at making it work. Then we all benefit.”
The door chimes as Rayne walks back in, and they clam up, reverting the conversation back to hair styles and fashion. She takes Mallory and Ainsley’s place who slip out, saying they have errands to do. One can only hope they’re in such a hurry because of guilty consciences eating their insides. But I’m not sure these girls have consciences.
Rayne drops her phone on the table and turns her cup up to her mouth, draining out the remnants of melted ice cream. Jaycee grimaces. “Your mama forget to strap that GPS tracker on you before we left?” When she doesn’t respond, she continues. “About tonight…”
“Why do you care?”
Yes! Exactly! Thank you, Rayne, for asking the question of the day.
“Duh, you’re my bestie.” She pauses as if gauging Rayne’s response. “And… this could be big. The Howards—they know people.”
“So?” Rayne shrugs. “I know people.”
“You know the cashiers at the Pig. I mean people. Big people. Influential people. With money.”
“So?”
“So! They have connections that can open doors. College scholarships. Internships. You name it.”
“I’m not dating Preston for his money. I’m going out with him because he’s sweet and seems interested in really getting to know me.” She stares off into space for a minute, and then refocuses on Jaycee. “Besides, Mama’s had my college fund put together for years…”
“Do you have to be so selfish? I’m talking about for me!” Jaycee plunges her finger into her chest before continuing. “I don’t have the two-parent household with a college fund. I have a single mom who’s barely making ends meet.” She blows out a loud breath and jumps up, slinging her purse on her arm. “Don’t screw this up. After all these years of saving your ass from loser-dom, you owe me.” She motions Rayne to get up and follow her then glances back over her shoulder. “Oh, don’t look so hurt. You know I’m just kidding… kinda.”
My stomach churns as they walk out the door and disappear around the corner. Those girls had laid my brother on that table like a juicy T-bone, ripping at every part of him. To them
, he’s nothing more than a hot body and a paycheck. And Rayne is just a device to get them in the door. They’re supposed to be her best friends, but as soon as she’s away, they’re butchering her like some sacrificial lamb. Girls like Jaycee and her cronies—opportunists and connivers—affirm my decision to be single. Drama-free.
I should tell Barrett and Trevor all about the girls they’re dating, but it’s useless. They’re so wrapped at this point, they’ll refuse to see the truth. It’ll just be a joke that poor, dateless Gage is a big ol’ bunch of sour grapes. I hope they don’t find out the hard way.
Rayne’s genuine, though. A little too trusting, maybe—okay, completely naïve—but at least she’s in this for the right reasons. Preston’s a lucky guy.
Chapter 9
Rayne
T
he dog-day humidity kinks my curls into a frenzy. My Mama-approved knee-length black skirt is covered in pink fuzzies from my cotton blouse, and my stomach’s knotted-up tight. I skulk behind the curtains in the upstairs rec-room, waiting for the first glimpse of Preston’s Mustang in the driveway. He called earlier to tell me he’d be here at six, but I couldn’t drum up the courage to warn him against Mama. No need scaring the crap out of him. Besides, if I time it just right, maybe I can intercept.
I step in front of the mirror to check my mascara and slick on another coat of lip gloss. The doorbell rings, and I dart back to the window. His Mustang’s in the drive. He’s not in it. Of course. I step away for two minutes and he shows up. Downstairs, the front door creaks open, and muffled voices float upstairs. I peek around the wall at the landing. Preston stands at the bottom of the stairs, Mama in front of him, looking him up and down, rubbing her fingers across her throat. Short and slightly pudgy, Mama only comes up to Preston’s chest, but she’s staring him down like a bulldog.
I barrel down the stairs and insert myself between the two of them. Preston isn’t black-eyed or bleeding, so maybe it’s not as bad as I think. “Ready to go?” I grab his hand and usher him to the door, looking back over my shoulder at Mama. “I’ll be home by curfew.”
When we’re safely in the car and down the road, I sink into the soft leather seat, the muscles across my back unwinding. “Sorry about Mama. She’s… special.”
“She’s protective of her only daughter. She only asked about our plans.”
“You didn’t tell her…” I begin, my heart leaping into my throat.
He looks over and smiles. “I told her we’d be local. I didn’t think she’d appreciate us going back to my house if my parents weren’t home.”
I blow out the breath I’m holding. Of course she’d try to confirm my story on the sly. Good thing Preston’s smarter than that. My bikini’s tucked safely in my oversized purse. I’d left that part of the plan out of the conversation with Mama. Mr. and Mrs. Howard are away for the night, and Mama’d have a coronary if she knew we went there without adult supervision.
Preston pulls into the parking space in front of the local steakhouse and all the people in the window seats crane their necks for a better view. A man walking a Doberman on a leash passes us on the sidewalk then looks back over his shoulder, crashing into a metal trashcan. It topples over with a bang, papers and crushed-up foam cups spilling out onto the concrete.
I sigh and thread my arms over my chest. Being on display when coming to Mama’s rescue is bad enough, but being judged on my worthiness of Preston? Torture.
The hostess greets us with a smile directed only at him. “Table for two?”
“Against the wall toward the back?” I volunteer. She flicks her eyes at me and frowns, then turns to survey the room.
“All full, but I have a table right up here.” It’s more like a table in the very center of the room. She lays down our menus and trots back to the hostess station while I slide into my seat. Everyone turns in their chairs to see. Not sure I can get used to this. Preston reaches out to grab my hand across the table. I clench his fingers as their eyes bore harder.
