A Charmed Life

by Jenny B. Jones

  “Oh. I see Luke and his girlfriend are here.” My editor-in-chief skates next to his college girl. A silly stocking cap sits on her head, and her hair sprouts out in two juvenile pigtails.

  She looks totally cool. And I want to thoroughly dislike her for it.

  “Something wrong?” Lindy follows the trail of my stare.

  I force my attention back to the table. “No.” I hope this smile is believable. “I’m just impressed with the rink. It’s cool the town creates this every winter. I mean, it’s no Rockefeller Center, but it’s pretty close.”

  The up-tempo song ends, and a slow one takes its place. Couples filter onto the rink. I see Taylor rise up and kiss Luke on the cheek.

  They laugh, and he escorts her off the ice.

  “You guys should go skate.” I nudge Lindy with my knee.

  “I don’t know.” She braves a look at Matt. “Um . . . do you want to?”

  He shrugs. “I guess.”

  “Well, you don’t have to sound so excited.” She huffs and walks away.

  Matt stands up, ready to follow. “What was that about?”

  “I don’t know,” I say innocently. “Maybe you shouldn’t sound like you’d rather eat live worms than skate with her.”

  “We skate together every year. What’s the big deal?”

  Boys. So dumb, yet so necessary in our world.

  Matt joins Lindy on the ice, and after lacing up my skates, I make my way there as well. Sure it’s mostly couples, but who cares?

  My blades wobble as I step down, but soon I’m steady and gaining speed. I weave through the crowd, the wind catching my hair. Tilting my head back, I fill my lungs with the crisp winter wind. A snowflake falls, then two. I stick out my tongue to catch the next one. After a few minutes, I hold out my arms and skate backwards, and when the speed feels right, I twist my body and pop into a jump.

  I turn at the sound of clapping behind me.

  “Is this a one-girl show, or can anyone join?”

  “Hello, Luke.” I face forward again, skating on as if he’s not there.

  I hear his blades slice to catch up. “You’re pretty good.”

  I wave at some friends we pass.

  “I said—”

  “I heard you.”

  His brow furrows. “Are you mad at me?”

  “Why would I be mad at you?”

  “Because you’re a girl, and that’s what you do.”

  I know he’s just baiting me for a response, so I smile and hum along to the music.

  “Do you know there’s a guy with a video camera over there?” He points across the rink where a man stands with a lens trained on me.

  “Just ignore him. That’s what I do.”

  “Like you’re ignoring me?”

  I slow my skates. “Look, I’ve had a hard day of slinging tacos. Why don’t you go find your girlfriend and talk to her?”

  That annoying smile returns to his face. The one he always gets when I mention Taylor the Genius Girlfriend. “She just left to meet some friends.”

  I return to ignoring him. Doesn’t the Bible say if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all? No, wait. Not the Bible. My mom? The fortune cookie I ate last week?

  “Bella.” Luke’s hand on my arm stops us both.

  Couples swish around us as I study Luke’s face. There’s something there I can’t define.

  “I’m not mad at you, Luke. I just wanted some time to skate.” I stare up at the sky and let the flakes collect on my lashes. “This makes me miss Manhattan, and I want to soak it all up.”

  “I saw you talking to Anna.”

  “You could’ve told me you were working with Budge and the police.”

  He runs a hand through his black hair. “This isn’t your mystery to solve.”

  “She asked me to clear her name.”

  “I should think that car running us off the road would be enough motivation for you to stay out of it.”

  “What, so you can be in danger, but I can’t?”

  “You almost got killed the last time you stuck your nose in something here at Truman High.”

  “Luke Sullivan . . . I think you’re worried about me.” Now it’s my turn for the sly grin.

  His face is impassive. “You have a new assignment for the paper. I want you to interview sophomore Tracey Snively. She was student of the month.”

  “No! You’re just trying to weasel me out of the missing funds story. Besides, Tracey Snively is that girl who has like thirty cats. And she smells like yams.”

  “I’m the editor, and right now we have no missing funds story. And last time I checked, we still had a paper to publish.”

