“Will you go?” she asks, a plaintive note in her voice.
“You have to feed me,” I say. Caro has a ton of money from babysitting her little sisters, so this is no problem.
“Done and done. We’ll be by at seven thirty.”
My phone goes silent. I scroll through my recent text messages. The last one is Sam’s, inviting me to room 33. My finger hovers over the button to reply. But what would I say? Sorry for being a freak?
I turn off my phone before I can add to the day’s humiliation.
Caro’s mom pulls their Honda into the parking lot of Grand Slam and stops at the front door. She turns around to inspect the two of us sitting in the backseat.
“You girls sure love this place,” she says.
Well, Jeremy loves it, which is why we always end up here.
“Where else are we going to play mini-golf in the winter?” Caro says. It’s a question that doesn’t need an answer. Because honestly? Caro sucks at mini-golf.
“I’ll be back at eleven thirty,” Caro’s mom says. Her lilting accent makes her sound gentle, but she points a fierce finger at the front door. “Right here.”
I thank her as I climb down from the minivan. The sky is clear above us, but the glare from the big red letters on top of the building hides all the stars. I tilt my head back, hoping to see one or two anyway.
I don’t.
Inside, noise explodes around us. At eight p.m., the price for a wristband drops, and you can get unlimited mini-golf, batting cages, and laser tag for half price. Already, boys from the baseball team line the cages, the thwack of the aluminum bats and rattle of chain link in the air.
We stand in line, and Caro squints while she scans the crowd, looking for close-cropped black curls and a swaggering jock walk. Jeremy finds us first. He spins Caro around and she squeals.
“Happy late Valentine’s Day.” Jeremy pulls an envelope from his back pocket. Caro tears it open and out spills a gold necklace with a heart pendant. She squeals again, throws her arms around his neck, and gives him a big kiss. The nauseating truth hits me then. The three of us are on a Valentine’s Day date.
This is so wrong.
“I can’t believe you got out of prison,” he says to her.
Caro points at me. “Thank Jolia.”
Jeremy nods and I do the same. I want to ask where my present is, but for Caro’s sake, I don’t. If not for her, Jeremy and I probably wouldn’t know each other’s names. We don’t fight, not exactly. Sometimes we’ll take passive-aggressive swipes at each other. Hey, I have a brother. I know where all the weak spots are. But we’re not friends and never will be.
“I’m holding a place in line for laser tag,” he says. “Go there first.”
So we do, with bright yellow bands circling our wrists and coins for the batting cages (which we’ll give to Jeremy) in our pockets. People behind us grumble as we budge in line next to him.
He leans around us and says, loudly, “They had to buy their wristbands.”
Like somehow that explains everything.
Laser tag is my favorite thing at Grand Slam. I’m pretty good at it, too. This is one of the advantages of having an older brother. You have to be quick and tricky if you ever want to win. Laser tag is also one of the few times Jeremy and I get along. We always form a team. Jeremy likes to make a big deal out of “protecting” Caro, but you don’t get any points that way.
Besides, at least once per game, she ends up shooting one, if not both, of us in the back. Her laser tag skills are second only to her mini-golf ones.
Lasers flash, the black light makes my shoelaces glow a ghostly purple. There’s a bunch of jocks from Winnetka opposite us. Jeremy signals for me to go one way while he creeps around the other. I sidestep a few middle school kids who have no clue what they’re doing. I catch sight of Jeremy again.
At the same moment, we spring, laser guns firing.
Lights flicker. The sensors on the boys’ vests blink on and off, a sure sign of a direct hit. Everyone scrambles. I lose sight of Jeremy. In front of me, a wall of Winnetka boys blocks my way. I dance around the one whose laser still works, getting off a shot to disable him. Then I slip right through.
No matter how many times we play, no matter how many times they see me here, they never expect a girl to take them out. I rush toward the corner we use as home base, triumph wiping away the truly awful day. I love laser tag. Caro was right. I did need some fun.
