Ambushed

by Jill Williamson

  Girl like her.

  God, why do you torture me? I mean, really.

  Really.

  REPORT NUMBER: 10

  REPORT TITLE: My Best Friend Steals My Dream Girl and Gets Dumped

  SUBMITTED BY: Agent-in-Training Spencer Garmond

  LOCATION: C Camp, 95 Juniper Avenue, Pilot Point, California, USA

  DATE AND TIME: Wednesday, February 15, 6:07 a.m.

  “THESE ARE REAL SIMPLE RANGE OF motion exercises that you need to do before and after surgery,” Mario said.

  It was just after six Wednesday morning, and Mario and I were the only two people in the C Camp building.

  Mario was a muscular guy with dark hair and skin and a wide smile. He reminded me of Mark Sanchez.

  “We need to get that knee bending again, but we also want to get the swelling down and get the cord muscles working.”

  So Mario taught me a bunch of exercises: ankle flex, bridging, glute sets, hamstring curls, heel raises, heel slides, quad sets, standing shallow knee bends, and two types of leg raises. I was supposed to do a minimum of three reps of ten, three times a day. But Mario said the more I did, the better.

  Then he got me on a stationary bike, but when I tried to pedal the thing, I couldn’t.

  “That’s okay,” Mario said. “Just rock it back and forth, back and forth. Every day you’ll get a little farther, okay?”

  “Yeah.” So depressing though.

  “Hey, it can be discouraging, I know. Try and stay positive. You know what might be fun?”

  “Fun? I have no idea.”

  “You have that YouTube channel going for your basketball, yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why not post videos about this? Show yourself working hard, your physical therapy and everything. Could be those college coaches won’t care. Could be they might, though. And could be you help someone else who’s dealing with this, you know, so they know they’re not alone.”

  Mario was a little too peppy sometimes, but the idea had merit. I mean, it couldn’t hurt. At least I’d be posting something on that page. “I’ll think about it.”

  ● ● ●

  Kimball gave me a ride to school in the sedan with him and Mr. Sloan. They didn’t seem wise to my time with MacCormack. And I hadn’t told anyone about the convenient location of the stitches on my chest, either. I probably should, but I just wanted to wait until my knee surgery was over.

  By the time I hobbled my way to my locker, Kip was already there, waiting for me. Without Megan.

  “You still ticked at me?” I asked.

  “Nooo.” Kip grinned, fought it back, pursed his lips until he had a straight face. “I think I love you, actually.”

  Uh oh. He had big news. “Why the change of heart?”

  “Because you left Brittany all alone and rejected and someone had to comfort her.”

  No. “Shut up.”

  He shrugged. “If you don’t want to know what happened, I’m sure Desh and Chaz would love to hear it.” He turned like he was going to walk away, but looked over his shoulder, eyebrows cocked, waiting for me to stop him.

  A knot grew in my chest, right behind my heart. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t. “Spill it. Now.”

  “Because I’m so afraid of a guy on crutches.”

  “Kip.”

  “I went home with her. To her massive mansion house in Beverly Hills. And we smoked some pot and made out. I would have stayed the night, but my dad texted and said he was putting out an APB on me if I wasn’t home in a half hour. But we’re going out again on Friday after the game.”

  The pressure in my chest had grown. The knot was now a dull ache. “Sure you are.” He was lying, right? Right?

  “I’m not lying. And I have the pictures to prove it.” Then Kip pulled out his phone and blessed me with pictures of him, Brittany, or part of both their faces, sitting on the floor in front of a couch, smoking a rolled up joint, laughing.

  “She’s, like, thirty,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say. I seriously wanted to hit something. Maybe Kip.

  “Twenty-two. Looked her up on IMDB this morning.” Kip squinted at me. “You’re mad. You said I could.”

  “I’m not your mother.” I slammed my locker, settled my backpack over one shoulder, and tucked my crutches under my arms. Then I hop-stepped it toward our homeroom class.

  Kip walked alongside me. “You said you didn’t care.”

