Adorkable

by Cookie O'Gorman

  “How’s it going, Becks?” I asked. “Your ankle any better?”

  “My ankle’s fine,” he said tightly, “and I was too until about ten minutes ago.”

  “Really?” I was eyes down, giving every spare bit of attention to my combination. With Becks breathing down my neck, I’d already screwed it up twice.

  “Umm, you know why?”

  Third time did the trick, and I scrambled to get my books in and out as fast as I could.

  “No idea, huh?” Becks leaned closer, his voice whisper-soft. “Well, now let’s see. My girlfriend just broke up with me, and you know what? She didn’t even have the guts to do it to my face. Pretty messed up, right?”

  “Pretend,” I said, slamming my locker closed. In a voice just as quiet, I faced him and said, “Pretend girlfriend, Becks. We were going to end this in a couple of weeks anyway. What’s the big deal?”

  He stared at me, and then held up his phone. “A text, Sal?”

  I flinched.

  “‘F.B.F. plan not working. Want 2 break early. It’s me, not U.’“ Becks recited the message like I might’ve forgotten.

  As if.

  I glared at my hands. They’d shaken for an entire minute after I pushed send.

  “So?” His tone, his eyes demanded an explanation.

  I didn’t have one—or at least not one I was ready to tell him—so instead I said, “I just don’t want to hold you back.”

  “What?”

  “Like you said, there are plenty of girls out there.” I shrugged and started walking. “At the game, I realized just how many. School’s going to end soon. It’s not right for me to take advantage of you like this.”

  “But you knew that from the start,” he said, trying to keep pace. I adjusted my stride to his—taking into account his bad ankle—though all I really wanted to do was run. “And I let you take advantage. What changed?”

  Hmm, let’s see: I realized I was a bad friend, a manipulator, and a Slytherin. We lied to our parents. You wrote that poem. We kissed. A lot of things had changed, but I couldn’t say any of that to Becks.

  “Hey Bally,” Rick Smythe said, giving Becks a high five as we passed. “I’m all for UCLA my friend. Go Bruins!”

  Becks nodded, but his eyes were on me.

  “Bally,” someone shouted, “Ohio’s the way to go, man!”

  “Yo, Bally.” Trent Zuckerman gave Becks’s cheeks a two-handed rub down, smiled at me then went on his way.

  “What’s that they’re calling you?” I muttered. We were almost to Ms. Vega’s door. If I could just hold him off until then, maybe he’d let it rest.

  “Us,” he said. “Not me, us. Don’t you remember Clayton’s couple name?”

  “Don’t tell me,” I groaned.

  “Apparently Bally is catching on.” He tugged on my arm as we reached the door. “Sal, I need you to tell me what happened. Is something wrong?”

  The concern in his face undid me.

  Pulling him a little ways down the hall, I took a deep breath, not knowing what I was going to say exactly, but before I could speak Becks asked the most ridiculous question.

  “Was it something I did?” he asked. “Something I said?”

  “What, no.” I was taken aback. “You didn’t do anything. It was just time.”

  “Is it him? Did your guy finally wise up?”

  “I’m not following.”

  “Jeez, do I have to say it? Sal, are you dumping me for the competition or what?”

  Ah, I thought with sudden clarity. My made-up crush.

  I would’ve laugh at his sullen expression if I didn’t feel like a total jerk for putting it there. Well, that explained the bitterness—which was actually pretty ironic because the only competition Becks had was himself.

  “Listen.” I took his face between my hands, much gentler than I’d seen Zuckerman do, and looked him in the eye. I owed him this much. “It’s not that at all. There’s no competition, Becks. I don’t even think I like him that much anymore.”

  Liar, liar, pants on fire. My mind said it over and over, but since when was that news? These days it felt like I was born to lie.

  “I’ve just been feeling so guilty lately,” I continued. “That’s really all it was.” For the most part.

  “But Sal,” he said, using the same reasonable tone, “the deal was a month. You said so yourself, it’s not going to be as believable otherwise. Plus, do you really think people are going to buy it? That we broke up, just like that, for no good reason? Because I don’t. We’ve done our job too well. People love us together.”

