A Charmed Life

by Jenny B. Jones

  I pry the bag open further and take a few pictures. Maybe I’ll get the photos blown up into eight-by-tens and frame them for Luke. Since he’s so into trash.

  After snapping a few more pics with the digital camera and nothing else to do, I settle onto a bag.

  And wait.

  Only one hour and forty-seven more minutes.

  I pull out my phone and text Mia in New York.

  Hunter sez ur going to party 2nite. Make sure he’s not slow dancing w/some hot girl. Ha! : ) Sorry I haven’t called. Fallout from blog has been nuts. U would not believe where I— “We’ve got trouble.”

  My head snaps up at the voice.

  Who is that?

  Male. Young.

  What if he finds me? How will I explain this? Um, just hungry for a little spaghetti and look where I found some!

  Another guy answers. “I know who you mean. I’m on it.”

  “He’s on the verge of talking.”

  “I said I’ll take care of it.”

  “He could blow the cover on ten years of the Brotherhood. We can’t risk that. Do you still want to go ahead with the new recruit? Are you sure he’s ready?”

  Recruit? Ready for what?

  “We’ll talk to Sparks at the Thursday night party, then decide. Hopefully he’ll show. I see no reason to stop now.”

  Sparks? As in Matt Sparks? That’s Lindy’s friend.

  “Anything to make the coach happy, right?” Silence stretches, and I risk a shallow, quiet breath. “Are you sure you don’t want me to handle Reggie?”

  A breeze blows and I flinch as something flies up my nose.

  I rub my eyes and check out the box next to me. Pepper!

  My sinuses constrict. Oh no.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. Must. Not. Sneeze.

  “No. He’s all mine. He needs to learn that we come first. None of us will be talking about last year’s mishaps.”

  I bury my face in my armpit. My eyes water.

  Here it comes! Can’t. Hold. On. Any. Longer.

  “Later, dude.”

  “Achooo!”

  My hands fly to my mouth and I freeze. Who throws away an industrial-sized box of pepper? That is so going in my report.

  “Did you hear that?”

  Silence.

  Then feet shuffling. Getting closer to the Dumpster.

  My nose burns again. I pinch it and hold my breath. A sneeze is seconds away.

  “Hey, somebody’s coming. Let’s get out of here.”

  Great idea! Go!

  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow—with a plan.”

  Their feet pound the pavement in a hard run.

  “Achoo! Achoo!”

  “Bella?”

  “Achoo!”

  “Is that you, Bella?”

  I know that voice. The Evil Editor.

  I step on my trash bag and hang over the edge of the Dumpster.

  “Who else would be neck-deep in day-old marinara and used forks?” I glare down at the boy who sets my blood to boiling.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.” Like you care. “Why?”

  “You seem to have a little . . . uh, something here.” He steps forward and brushes my cheek with his knuckles. A featherlight touch. Our eyes lock.

  And I fall backward, my trash bag imploding beneath me.

  “Ugh! I hear you laughing out there, Luke Sullivan!” I brush clinging tea grinds and banana peels off my skirt.

  “I’m not laughing.”

  I peek over again. “Did you get a good look at those two guys?”

  He looks behind him. “Who?”

  I roll my eyes. Boys! So unobservant! “They were just here. You had to have run into them.”

  “Nope. Didn’t see anyone. But I was jotting down some notes on my BlackBerry too.”

  “Great. So I sit in a giant box of trash and see nothing but an improperly disposed of paint can, yet when a real story shows up, you totally miss it.”

  Luke frowns. “What do you mean?” He holds up a hand for me to grab. “Jump out.”

  I barely resist a second eye roll. “I’m in a skirt.” I motion for him to face the other direction, then with very unladylike grunts and probably a flash of my undies, I crawl out of the dump and back onto terra firma. “Okay, you can turn around now.”

  His nose wrinkles. “You smell.”

  “And you’re obnoxious. But, Luke, I have a real story. At least a piece of one. These two guys were here and—”

  “Save it, Kirkwood.”