  “What happened with Valeria? I thought you liked her?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m in love with both of them. But Valeria started hanging with some guy who looked like a boxer. So I found Brittany and . . . You know me.”

  Yeah. I did. “Does Megan know?”

  “No. But she’s mad I didn’t text her back all night.”

  What if Kip and Brittany started dating? What if I started seeing pictures of them on the covers of magazines?

  Please no.

  That could have been me.

  Stop. Don’t be dumb. Say something normal. “Uh . . . Think I can come to your house tomorrow after practice? I wanted to do a Jolt-a-thon. Watch the first three movies.” I needed to take notes on all that connection stuff so I could write up another report.

  “Why not tonight?” Kip asked.

  “Uh, practice? Quarter-finals? Mission Prep? Hello?”

  “Right,” Kip said, looking at his phone again.

  “Dude. You need to pay attention. The team needs you.”

  He pocketed his cell and scowled. “Don’t start with me.”

  “We lost the Rock Academy tournament last year because you just had to go off with the cheerleaders. And then you guys attacked Grace.”

  “That was Desh. Not me. Stop freaking out.” Kip slowed outside the door to homeroom. “Wait. Is that why you rejected Brittany? Grace?”

  “No. I just wanted to know why MacCormack told her to do that. And why she would. Did she say anything to you?”

  He grinned wide. “She said lots of things. But we weren’t talking about you.”

  I wanted to destroy him. “Shut up.”

  Kip cackled and strode into the class. I wished I could go home and weep, but that, sadly, wasn’t an option.

  ● ● ●

  We won the Southern Section quarter-final game against Bell-Jeff that Friday night, 70-63. Sue Adams from the Pilot Point Bulletin cornered me and finally got the answers she’d been so desperate for. Yes, I was disappointed that the schools had pulled their offers. No, I wasn’t giving up. Yes, it was true that Dr. Landry was doing my surgery. Yes, I’d be playing this fall. No, I didn’t know if the schools would still be interested. Yes, I hoped they would.

  The following Tuesday, we had the semi-final game against Buckley. That was a tough game, but the guys worked hard, and we managed to win, 55-52.

  Then came Wednesday, February 22, the day of my surgery. My “dad” had Facebooked me a few times since the premiere last week, but I hadn’t answered. And I almost confessed the whole mess to Grandma on the drive to UCLA Orthopaedic Surgery Clinic. I mean, if MacCormack was somehow involved in a cult like Bratva, maybe he worked for Anya. And if he worked for Anya, I’d be an idiot to go under the knife of a surgeon Anya had connections with.

  But Doc Landry’s reputation spoke for itself. He wasn’t a quack. He’d worked on so many famous athletes, I was sure he wouldn’t risk his reputation botching surgeries for cult leaders.

  That didn’t keep the doubts out of my head that morning, though.

  By the time I was sitting in the pre-surgery bed, my heart was pounding, my palms were sweaty, and my stomach hurt. Of the three types of surgeries available for a torn ACL, I’d chosen the hamstring surgery. It should give me the best change at a full recovery and had the lowest percentage of re-tearing. A nurse came in and hooked me up to an IV. Grandma and I stared at each other awkwardly for about an hour until the anesthesiologist showed up and gave me a shot in the back, which numbed me from the waist down. So weird. I kept trying t
o move my legs, but it was like they weren’t even there.

  Then Doc Landry came in. “How are you feeling, Spencer?”

  “Just want to get it over with so I can get back on the court.”

  “Then let’s do this.”

  They wheeled me to another room—one Grandma wasn’t allowed in. And the next thing I knew, it was over. I think I fell asleep. Who knows what they put in that IV drip bag. I woke up in a recovery room. My leg was all wrapped up in gauze and Ace bandages and a fat brace. Grandma showed up to check on me a half hour before Doc Landry did.

  He said everything went smoothly, and if I was patient and kept up with the physical therapy, there was no reason that I couldn’t be back on the court in nine to twelve months.

  I needed nine. Eight, really.

