by Liz Fichera
I groaned inwardly as I stared into a sea of bodies, all struggling to swim upstream to their next class while I rehashed my library conversation with Ryan.
A warning bell buzzed throughout the school, grounding my attention. I had forgotten which warning bell, which class period and basically where I needed to be. I might have even forgotten my own name. So I simply kept walking, cocooned by backpacks and shoulders, the Lameness That Is Me song on replay in my head. I suddenly have a schedule? I have appointments? Why did I say that to Ryan?! Please, Fred. Get over yourself. But Ryan Berenger actually thought I had a boyfriend….
My internal chastisement skidded to a halt at the sound of a certain breathless voice somewhere in front of me. It squeaked, more noisily than all others, obviously loud on purpose. I tiptoed a few steps to locate its blond head. For once, Gwyneth was talking about something that compelled my attention.
“I’m pretty sure Ryan’s going to ask his parents if I can come to his family’s cabin over Thanksgiving. They go every year.”
My stomach tightened.
“That is so cool,” another girl gushed. “Do you go every year, too?”
“I’d like to,” Gwyneth said, “but you know Ryan.”
No, I don’t. Just when I thought I knew Ryan Berenger, he’d hook a piece of his personality off the fairway and into the weeds. Like inviting me to a party out of the blue. I walked faster, eager for more eavesdropping.
I had to wedge between two freshmen who were walking directly behind Gwyneth and her other blond-headed friend. “Sorry,” I muttered to the boy on my left as I accidentally knocked the backpack off his shoulder. “I’m late for class.”
I finally pushed my way directly behind Gwyneth, close enough to smell the wake of the grapefruit gum snapping in her mouth.
“Anyway,” she said, “I’m pretty sure his parents expect me to bunk with Riley but so not happening. Ryan and I have other ideas.” They started to giggle, and my stomach lurched.
Ugh.
What did Ryan Berenger see in this girl? Was he sleeping with her? Gah! I didn’t even want to picture that. Why did he want to be in the same time zone as Gwyneth? My mind drifted to a whole bunch of brand-new questions.
Before I knew it, I found myself in English class, seated in my usual spot.
My gaze dipped nonchalantly to my watch, and I wished the hands would move faster.
Somewhere in the back of the room, Ryan was sitting at his desk, listening to Mrs. Weisz’s lecture on nineteenth-century literature. I wondered if his mind was drifting like mine to places it shouldn’t. I imagined that every so often his gaze might sweep across the back of my head, and my skin tingled all the way down to my toes at the idea without my really understanding why. But then I reminded myself that this was the same boy who dated Gwyneth Riordan and who’d planted three bricks in my golf bag as a joke.
Some joke.
And then, oddly, I pressed my palm against my mouth and smiled into my hand. At least he’d apologized. And personally invited me to his party.
With my other hand, I doodled a golf shoe in the margin of my notebook, trying to make a show of pretending to listen to Mrs. Weisz’s lecture even though what I was really trying to figure out was how in the world I could show up to Ryan’s party. Would anybody talk to me? Would he? Would I have a good time? Wouldn’t it be wiser to snag a shift with Mom at the restaurant instead? My brand-new golf shoes were finally within reach of my wallet. Convincing Dad to let me drive the truck into Phoenix on a Friday night would require superhuman persuasive skills, too.
I frowned at my options and sank lower in my seat. I wrote Ryan’s name in my notebook and then quickly scratched it out. I nibbled on the end of my pen. Then I wrote, Party?
A party on the other side of Pecos Road with people I barely knew just didn’t feel right.
But then, why did I ache to go so badly?
Chapter 20
Ryan
I PRETENDED TO WATCH MRS. WEISZ at the front of class when I was really studying the shape of Fred’s head.
Her hair hung in soft waves all around her. Sometimes she’d move in a way that would spill her hair forward, exposing a smooth bare shoulder. And then someone would press that giant Slow-Motion Universe Button again.
Fred was the only one taking notes. Her fingers swept across her notebook, and she paused every few minutes to nibble on the tip of her pen. I figured her penmanship was probably as perfect as her name on that Gatsby book, each letter slanted and curved at all the right angles.
“What’s she droning on about?” Seth nudged me with a sharp elbow.
“Huh?” I turned. For a split second, I thought he meant Fred. But Fred wasn’t talking. “No clue,” I said finally, turning my attention back to the front again. And Fred.
“Awesome,” Seth replied wryly. “Big help.”
I ignored him. I was too busy wondering for the hundredth time whether Fred Oday would show up at my party. Part of me was pretty sure she wouldn’t. And who could blame her? But then the anxious part of me wished she would. Bad. Real bad.