  “Don’t shut me out of this. Anna came to me to clear her name. Ruthie came to me to get to the bottom of this. Not you.”

  He pulls us to the side of the rink. “Ruthie McGee? What does she have to do with this?”

  “Oh, gee. I’m sorry. But that’s something I’m working on all by myself.” I bat my lashes. “Can’t tell you.”

  I skate away and rejoin Lindy and Matt. Since they aren’t in the throes of one big make-out session, I assume that Lindy didn’t declare her true feelings to her BFF, and Matt didn’t tell Lindy she’s the milk in his Cheerios.

  An hour later, much of the crowd has gone home. I say goodbye to my friends, grab my purse, and walk to my car.

  The Bug glistens with a diamond frost, and as I stick my key in the door, I notice it’s unlocked.

  That’s funny. I always lock it. No, this isn’t the backstreets of New York where they’ll strip your car down to the caps, but still, a girl has to be careful.

  Suddenly I’m very aware of how alone I am out in the gravel parking lot. Just me and a few cars.

  I quickly open the door, and there on the seat is a piece of pink paper. The type is in a jagged font.

  Bella,

  I’m warning you to mind your own business. I’d hate to see you get caught in the path of what I want. Nothing will stop me—not even you.

  A chill snakes down my spine.

  And a hand settles on my shoulder.

  I scream into the night air and jump straight up, my hands slapping out. “Back off! I know Pilates!”

  “Bella.” Luke grabs my hands and pins them to his chest.

  “Bella!”

  I melt into him and sigh in relief. “I totally knew it was you. I did.” Raising my head, I step back and put some distance between us. “What are you doing out here? I thought you’d left.”

  His forehead wrinkles. “I was talking to some friends when I saw you walk off by yourself. Thought I’d make sure you got to your car okay.” His blue eyes zone in on the note. He takes it from me, and I notice my hands are shaking. So much for acting unaffected.

  “How many of these have you received?” His gruff voice is like sandpaper to my nerves.

  I snatch the note back. “I’m not feeding you any more information just so you can cut me out and get the story for yourself.”

  “An answer, Bella.”

  “Fine.” Why are boys so annoying? “This is the first. But it’s none of your concern.”

  Luke’s fingers latch onto my shoulder again. “You’re my concern.”

  I’m pulled in by the intensity of his eyes. He draws me closer to him, and my hands rest on his jacket.

  His eyes drop to my lips.

  I hold my breath, afraid to move.

  Afraid he’s going to kiss me.

  Terrified he’s not.

  Beside us a car alarm wails, and we jolt apart.

  I pan over Luke’s shoulder to see a black-haired man backing away from a Honda, his video camera drooping. “Shoot. I really needed that footage. I don’t suppose I can get you two to move in close again?”

  We both stare.

  “I didn’t think so.”

  chapter fifteen

  Mrs. Palmer hasn’t even started reviewing for our lit final, and I’m already counting the minutes. Why is it they
have to ruin the few days leading up to break with finals? Forcing me to study until my brain oozes out does not make me want to break out in some “Deck the Halls.” But come Friday, I’ll be Manhattan bound and far away from tests and report cards, spending an early Christmas with my dad.

  Budge lumbers into English class, his red curly hair shielding half his face. He glances around for a seat, and knowing the only one open is behind me, I wave my hand and pat his desk. With our work schedules, I haven’t gotten to talk to him at all. And stepbrother has some explaining to do.

  I pounce as soon as he sits down. “Why didn’t you tell me you were working with Luke Sullivan?”

  Budge picks a piece of lint off his “Frodo for President” t-shirt.

  “I didn’t know I had to report to you.”

  “I was taking care of clearing Anna’s name. And Ruthie’s. I don’t need Luke’s help.”

  He pulls a pencil from his fro. “I don’t do turf wars, but Luke has my loyalty.”

  I gasp. “He paid you!”

  Budge’s stubbly jaw drops. “That offends me, Bella. I am wounded to the core. My mind is just reeling. In fact, I might have to look over your shoulder and copy off your final tomorrow just to ease my pain.”

  I do a partial eye roll.

  “Good morning, Truman High! This is Tiger TV with our last announcements for the semester.”