  “What?”

  “You are assigned to this investigation.” He points to the trash. “That’s all I want you to cover.” He wrinkles his nose. “Maybe not so literally next time.”

  “But I overheard this conversation and—”

  “What was it about?” He grabs the camera out of my hand and slips it in his front pocket.

  “Well . . . I don’t know. But they were being all secretive. Somebody’s got a plan for this hush-hush meeting, and something about the first football game.” Wow. I really do smell.

  “Bella—”

  “And they would’ve talked more but then I snorted a bunch of pepper, which I definitely don’t recommend.”

  “Bella—”

  “And I couldn’t sneeze, so I was holding it in, and I thought my eyeballs were going to pop out of their sockets, and—”

  “Would you be quiet?”

  “Oh.” I blink. “Were you saying something?”

  “You have been assigned a story—”

  “An exposé on trash?” How can you even call that a story?

  “—and you will focus only on your assigned story. So I don’t care if someone comes up to you with details of an Orlando Bloom sighting—you will ignore it. You have a long way to go to prove yourself. And this is not a good start.”

  I open my mouth in helpless outrage. My brain whirs with insults, blistering words, and slurs against his mama. “I am telling you, something is going on at this school. Something related to the game and Matt Sparks—and maybe he’s ready, maybe he’s not—and they want to stop Reggie from talking about last year.” I catch a breath. “What happened last year? Anything? Any sports fiascos?”

  “What you probably heard were a few football players discussing game strategy.”

  “Behind a Dumpster? Luke, this could be big. I smell scandal.”

  “I smell old cafeteria burritos. Go home, Kirkwood. Don’t give this situation another thought. Sort through your notes from this afternoon, and we’ll discuss the progress on your research first thing tomorrow in class.” And he turns on his perfectly polished leather shoe and walks away. Dismissing me. And my juicy news.

  As if we’re both nothing. Totally insignificant in his little world.

  I reach for a crumpled piece of paper in my purse. Checking it, I punch in the numbers on my phone. Voice mail.

  “Lindy, this is Bella Kirkwood . . . I’d like to take you up on the offer we discussed today. I’ll see you tomorrow at lunch. Can’t wait to hang out . . . and meet Matt Sparks.”

  Mom picks me up, and we’re both quiet on the way home. She doesn’t even ask about my appearance. When she turns on the dirt road, the dry dust swirls around us like a fog.

  “Bella, I’m really sorry about Moxie. I know she means a lot to you.”

  Just everything.

  “I want you to know that I placed an ad in the paper. It will start running tomorrow.”

  I turn my head and look out my passenger window.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “What do you want me to say, Mom?”

  She pauses. “Anything. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “I don’t think it would change anything.”

  We pull into the driveway and I jump out, slamming the door behind me. Seems all I do anymore is slam doors.

  “Grab a plate!” Jake calls when I enter the house. “Spaghetti’s on.”

  My stomach rolls. “I’ll pass.” I’ve seen en
ough spaghetti for today.

  Mom’s voice stops me on the stairs. “The whole family is sitting down for dinner together. Wash your hands and take your seat at the table.” I turn around, and the set of her jaw tells me she won’t be taking no for an answer.

  With a long, overdone sigh, I walk past her on the staircase and plop myself into my seat at the table. I feel two eyeballs on me. Slowly I face my younger stepbrother.

  “What are you staring at?”

  His brown eyes narrow. “You look like you’ve been wrestling in pig slop.”

  “And you look like you’ve been eating paste again.” I brush a white fleck off his cheek.

  “Guilty.” He shakes his head. “I try to be strong and resist, but it calls out to me.”

  “At least you’re admitting to your addiction, Robbie.”

  “People don’t understand the burden I carry.” He passes me a bowl of salad.

  Budge shuffles into the kitchen, glares in my general direction, then sits beside his brother. “You stink.”

  “Beans for lunch.” Robbie rubs his stomach. “Sorry.”