  That night Grandma took care of me. She brought me meds and fresh ice on a regular basis. But I was pretty much a groggy mess. Sleep was the only thing I wanted then.

  Not even a date with Brittany.

  ● ● ●

  The Southern Section Final game was Friday, February 24 at Mater Dei High School in Santa Ana, which was about an hour south of Pilot Point. Ours wasn’t the only game that day. The section finals for Division 4A and Division 6 schools, both boys and girls, were being played there too. Our game was at 3:30 that afternoon. We’d be playing Mission Prep.

  When the guys were warming up, I took a seat on the end of the bench and put my crutches on the floor under the chairs. We’d beat Mission Prep twice in season games—by at least ten points both times. But I’d been playing then. Tonight would be harder. But this was a team we could beat. I knew it.

  We got off to a great start. Chaz got some passes to Desh, who was bigger than all their forwards. We led 21-11 at the end of the first quarter. Then Kip got into something with their guard. I hadn’t seen what started it, but they were throwing elbows and hips and looked seconds away from throwing fists. Kip got his third foul and coach took him out.

  By halftime we were only ahead by six. Coach and the guys took off for the locker room, but I wasn’t fast enough to keep up. By the time I got there, Coach’s voice had lowered to a grating lecture, but I could tell by the look on everyone’s faces that I’d missed a major tongue-lashing.

  The guys headed back out to warm up. All but Kip and Coach, who were talking.

  “He needs to be put in his place,” Kip said.

  “Maybe,” Coach said, “but so do you.”

  And when the third quarter started, Kip was sitting beside me on the bench. Strangely, I would have thought that benching Kip was a sure way to lose the game. But Alex went in and, in less than twelve seconds, sank a three pointer.

  “Great,” Kip grumbled. “Now he’ll never put me back in.”

  “I’m sorry, is your being in the game more important than that three points?” I asked.

  Kip didn’t reply. It was interesting, watching the game from my perspective, knowing I couldn’t play. For the last few weeks, I watched my teammates for their own personal strengths, not for how I could use their positions to make things happen on the court. And Chaz really was a good ball handler. He couldn’t rebound, and he didn’t make steals, but no one could steal from him. And he had a great left-handed drive. I’d never noticed that before. Next practice I’d see if I could help him learn to keep his eye on the ball on defense.

  Mission Prep fought hard but never got closer than six points. We won the game, 60-54. Things got a little crazy then with everyone jumping in a mob out on the court. I tried to get out my crutches so I could join them, but there were too many people, streaming off the bleachers. So I just sat on my chair and cheered and tried to keep my leg out of people’s way.

  Sue Adams found me there and asked me a bunch of questions. I tried to get her to go talk to Chaz or Desh, but I guess she was just enamored by my awesomeness.

  Winning the section finals was a pretty big deal. Tonight’s win qualified us for the state tournament and earned us the first seed for the Southern Division. That would give us a bye for the first game in the state championship bracket, which was nice. But we still had another four games to win before that trophy would be ours.

  When I got home that night, I did my physical therapy exercises, then looked up pics of Brittany online and felt sorry for myself because she hadn’t texted me yet.

  Neither had Grace.

  The following Monday after practice I went home with Kip to watch the Jolt movies. We chatted like normal, but everything was not normal between us. It was like we’d both caught Awkward Disease or something.

  To make matters worse, twenty minutes into Jolt I, Megan showed up.

  “Hey, baby.” Kip tried to kiss her, but she pushed him away.

  “Don’t you ‘Hey, baby’ me. Explain this?” She held up her cell phone.

  I paused the movie.

  “Hey, check that out!” Kip said. “Me and Brittany Holmes. Nice.”

  “Nice? That’s what you have to say?”

  “What? You think that’s real? Spencer made that. In Photoshop. Right, man?” He turned to me, giving me a look.

  Megan gave me a look too, hands on her hips, eyes on fire.

  I raised my hands in the air. “I’m staying out of this.”

  Kip shrugged. “Well, it was one of the guys. Maybe Mike. Or Desh. It must have been Desh.”