Up ahead, Jeremy is guarding Caro, but he’s jerking his head around, like he’s looking for me. I bound forward just as someone else cuts across my path.
We collide, me and this boy. I stagger backward, my free hand flailing. I raise my laser gun to shoot, but shock freezes my finger on the trigger. The boy in front of me?
Sam.
He gapes at me, his own gun slack in his hand. His vest covers most of his T-shirt, but from what I can see, I think it’s a Doctor Who one.
I think maybe we’ll stand like this forever, the two of us staring at each other, never saying a word. Then the sensors on my vest flash. Caro jumps forward and stares at her gun like she can’t believe it’s gone off. She clamps a hand over her mouth, but I’m too busy staring at Sam to hear her apology.
The lights go up, harsh fluorescent ones that make my eyes ache. The attendants herd us all out so the next group can have their ten minutes of laser heaven. I’m shoved through the door right behind Sam, my hands raised. If someone pushes just a little bit harder, I’ll end up grabbing his shoulders.
I hold my breath until we’re all the way out into the hallway. Then I sink against a wall, my eyes closed.
“I’m starving,” Jeremy says.
Of course he is. There’s never a time he’s not hungry. Although, truthfully, up until I saw Sam, I’d been hoping for a large pepperoni pizza. I know this is what Jeremy wants. He doesn’t disappoint.
“Pizza!” he calls out, like a battle cry. We all move, Jeremy, his friends, Caro and me—and Sam.
He still hasn’t said a word to me, but then I haven’t said anything either, not even hello. I cast him a wary look, trying to hide behind my hair. At the same moment, our gazes touch, and we both flinch as if we’ve been burned.
Once we’re in line at the food counter, Jeremy turns and gives Sam a sock on the shoulder. “Yo,” he says, “You running track this year?”
Jeremy knows Sam? I inch closer so Sam is in my field of vision. He knows Jeremy?
“Yeah, I’ll be there,” Sam says. “Not sure what I’m running yet. Sprints. Maybe a relay.”
Jeremy nods. “What about a field event? Coach wants to get me into high jump.”
They start talking about heights and times and splits. I glance at Caro and she rolls her eyes at me. Her look says it all: Boys. What can you do?
My mind whirls. So along with being a Winnetka star speaker, Sam is also a jock? This boy, who plays at being Romeo and wears Doctor Who T-shirts, also tears up the ground with his feet? At least, that’s how Jeremy is making it sound. I wonder. Will Caro want to go to Jeremy’s track meets this year?
I might decide to come along, at least when they run against Winnetka.
Once we get our pizza, Sam splits off from us. He sits with a group from Winnetka—I recognize a few boys from the speech tournament. After we eat, I’m swept away by Jeremy and Caro and all of Jeremy’s friends. I don’t see Sam. By the time eleven o’clock rolls around and we’re playing one last round of mini-golf, I don’t think I will.
I’ve searched—without trying to look like I’m searching—for him all night. I don’t want to leave without seeing him again. What I’ll say if I do see him, I don’t know.
Caro hits a hole in one—for a hole we’re not even playing—and Jeremy dashes off to retrieve her ball. My cell phone vibrates against my leg. I pull it from my pocket and see that same strange number again.
Sam’s number.
Sam: I have an idea.
I glance from the screen and scan the area. Sa
m is standing across from me at the counter where you turn in all your arcade tickets for prizes. His thumbs fly across his phone’s keyboard and a second later, my phone buzzes again.
Sam: you guys have Friday off?
Instead of replying, I glance up and meet those incredible green eyes. For a moment, I can’t respond at all, but at last manage a single nod. Friday is a teacher workshop day, for all Minnesota schools.
But why doesn’t he just walk across the lobby and talk to me? A few kids from the Winnetka speech team cut across the area on their way to laser tag. From the arcade, I see Tory and Ryan step out, fistfuls of tickets sprouting from their hands. They head straight for the prize counter, each bumping Sam’s shoulder when they pass. Nice. I sigh. Keep it classy, guys. Keep it classy.