  “I was in the process of getting witnesses to confirm that Anna was at the coffee shop at the time the check was cashed.”

  “I’m sorry, Velma. I didn’t mean to get in the way of you and the Mystery Machine.”

  I narrow my eyes. “If you don’t help me out and keep me in the loop on Ruthie McGee, I’ll . . .” Thinking, thinking. “Tell her something that would destroy your reputation forever.” I lift my chin. “I know things.” Other than the fact that he has one Justin Timberlake CD hidden in his room, I’ve got nothing.

  “Oh, I’m so scared.”

  Maybe it’s the lighting, but I think I see a flicker of doubt.

  “. . . The finalists for your senior prom queen are Anna Deason, Felicity Weeks, Ruthie McGee, and Callie Drake. Your prom king candidates are . . .”

  I tune in to the announcements long enough to make a list on my notebook and reread the names.

  “Get online and exercise your American right to vote. Results will be announced at prom in March.”

  “Your girlfriend made the cut.”

  Budge flushes red. “She’s not my girlfriend. And she scares me.” His mouth lifts. “I kinda like it.”

  At lunch I’m supposed to meet cat girl Tracey Sniveley for an interview, but she doesn’t show. I fix a salad, buy a water, and walk toward my friends. As soon as I sit, everyone quiets.

  I glance at the faces of Anna, Matt, and Lindy. All guilty-looking.

  I spy a flash of white. “What’s that behind your back there, Anna?”

  “This?” It remains out of sight. “Nothing. Just, um, Sports Illustrated.”

  “Really? Who’s on the cover?” Though she’s a cheerleader, Anna knows nothing about sports. Even less than I do.

  “Uh . . . Tiger Sharapova.”

  “Hand it over.”

  With a worried glance at Lindy, Anna puts the magazine in my hand.

  “The Enquirer?” I read the cover. “The Olsen twins are in secret negotiations with aliens from Mars. Cameron Diaz dates ninety-year-old men. Bella Kirkwood—” What? I pull the magazine closer. “Bella Kirkwood: Can This Wrestler’s Daughter Juggle Her Two Loves?” And there on the cover is a picture of Hunter with his arms wrapped around me. And another of me standing next to my car, staring into the eyes of Luke Sullivan, his hands on my shoulders.

  “It’s okay, Bella. It’s just a tabloid.”

  I glare at Matt. “Of my life! How can they print this? And why would anybody care?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Anna takes back the magazine. “People can’t get enough of Pile Driver of Dreams. Even my grandma watches it.”

  “But I’m no celebrity!” What if Luke’s seen this? Or his girlfriend? Okay, calm down. Nothing’s happened between us. No big deal. And do I even care what Hunter thinks? But then again, if he’s sick, does he need this kind of stress? I know I don’t.

  “The pictures . . .” I search for words. “They’re not what they look like. I promise. No hanky-panky on my end. I’ve totally kept my lips to myself.” Tragic, but true.

  “Heyyyy.” I turn at the deep voice. Ruthie McGee sets her tray beside mine. “Nice pics.” She elbows me in the ribs. “Juggling two guys. Atta girl!”

  “But I’m not!” I take a long drink of Dasani. “Um . . . did you need something? I’ve got Budge doing his computer magic, so hopefully we’ll get to the bottom of who took over your MySpace and sent that picture.”

  “Well, let me know if you need my help,” she says. “I have distant mob connections.”

  After school I drive to my taco nightmare.

  “Um, Manny, my cat kind of chewed a big hole in my sombrero. Do you have another one?” Please say no. Please say no.

  “You got it, señorita.” My boss holds up a meaty finger. “Wait here.” He goes back into his office and returns with a hat bigger than the last. “You’ll grow into it.”

  “Only if my head swells,” I mumble. I slip on my poncho, flop on the sombrero, and take my place behind the counter.

  Two hours later the dinner rush is in full swing.

  Two men walk in and I give them the standard greeting. “Welcome to Pancho’s Mexican Villa!” We serve tacos and humiliation.

  “I’ll have a Nifty Nacho and a Mucho Munchie Burrito. Sam, what do you want?” The taller of the two steps back to let his friend order.