  “Not you.” He punches his thumb toward me. “Her.”

  “Shut up, Budge.”

  “You shut up.”

  “Cat hater.”

  “Prissy Paris Hilton wannabe.”

  “Computer techie gamer dork.”

  “Spoiled brat of a—”

  “Enough!” Jake’s hand comes down and the whole table shakes.

  “Now whether you two like it or not, we are a family. And we will get along. But I will not have you yelling at the dinner table.”

  Burp!

  All heads turn to Robbie.

  “Sorry. But this disharmony is affecting my digestive system.”

  He shrugs. “It’s very delicate.”

  “Bella,” my mom says. “Would you like to pray for our food?”

  “No.”

  Her lips thin. “Fine. I will.”

  My mom is going to pray? Until we got to Truman, my mother hadn’t even been in a church in nearly three years. I usually went with friends. Sunday became just another day for my parents to work. Well, that’s what Dad said he was doing. Work probably went by the name of KiKi or Barbi.

  At her amen, food is passed again.

  Robbie slathers butter all over his roll. “So how was work today, Dad?”

  Jake smiles at his son. “It was fine. We had a machine break down for a few hours, but I fixed it. We had a quota to meet, so it was a sticky situation.”

  I would think it’s always a sticky situation in the maxi-pad business.

  After dinner I go upstairs to shower, do my homework, and spend some quality time with my cat. We sit together in the window seat until darkness spills over the sky like black ink.

  A breeze blows my hair and shakes the oak limbs outside. Moxie jumps off my lap at the scraping noise.

  I study the window screen that looks like it’s made of metal floss and has seen better days. With light fingers and a heavy heart, I grab the edge of the screen. It pops out easily, and I place it on the floor. Then, grabbing the Bible on my bedside table and my phone for a light, I climb out onto the roof.

  Caution in every step, I work my way to the edge and grab hold of a big thick branch. And I nestle into its crook and sit.

  An hour passes before I’m through telling God all the things I’d like Him to fix and come back inside. I set my alarm and nestle into the cool sheets with Moxie purring at my ear.

  At 3:55, the buzzing clock blasts me from a dream. I drag myself back to the window seat, my eyes struggling to stay open.

  Five minutes later, I watch my stepdad get into his truck. And with the headlights off long enough to get out of the driveway, he steers his truck toward the road.

  Jake Finley is up to something.

  And I, Bella Kirkwood, intend to find out what it is.

  chapter sixteen

  Good morning.” My mom kisses me on my cheek as I reach in to get a bagel.

  “Hey.” It’s the best I can do. She’s choosing to separate me and Moxie, so excuse me if I don’t exactly feel like blessing her with some kindness. How come the Bible doesn’t address this issue? Where’s the chapter that deals with parents who throw your pet onto the street? Or daughters who see their stepdads sneak off in the wee hours of the morning?

  “Good morning, new sister.” Robbie pours more syrup on his Eggo. “Did you know today is National Towel Day?”

  “Um . . . no.” The collection of facts in this kid’s head scares me.

  “Well, it is. I thought we could all go around the table and tell why we’re thankful for the bath towel.”

  “Actually, Robbie, I thought we could discuss something else.” I wait until Robbie, Budge, and my mother are all looking at me. “Like why Jake snuck out of the house at four this morning.”

  Mom’s eyes widen.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer. But I watched him sneak out of the house. Your husband is up to something, and we deserve to know what that is.”

  Her face falls. “Oh, honey . . . I had wanted—”

  “Things to be perfect? I know. I’m sorry. But they’re not.” Far from it.

  “I had wanted to surprise you.” She looks over my shoulder as Jake enters the kitchen through the back door. “Jake, it seems that Bella—”

  “I know.” I shake my head in disgust. “I saw you leave this morning.” The jig is up, dude. “I think you owe my mom an explanation.”

  And then we’ll be packing our bags and getting out of your way.

  And then my stepdad . . . laughs. He laughs! “There’s just no getting anything by you, is there?”