  Desh, who didn’t even know how to save a document? Yeah, must have been him.

  The door opened then, and Kip’s dad came in, wearing his police uniform. “Hey, guys. How was school?”

  “Your son is a pig,” Megan said.

  Mr. Johnson straightened. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. He cheated on me.” Megan shoved Kip.

  “Whoa, now. Just hold on a minute.” Mr. Johnson pulled her back, then turned his “license and registration” gaze on Kip. “That a fact, son?”

  “So what if it is?” Kip yelled. “Only an idiot would reject a famous actress.” He glanced at me.

  I smirked back and muttered, “Jerk.”

  Megan growled a scream. “I’m out of here. Don’t call me, Kip.”

  “I won’t.”

  She stomped out the door and slammed it behind her.

  The three of us stared at the door, silent. Kip’s dad was the first to speak.

  “What famous actress?”

  A lazy smile crossed Kip’s face. “Brittany Holmes.”

  “Son, if you want to break up with a girl, just do it. There’s no reason to make up a lie like that. It’s . . . hack.”

  “It’s not a lie.” And he got out his cell and started showing his dad the pictures.

  Unbelievable.

  “Where did you meet her?” Mr. Johnson asked.

  “At a party,” Kip said, as if Brittany made a habit of frequenting high school parties in Pilot Point.

  Mr. Johnson took Kip’s phone and squinted at it. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “It was just one joint, Dad. And we shared it.”

  Mr. Johnson took a deep breath. “Some people lace their pot with meth or crack. You could end up in a hospital. Be careful.”

  Be careful? Are you kidding me? That was all the man had to say? A cop? If that had been me in those pictures, my grandma would have me in rehab. And when I got out, she’d send me to that military school she’d picked out a few years back.

  Must be nice to have such a laid back dad.

  Mr. Johnson and MacCormak would probably get along great.

  ● ● ●

  My birthday flashed by that week. I did not have a M.A.N. party. Since my birthday was February 29, leap year, the school did not list it in the announcements, as they did with everyone else’s birthdays. But Grandma made me a cake that night and gave me a bunch of clothes that Kimball likely bought. I was seventeen now. So yeah.

  With the drama with Megan, I didn’t get all my movies watched and had to go back to Kip’s on Saturday morning. I asked Kimball to drive me. When I got there, Kip’s dad opene
d the door in his boxers.

  “Spencer, hey. What’s up?”

  “Just coming over to watch some movies.”

  “I thought Kip was at your place.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” I adjusted the brim of my Lakers’ cap, feeling stupid for not knowing where Kip was.

  Mr. Johnson smirked. “Would have been nice if he’d told you that you were his alibi, huh?”

  I laughed awkwardly. “Yeah, I guess.” Kip had better not have been with Brittany, though I suddenly remembered that he’d said he was going out with her on Friday night.

  I hated myself. That could have been me.

  “Well, you want to come in and wait?” Mr. Johnson said. “Or I could have him call you when he gets back. He’d got to set up for his party tonight.”

  The Jolt Revolt. “Can I come in? I really need to watch these movies. It’s for an assignment, but, you know, we don’t have a DVD player.” Grandma Alice and her technophobia anyway.

  “Sure.” He pulled the door wide for me.

  “Thanks, Mr. Johnson.” I vaulted myself inside.

  “It’s Doug, Spencer. Doug. Plus, I’ve got a guest over and don’t want to hear you call me Mr. anything.”

  Guest? Awkward.

  “In fact, could you watch those in Kip’s room? Make yourself scarce?”

  “Uh . . . I guess I—”

  “Doug!” a woman called from deep in the house. “Are you coming back to bed?”

  I blinked at Kip’s dad. He waggled his eyebrows.

  And I realized then that Kip was just like his dad. Mr. Johnson always had a date with some new woman. Why should Kip be any different?

  “You know what? Just have Kip call me.” I pinched my crutches with my pits and fumbled for the doorknob, wanting to get far, far away.

  Mr. Johnson opened it for me and held the door as I exited. “I’ll have him call you.”

  “Thanks.”