  As if to reinforce his words, the pretty brunette from Tuesday’s game sauntered up and handed Becks a pink envelope.

  Smiling bright, she said to me, “No hard feelings, okay? Man, are you lucky.”

  The smile I gave back must’ve really made an impression because the girl took a step back. Good, I thought. Like Hooker said, serves her right for first proposing to Becks then trying to flash him in the middle of a game. I mean, who does that?

  “Yeah, I am.” I dropped my hands, but stayed close. I didn’t want to give her too much room. She might try and get her shirt over her head, hoping Becks’ll dump me for nice teeth and an overly perky bust line. Yeah, not today, sweetheart. “And I’m not a man.”

  “Oh, I know that,” she laughed nervously. “I just wanted to make sure you guys had your invite. The party’s next Saturday at my house, to celebrate after the first round. Later, Bally. Hope you guys can make it.”

  With that, she turned on her heels and scurried away. It was a nice touch, adding our couple name, but there was no mistaking who the invitation and the flirtatious glance she threw over her shoulder were for.

  “You’re really good at that.”

  Startled, I looked back at Becks. “Good at what?”

  “Playing the jealous girlfriend,” he said, eyes narrowed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were really jealous.”

  I forced a smile. “Well, technically, you are still my boyfriend as far as she knows.”

  He studied my face, and I was afraid I might’ve given myself away.

  I tried not to fidget.

  Finally, Becks ran a hand through his hair and said, “Sal, this isn’t going to work.”

  “What’s not?” I asked.

  “I don’t see why we couldn’t just keep it going. That would only be a couple more weeks, not even. If Mercedes is asking us to come to one of her parties, it’s—”

  “Wait,” I said, “her name is Mercedes? Like the car?”

  Becks nodded. “Yeah, she’s a senior, too, just transferred this year. She’s promised to throw a party for every win we get in sectionals.”

  “How generous.” It bothered me how much Becks knew about her.

  The warning bell sounded.

  “Listen, Sal,” Becks said. “We’ve got to do it big and public. That’s the only way anyone will believe our break-up. Let’s just keep it going until Mercedes’s party.”

  “But—”

  He touched my hand, and I watched him shake his head. “It’ll be the perfect place. Trust me. Plus, this’ll give us more time to ease people into it.”

  “But what if you want to—”

  “Let’s talk about it later, okay?” He dipped his head to look me in the eye. “No more break-up texts, alright?”

  Reluctantly, I nodded. Guess Becks didn’t like getting dumped by phone, even by fake girlfriends. “Alright, but we will talk. Like I said, Becks, I don’t want to hold you back.”

  “You’re not.” He smiled, squeezed my hand then jogged away.

  Maybe he’s right, I thought, walking to first. Springing this on people might not have been my best idea. The text had definitely been a mistake, but I’d been going for quick and painless.

  “Trouble in paradise?”

  Hooker was waiting for me at the door.

  “No,” I said, walking past her, and she followed. “Becks just got invited to some party.�
�

  “Oh.” Hooker held up her own pink envelope. “You mean, this one? Mercedes was the one with the poster, right?”

  “Yeah,” I muttered, remembering the look she’d given Becks. That made at least one girl who’d enjoy our big break-up. She’d probably hit on him before he even left the party.

  “You know what this means?”

  I sighed and shook my head.

  Hooker’s smile widened. “It’s been a while since we performed, Spitz. I’m thinking this would be the perfect opportunity to pull out the old Stetson.”

  My mood lifted. “You think so?”

  “It’s tradition.” There was an odd twinkle in her eyes now. “Besides, it’s senior year. We’ve got to do it.”

  I could feel my eyes twinkling, too. “Which scene?”

  “You know which scene.”

  I did.

  “Do you remember your lines?” I asked, grinning.

  She rolled her eyes. “Do you?”

  “I’m in,” I said just as the bell rang and Ms. Vega called Hooker’s name.