  “No.” Okay, confused here. Now Mom is laughing.

  “Come with me.” Jake gestures toward the back door. He sees my hesitation. “We’ll all go.”

  The whole family, minus Budge, walks outside.

  And there in the driveway, the same dusty path that I watched Jake travel only hours before, sits a lime green VW Bug. With a giant red bow on top.

  “Surprise!” My mom squeals and pulls me into her arms. “Isn’t it great? Jake found it!”

  “Yeah . . . great.” I watch him through narrowed eyes. “So this is what you’ve been working on?”

  “I’ve been a busy guy. We got it last week, but it needed a few repairs.” He pats my car. “And a killer stereo system.”

  Mom pulls me close, her mouth at my ear. “Don’t you feel silly now—all that suspicious talk?” She giggles. “You always did have a big imagination.”

  “These are all the notes you have?”

  Luke paces in front of me, running a tanned hand through his black hair. The other newspaper staff members are busy writing, but me? I’m getting my daily dose of Luke harassment.

  “Um, yes. Frankly, for two hours of swimming through trash bags, rotten food, and old boxes, I thought I did good to come up with that much.” Jerk. “What did you think I was going to find—the secret recipe for the cafeteria meat loaf? The formula for world peace? The whereabouts of Michael Jackson’s old nose?”

  He stops, lifting his eyes from my notes. “Very funny.” He leans in, his arms braced on each side of my chair. “Bella, if you can’t take it here, you know where the counselor’s office is. She would be glad to change your schedule again.”

  I blink into his ocean blue eyes. “I sat in trash for you. I think I passed your stupid test, so let’s get on with the real stories.”

  “You’ve got one.” He rises up, crossing his arms over his chest. “Stick to it.”

  “What are you working on? Maybe I could help?”

  He coughs to cover a laugh. “My story is a piece I’ve been working on for two years. Our advisor is entering it into a national contest. I don’t think I need your help, but thank you.”

  Maybe he ought to do a piece on humility, the arrogant little— “Luke, are we going to talk about the conversation I overheard at the Dumpster y
esterday? That’s the real story here. Not the shameful way the school doesn’t recycle.”

  “If I catch you pursuing anything but the trash article, you’re off the paper. And within a few days, the only electives open will be Professional Weightlifting and Parenting 101.”

  “But something is going on, and I—”

  “No.” He thrusts my notes back in my hand. “This conversation is over.”

  Your oxford shirt is so over. Ohhh, he makes me so mad!

  A few hours later, I slip into the cafeteria, my lunch bag under my arm. I think I saw a little too much in the Dumpster to risk school food.

  I weave through the tables. I catch a few glares, stares, and some stray insults.

  “Hey, Bella.”

  I sigh with relief when Lindy Miller calls out to me. Part of me thought she’d stand me up. That I would spend yet another day here at Truman High without friends. A total loser and loner.

  “Bella, this is Matt Sparks.” I shake hands with her sandy-headed BFF, then introduce myself to a few more people at the table.

  “You’re the girl who wrote the bad blog about Truman?” Matt asks.

  “Yeah.” I continue to stand, not sure I’m welcome here. “It was a mistake. It was a really bad time for me, and I . . . messed up.”

  He considers this. “It’s going to take awhile for them to warm up to you.” His eyes pan the whole cafeteria. “Not everybody’s as forgiving as Lindy here.” He bites into a French fry. “Or me.” Then he smiles.

  And I sit down. “So you play football?”

  “Yeah, and Lindy here is a beast on the basketball court.”

  She blushes pink. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Oh, I would. She could totally be WNBA material. Hey, Jared.”

  I turn around, and behind me stands Jared Campbell, the first person who spoke to me at Truman. Before the Great Disaster.

  “Hey.” His gaze drops to me before focusing on Matt. “Just wanted to remind you to bring your physics notes to practice.”

  I scrutinize his every word, trying to see if he sounds like either of the two voices I heard yesterday. It’s so hard to tell.