But I understand why. No fraternizing with the enemy. It works both ways. My phone buzzes for a third time.
Sam: We could get together. Unless you are mad at me.
I type back.
Jolia: Not mad.
I leave it at that, since I’m not sure what else to say. Is he still coaching me? After today’s disaster, I find that hard to believe. But then, it’s also hard to believe I’m standing thirty feet away from Sam Romero while he sends me text messages.
Sam: Fri. afternoon? Maybe library, but will send text.
Jolia: Ok
From across the lobby, Sam looks up from his phone. He smiles, a totally secret smile meant just for me. Even as my heart squeezes, I wonder if Tory is right, if there’s something I should worry about. But right now, all I want to do is believe in the boy with the summer-green eyes, the fast feet, and a way with words.
Chapter 7
Fremont, Minnesota is melting. All week long, the temperature inches upward until, on Friday afternoon, the weather widget on Dad’s laptop says it’s fifty degrees.
“The dog and I need a walk,” Mom declares when she comes home from work early. She’s a programmer for a software company. Dad is a freelance writer and has, for as long as I can remember, worked from home. Our dog Toby starts spinning in a circle the second Mom pulls the leash from its hook by the kitchen door.
“Enjoy it while you can,” Dad says. “Winter isn’t over yet.”
Mom and Toby leave the house, her chant of “La, la, la, I can’t hear you,” echoing until the door closes. Dad laughs. He heads to the kitchen to brew some more coffee. I love the smell, but it tastes like charred mud unless I add a ton of cream and sugar. Mom says it’s an acquired taste.
It feels strange to be home on a Friday. Ever since the clock hit 12:01, my legs have felt twitchy, and my fingers creep toward my cell phone. I’ve checked the display at least once every fifteen minutes.
“Plans this afternoon, Jo?” Dad asks. He takes the cream from the fridge and pours some into a mug. Apparently he’s noticed my jittery state as well.
“Maybe,” I say as my cell phone vibrates. My heart leaps into action, beating so fast I think it might fly out of my chest.
I pull out my phone, bracing for disappointment, certain it’s only Caro sending a save-my-sanity message as she babysits her younger sisters. They are five, seven, and nine, and she should get hazard pay for what she goes through, especially on a day off from school.
But the message on my phone is from Sam.
Sam: Meet at the park?
As in Meadow Park? Our park? My fingers tremble. I can’t hit the right letters and end up backspacing three different messages.
Sam: Too nice for indoors.
I agree. If only I could get my fingers to tell him that. My palms feel damp, my stomach hollow. My heart races with fear that I won’t be able to answer him in time.
Sam: You there?
Jolia: Yyyes
That’s it. It’s like I’ve grown hooves to go along with my donkey teeth. At this rate, I won’t be able to communicate at all.
Sam: Park in 10?
Jolia: Yes
Sam: see ya.
I nod at the phone, which might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I glance up. Dad is sipping coffee and giving me an odd look, like maybe I really have sprouted donkey hooves and ears to match.
“Important message?” he asks.
“Sort of.” Reality hits me then. Ten minutes. I glance down. Do I look okay? Should I change? I start for my room, then blurt, “Can I go to the park?”
“By yourself?” Dad frowns at his coffee. “Isn’t Caro babysitting?”
“I’m meeting a friend from speech.”
Technically, this is not a lie. Sam was my summer best friend, which could make him my friend now. And he’s from a speech team—just not my speech team.
“Is your phone charged?”
I hold up my cell so Dad can see it.
“Good. Call if you need anything.”
Meadow Park is only a quarter of a mile away. Derek and I spent a big chunk of our summers there, while Dad worked on his laptop in the shade of the gazebo. We learned all its patterns, like when the playground was too crowded with toddlers or too hot from the afternoon sun. Every summer, after Caro left for the Sulvana’s endless cross-country trip to visit their huge extended family, I played.