  “Great,” Hooker said, standing. “You better be ready, Spitz. Last time before graduation, we need to make it good.”

  The thought had me smiling throughout German.

  As the days went on, though, even the idea of crashing Mercedes’s party couldn’t keep my spirits up. Everyone—even teachers—kept stopping Becks, telling him which school he should choose, where he should go. Most of them were so far away; it made me want to cry—or punch someone. When Mr. Pulaski suggested Becks play overseas, I’d seriously considered giving him five across the face.

  If our plan was to ease people into the idea of us not being together, he was making it difficult. Really difficult. I couldn’t understand it. Whenever I’d bring up the subject of our break-up, he’d just brush me off and say, “Like I said, big and public. We can talk about it more later.”

  But we never did.

  Worse, after our talk, Becks had upped his F.B.F. game to the nth degree, more handholding, more beneath the ear kisses. He took me to the movies, to dinner, invited me to hang out at his house, came to watch TV at mine. None of this was new. We’d done all those things for years, but there was one huge difference.

  He was always touching me in some way, my hand, my waist, my face. It wasn’t that I didn’t like it. There wasn’t a nerve in my body that didn’t respond to him. He had no idea what those small touches did to me—and that was the problem. It didn’t mean the same thing to Becks. He was playing a part, and I was enjoying it all too much. A person could only endure so many of Becks’s touches before their mind turned to the dark side. The idea of keeping Becks as my F.B.F. forever had already passed through my head. We needed to end it. Soon.

  Hooker called me Saturday to get my head straight.

  “Did you practice?”

  “Didn’t need to,” I said, pulling the last roller out of my hair. I’d gone for the sexy hair again. If I was going to break up with Becks, I at least wanted to look good doing it.

  She snorted. “Me either. Cicero’s coming to pick me up in a few minutes, and then we’re going to drive over. Mercedes isn’t going to know what hit her.”

  I wrapped my holster around my waist and pulled on my black duster. “Okay. I’ll see you there.”

  “Be ready,” Hooker cautioned. “I don’t want us to look stupid or anything.”

  Grabbing my Stetson, I couldn’t help but smile at that one. “Don’t worry. I’ll be ready.”

  “Are you gonna wear the ‘stache?”

  “No, are you?”

  “Of course. Afraid Becks might get turned off if he sees hair growing on top of your lip?”

  “No,” I said, taking a deep breath. Our act wasn’t the only one I’d have to pull off tonight. “See you later, Hooker.”

  “I’ll be waiting. And don’t forget your pistol.”

  On that note, she hung up.

  Mom stopped me in the kitchen. “What’s that outfit about? Are you and Hooker...?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s our last time before graduation.”

  “You two have fun.” She shook her head, looking me over. “Is Becks going, too?”

  I swallowed. “He’s coming.”

  “Does he know what you guys are planning?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, tell him I said hey.”

  “Okay, Mom.” She was still looking at me funny. God, I knew I shouldn’t have applied that extra coat of mascara. “Do I look bad or something?”

  “No.” Mom shook her head, a small smile on her lips. “You look great. Just make sure Becks keeps his hands to himself. I don’t care how old that hair makes you look. You’re still my baby.”

  Mom was obviously not a fan of the sex hair.

  “I’m not ready to be a Grandma yet,” she added. “Even if Becks is such a nice boy.”

  “Love you, Mom.” I waved as I walked out the door, feeling guilty. Hopefully, she’d still think Becks was a nice boy after we broke up.

  We’d decided to meet at Becks’s house and go to the party together. As I pulled into his driveway, I sat in the car a second after turning off the engine. I didn’t know how I was going to break up with Becks, if he had a plan or not. But the day was here. After this party, Becks and I wouldn’t be fake boyfriend and girlfriend. We’d just be friends again. Considering all the stress I’d been feeling, the thought should’ve made me happy, but it didn’t.

  Clayton met me at the door.

  “Oh my God,” he gasped, smiling, hand to his chest. His eyes were glued to my Stetson, the grin on his face stretched from ear to ear. “I think...I think I’m...having a...heart attack.”