“Ignore them,” he leans forward and whispers.
The waitress makes goo-goo eyes at Preston while she scribbles down his order. She never glances in my direction, just says, “And you?”
“Steak, medium-well. Baked potato.” And a side of kiss my ass while you’re at it.
She nods and plucks the menu from my hand. Preston reclines in his chair and swigs his sweet tea. “Got your class schedule yet?”
“Yep. Three AP classes and Honors French fourth period. It’s my only class with Jaycee.”
“Gage’s in that class, too.”
“Really?” We’ve never had a class together before.
“Pres-dawg! What you been up to?” A gruff voice interrupts our conversation as a group of six guys and four girls flocks to our table. I recognize them from the football crowd that graduated the year before Preston. The girls—I can’t remember their names—are the type that smile to your face but would just as soon step on you. I’d been around them before, but they’d never spoken to me. Not because there wasn’t an opportunity to do so, but more because they were those kinds of girls—self-absorbed, unless it came to popping up their boobs and flipping their hair in front of Preston.
They stare at me briefly, eyes narrowed, before Preston starts talking and becomes their sole focus. I guess some things never change.
“Diesel! Tank! Guys! What are y’all doing here?” He shoots to his feet in a fist-bumping, bro-hugging flurry. Diesel and Tank? And these giggly girls are Dopey, Sleepy, Snotty and Trampy? This date is turning into a major eye roll.
The boys’ talk of football glory days hovers about two levels higher than the other hushed voices in the restaurant, but no one’s pissed. No one even complains. They all stare, slight smiles on their lips, like we’re a group of peacocks with our butt feathers stretched wide.
“Rayne?” I snap my eyes back to Preston, who’s standing in front of me, his entourage curved around him, all eyes on me. “Say hello to my friends.”
As he introduces them, a few of them pull their cell phones from their pockets and purses, giving them a quick tap-tap before smiling in my direction.
My phone buzzes against the tabletop, and I swipe my finger across the screen. New Facebook requests. Are these people for real?
It’s that precise moment Elizabeth Anne, better known as Snotty, flips her long auburn hair over her shoulder, declaring her lips are impossibly chapped then plops her brown hobo bag on the table and goes fishing for her gloss. She plunges her fingers to the bottom, the leather sliding across the table and into my tea glass, which topples over. Golden brown rivers of tea rush off the table, flooding my lap, and the barrel-shaped ice nuggets pelt my thighs, running down my legs into my shoes. A shiver races down my spine.
I jump up, my chair sliding against the tiles with a screech, heat coloring my cheeks. Preston rushes around the table, fisting a wad of napkins, which he presses into my wet crotch as his entourage giggles behind him. The waitress walks out with a tray perched on her shoulder, eyeballs me, and quickly slides the tray onto our table. She yanks the white bar towel from her apron and joins the assault on my ruined skirt.
“It’s fine!” I insist, pulling away and blocking their hands with mine. “Can we just get it to go?”
The waitress thumbs over her shoulder toward the kitchen. “I’ll just go put this in some boxes and get your check.”
Our empty take-out boxes lay on the dining-sized wrought-iron table by the Howard’s Olympic-sized pool. My clothes decorate the backs of the other dining chairs, air drying in the waning slivers of daylight.
I lay back on one of eight teak loungers in my black bikini, modest by any stretch of the imagination with its high-waist bottoms and halter-style top, one arm draped across my stomach, knees arched upwards. God I hate my body.
The door to the pool house bangs closed as Preston struts out, the lines of his torso rigid and angled to perfection and the blue palm tree shorts slim-fit
ting just enough to show the bulge of his thigh muscles. My arm cinches tighter into my abs.
He stops beside the chair, tapping his toes on the blue-green mosaic fleur-de-lis accents lining the stone pool tiles. “I’m really sorry about—”
“Quit worrying. It’s okay.” I’ve repeated it a million times, but Preston won’t stop apologizing. It wasn’t him that doused me in tea. Although it was him that let all those people invade our date. Still, I’m letting it go.
“I know, but I’m sorry our dinner was ruined.”
“It wasn’t.” I point to the pile of foam boxes. “It just got us back here quicker.”
Before I can say another word, he leans in and presses his lips to mine, using his tongue to part them slightly. His hands rub up and down my arms then move to my back as he pulls me in closer, our skin glued together from lips to toes.
My heart and mind race. I can’t enjoy the moment for wondering what I’m probably doing wrong. Clamping my eyes shut doesn’t block out the thoughts, it just makes me hyper-aware of every sound going on around us—a bird chirping, some cars out on Main Street, a kid yelling from a few houses over… the gate clinking shut.
The gate? Oh my God, the gate. Someone’s here. Watching us. Mama. It has to be her. She’s figured out my lie-by-omission and now she’s here to drag my butt back home.
I slam backward, arms flailing, and accidently elbow Preston in the nose, propelling myself halfway out of the chair and onto the stone edging. I glance up. It’s not Mama. It’s Jaycee and Barrett, swimsuits and towels on, hands clamped over their mouths like they’ve just witnessed a train wreck, which they kinda did.
“What are y’all doing here?” I jump to my feet. Preston’s still seated, his hand pinching his nose even though there’s no blood.
“We came to hang out.” Jaycee throws her bag on the folding chair, walks up to me, and whispers, “Don’t screw this up. Looks like we got here just in time.”
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