At first, I was all alone. I created my own worlds and dramas. If no one else was around, Derek might play with me, but I was fine on my own. When a boy my own age started showing up at the same times we did, it felt like an intrusion. This boy had a way of budging in on my games and into my imagination. It was like he could see inside my head, knew where I’d built castles in the air, and wanted to move in.
I hid from him, but he was so persistent, it looked—and felt—like a game of hide and seek. Once, when I took refuge beneath some bushes near the gazebo, I had a rare moment of peace. Until I heard the boy’s father talking to Dad.
“I hate to keep him cooped up in the house all summer. At least I can work from home, but the rest of it?” The boy’s dad shook his head. “Ever since his mom left …”
The boy’s dad continued to talk, but a buzzing in my head blocked all his words. I couldn’t imagine my mom leaving, and my throat felt like some invisible hand had squeezed it hard. I crawled from the bushes, leaves caught in my shirt and hair, and went to find the boy.
He stood high in the jungle gym, hand shading his eyes, his gaze searching, searching, searching.
For me?
I climbed up, my breath coming in hard pants, my chest so tight, I thought my lungs might burst. When he saw me, he didn’t smile. I inched across the walkway that circled the structure, careful to step over the seams where one section met the other—we never stepped on those. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say, and when I finally reached him, I still had no idea.
At last, I simply said, “I’m Jolia.”
“I’m Sam.”
“Do you want to play?” I asked.
“I thought we already were.”
Just like that, Sam and I were friends. And he knew my castles in the air by heart.
Now I navigate the streams of water that flow downhill toward the park. The sun warms my cheeks, but there’s no hint of spring in the air. Everything smells cold and damp. Dad is right. Winter isn’t over. But today, I’m pretending that it is. It’s only when I reach the park—and see Sam sitting on a bench near the swings—that panic hits me.
I forgot my script. I look at my hands as if it will somehow magically appear there. My legs stutter to a stop. Before me, the park is a quilt of alternating patches of brownish-green grass and dirty snow. I’m about to pivot on my toes, rush all the way home, and grab Jane Eyre, when Sam waves.
My half-wave in return is pretty lame.
The sun heats my neck, dread fills my stomach, and the boy with the summer eyes fills my view. I open my mouth to apologize, to tell him I’ll run home and get my script, but he speaks first.
“I thought we’d try something different today.” Sam is holding two scripts and hands one to me.
Romeo and Juliet.
What does he want me
to do with this? How can I get better at reading Jane Eyre by working on something else?
“This is a new way to practice,” he says. “We’re going to do the balcony scene.”
I think over the plot of Romeo and Juliet and the balcony scene in particular. Is there a ... kiss in that scene? My mind blanks. In one of the movies? But is that a Hollywood thing or a Shakespeare thing? I flip through the pages, hoping Shakespeare will help me out, but his words are blurred and garbled, my fingers trembling, my heart hammering much too hard.
“Here.” Sam takes my script and opens it to the correct page.
I peer at him and wonder if this is what Tory meant about Romeo Romero.
“Only,” he says, “I’ll be Juliet, and you’ll play Romeo.”
“What?” comes out with a squeak.
“Role reversal. It’ll be fun.”
“Fun?” Do we still kiss if he’s Juliet and I’m Romeo? Maybe in this version of the play, Romeo tells Juliet that he’s just not that into her. Except. I’m Romeo. And I can’t help it. I’m very much into Sam.
“You don’t look like Juliet,” I say.
He laughs and rushes off to the edge of the woods. From there, he yanks handfuls of dead weeds and secures them to his head with his Twins baseball cap. He spins around and poses, one hand on his hip, the other behind his head.
I’m smiling so hard it hurts. Something warm and happy bubbles inside me, but it’s mixed with a quick sting of tears. Who else would do something like this for me, except maybe Caro? I blink fast and clap until my palms sting all so Sam won’t notice any dampness in my eyes.
Several tree branches lie at my feet, victims of this winter’s ice storm. I find the driest and test it out. I brandish my sword and this time, Sam applauds.
The Fine Art of Keeping Quiet Page 6