  I raised my eyebrows, and he laughed some more.

  “Sally, you’ve got to stop coming ‘round here in those get-ups.” Clayton’s face was beet read as he tried to contain himself. “I’m loving that hair, though.”

  Becks stepped around Clayton. He got a good look at me and sighed. “That’s because she’s gorgeous, and you’re a perv. Let’s go, Sal.”

  I let him lead me to the car, hardly hearing Clayton’s protests. Had Becks really just called me gorgeous? I’d have to start doing my hair like this more often.

  We didn’t talk much on the way to Mercedes’s. Becks kept looking at my outfit and shaking his head, but I was still high off that last comment. When we finally got to her street, the house was unmistakable. She’d decorated it in green and white streamers, and the line of cars looped around the block. CHS had won, of course. Even with Becks out, they’d played well, and Ash had led them to a three to one victory.

  “Lucky,” Becks called it now, walking up the steps to the giant two-story. The door was gaping, so you could hear music all the way out here. “If Stryker had been paying attention, they would’ve never scored in the first place.”

  “I thought you said he did good.”

  “Good,” he repeated. “Not great. Now, are you and Hooker really going to do this? Again?”

  I stopped, turned to face him. “We haven’t even done it for almost two years.”

  “I know, but why?”

  “Why not?” I countered. Stepping back, I held out my arms. “How do I look?”

  Grinning, he reached up and tugged the Stetson more securely onto my head. “You look great and you know it, Sal.”

  Compliment number two. This night was going a whole lot better than I’d predicted.

  As we entered, Becks was greeted in the usual way. Everyone wanted to say hi and give him pats on the back. Though he’d had to sit out, everyone knew the team wouldn’t have gotten where they were without Becks—and he’d be back in for the next game.

  “Oh my gosh!” Mercedes appeared, long hair waving in an unseen breeze, wearing a tight green dress that looked painted on. “I’m so glad you guys could come. Having Bally here is going to make it so much more epic.”

  Having Bally call it quits, I corrected mentally.

  Before I could ge
t too down, the music cut off abruptly, and I heard a voice behind me.

  “Well,” she drawled, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  Slowly, I turned, delivering the line like I said it every day.

  “I’m your Huckleberry.”

  Hooker grimaced, eyes widening comically.

  I grinned.

  Her reaction was perfect. The dusty black coat, the red sash next to the gun at her hip, the mustache, her accent, everything was flawless. We were in the zone, both of us wanting to knock this last one out of the park. Mercedes had been wrong. Bally wasn’t what was going to make this party epic. Doc Holliday and Johnny Ringo were here to have a duel to the death, and they were about to steal the show.

  CHAPTER 12

  Hooker had never died better.

  As she went down choking and groaning, she made sure to fall at Mercedes’s feet, nearly pulling the other girl down in the process. Our hostess looked as if she might faint. When it was done—after Johnny Ringo (Hooker) had taken his last breath, and Doc Holliday (Me) delivered that last line about him being “no daisy”—there was a moment of silence. Hooker and I didn’t care. We took a bow, and half the room burst into applause, the other half still looking like “What the heck?” Tombstone was on TV all the time now, but most of them hadn’t seen it.

  “Man, I love Tombstone.” Trent Zuckerman was one of the few who had. “It was like the best movie ever. You did great, Lillian.”

  “Thanks,” Hooker said, pulling off her ‘stache.

  “I mean really great,” Trent gushed then tried for a thick Southern accent. “‘I am your Huckleberry.’ Man, that’s awesome. You two are like legends.”

  Hooker and I looked at each other. He’d sounded more like a Cali boy on crack, and he hadn’t even gotten the line right.

  “I’ve got to go find Cicero,” Hooker laughed, turning to walk away. “Nice job, Doc.”

  I smiled. Cicero was Hooker’s latest boy toy, a Greek transfer student. “You too, Ringo.”

  Trent moved to follow, calling, “Hey, Lil, hold up!”

  It looked like Zuckerman had a crush. I wondered if it was the facial hair or Hooker’s drawl that did it.