  “You,” I hiss. The black-haired guy with the camera. “You work for the show. And you sold the pictures to some trash magazine!”

  His grin stretches wide. “I got a kid to support. Nice shots though, eh?”

  My mouth opens and closes. I filter all the words I want to say, but know I shouldn’t. “This is my life you’re distorting. I have friends, a family. People’s feelings are getting hurt.” Like mine.

  He shrugs. “Who cares? That’s the biz, baby. If you were smart, you’d work it. You could have all of America involved in your love triangle. That sells.”

  “I am not for sale. And there is no love triangle.”

  Chris Stilwell hands me the first order.

  “Get used to it, babe,” the photographer says. “I’m not going anywhere. And it’s okay to be a girl who plays the boys. Keep stringing them along, I say.”

  Oh!

  As if my hand disconnects from my brain, I reach for the salsa and throw it on his shirt. “I am not some cheap skank.”

  The tall one laughs. “You don’t have to be. That’s what Photoshop is for.”

  I turn around, grab the refried bean dispenser. I pull the trigger and bean burrito innards squirt all over my target.

  “Dude.” Chris twirls two cheese shooters like pistols and hoses the photographers down. “Right on!”

  A table of teenagers in the back joins in, throwing queso and chips clear across the room.

  A woman screams and holds up her tray in defense while her husband grabs three tacos and flings them like grenades.

  The air is filled with hamburger meat and other lardy delights. I lunge for the floor and crawl military-style toward Manny’s office.

  I knock on the door, and it opens. Manny looks side to side, then down. “Did you lose something?”

  A tortilla smacks him in the face.

  “My job?”

  Why is it lately when I come home at night, I need to be hosed off?

  I guess tonight is the last night for smelling like a nacho platter. I think I got all the research I can from Pancho’s. And Manny agreed. I try to focus on something more positive, like getting out of school a day early and leaving for my dad’s Friday. I can’t wait to get out of town.

  With the beans out of my h
air, I step out of the shower and into some clean clothes. A little quality time with Robbie will cheer me up before I cram for finals.

  My towel still on my head, I walk down the hall to Budge and Robbie’s room. Hearing the TV blaring and someone singing, I know Robbie’s got to be in there. I knock once and then shove open the door.

  My brain shudders as I process the sight before me. Budge screams and flies off the bed. With his bulky body, he shields me from the TV.

  “It’s not what you think!” His face is white as a tortilla.

  “Let me see what you’re watching there, stepbrother.” I smile.

  Whatever it is he’s hiding, I have a feeling I’m going to be able to use it.

  “Just walk away and pretend like none of this ever happened.”

  “I heard singing.”

  His Adam’s apple bobs. “Radio. It was the radio.”

  I glance at the stereo sitting quietly in the corner. “Nah. And the tune . . . it kind of sounded familiar.”

  Budge closes his eyes. “Leave my room!”

  I’m in a scrappy mood tonight, so I do what any stepsister would do. I get a running start, leap into the air, and tackle him. He spins around and around, and I hang on for dear life.

  “Aughhhh!” With a battle cry, he flings me across the room, and I land on Robbie’s bed.

  Where I get a perfect view of the TV. “Hannah Montana!” I dissolve into giggles. “Budge watches Hannah Montana!”

  “No!” he shouts. “I was just flipping channels!”

  I roll off the bed. “It’s okay, Budge. I’ve watched a lot of her too.”

  He stares back toward the screen. “Really?”

  “Yeah, when I was like twelve!” I barely dodge a pillow and run out of the room.

  I search the rest of the house and finally find the brother I actually wanted to talk to in the living room. He’s sprawled on the floor, tongue stuck out and crayon in hand. An empty bag of chips is nearby.

  “Hey, Robbie. Nice picture. What is it?”

  He doesn’t even look up. “It’s a pastel representation of my feelings on the corruption of our legal system.”

  “Oh.” Why can’t he draw puppies and smiley faces like other kindergarteners? “Hey”—I crouch down beside him—“are you feeling okay? You seem a little down lately.”