I’d already told Seth that the joke was an epic fail. The news had seemed to bother him, but I figured Seth would get over it. He was always playing jokes on people—friends, family, even our math teacher, Mr. LaFruit. Freshman year, Seth had replaced all of Mr. LaFruit’s whiteboard pens with permanent black markers and blamed it on Troy Bean. The sad thing was Mr. LaFruit believed Seth. Teachers always did. He had that kind of innocent face that no one ever doubted, especially teachers. Me, on the other hand, I always looked guilty whether I did anything or not. Just ask my parents.
Seth knew about the party tonight, and of course he was invited, but I hadn’t told him I’d mentioned it to Fred. Yet. Knowing him, he’d go a little ballistic at first, but then he’d accept it. I’d get him to see that we owed it to her. Anyway, I figured I’d wait to see if she even showed up. Given Seth’s lame hazing joke with the bricks, I had my doubts.
Seth nudged me again with his elbow.
“Mr. Berenger? Mr. Winter?” Mrs. Weisz snapped.
I blinked to attention.
Mrs. Weisz was gripping both sides of the podium like she wanted to hurl it out a window.
Thirty heads swiveled to the back of the room, even Fred’s.
“Is there a problem back there? Do you have a question?” Mrs. Weisz’s tone was majorly doubtful.
“No question, Mrs. Weisz,” Seth said. His eyes blinked wide with innocence.
That usually softened the blow. For him.
“I was just asking Ryan for a pencil,” Seth added.
“Well, Mr. Berenger?” Mrs. Weisz tilted her head.
“Yes, ma’am?” I said.
Her eyes rolled at me. “Do you have a writing instrument that you could lend to Mr. Winter?” Her thumbs tapped the podium. “Something we usually call a pen or a pencil.”
A few students snickered.
Seth snorted behind his hand, his face conveniently shielded behind Harry Graser’s ba-dunk-a-dunk head.
“Um. Yeah, sure,” I mumbled, reaching into the backpack underneath my chair. I tossed Seth a blue pen and then looked back at the front of the room. Part of Fred’s face peered at me over her bare left shoulder. I couldn’t see her mouth.
But from the way her black eyes sparkled, I was sure she was smiling at me.
I felt my own mouth smile in return, just a tiny one, before Fred turned around again. I wasn’t sure if she caught it.
Then I looked at Seth. He was glaring at me. “Who are you smiling at like an idiot?” he whispered.
My smile faded instantly. What? I mouthed at Seth. But I felt my cheeks burn.
Seth’s eyes narrowed as they darted from me to the front of the room and then back again. “Are you bent?” he said.
I didn’t reply. But then, I didn’t need to. He’d caught me smiling back at Fred.
Uncomfortable, I sank lower in my chair and absently drew a feather in my notebook. I
was in deep already.
*
The hands on the kitchen clock wouldn’t move fast enough.
I looked at it again while I paced across the tile. It was 6:30 on Friday night, and Dad still hadn’t left for work yet, if that’s where he was really headed.
He’d already informed the whole family that he needed to drive to downtown Phoenix and finish drafting a few more legal briefs. It was the usual excuse, especially when Mom was out of town.
But I didn’t care, not really. As long as he was long gone before my friends arrived. Mom had left for some conference in Tucson before anyone had gotten home. She’d put a handwritten note next to the phone along with cash for a pizza or takeout, signing her note MB as if we wouldn’t know who left it. And I could pretty much count on Riley to spend the evening in her bedroom, surfing on her laptop. It was turning into the perfect ripper.
Getting Dad out of the house was the final hurdle. And he wasn’t making it easy.
Dad barreled down the staircase dressed in casual pants and a golf shirt. “Sure you don’t want to order a few pizzas or something for your guests?” he asked as he reached for his car keys from a hook next to the kitchen door. He turned to place two crisp twenties next to the phone. I didn’t bother to tell him that Mom had clipped two twenties to her note.
Instead, I poked my head inside the pantry next to the refrigerator. “Maybe,” I said. “But there’s plenty to eat here, too.” Along with the case of beer in the basement refrigerator. “Maybe later,” I added, so that Dad wouldn’t return the bills to his wallet.
“How many friends tonight?”
“Not many,” I said casually. “Six or seven.” Make that twenty.
Dad smiled, pleased. “Is Seth invited?”
“Yep.”
“Good. I like Seth. Nice kid. Haven’t seen him in ages.”
’Cause you’re never around, I wanted to say. But tonight, the only thing I needed him to do was walk to the garage, climb into his car and leave me alone till Monday morning.
Dad’s keys jingled in his front pocket.
Finally.
My jaw unclenched.
Dad’s lips twitched like there was something more he wanted to say but had forgotten. Or forgotten how.
Dad turned for the garage.
Almost there.
But then he stopped. He cleared his throat. “Not too late tonight. Okay?”
I sighed inwardly and did my best to display the appropriate Obedient Son skills. “Right, Dad,” I said quickly—too quickly. I was ready to burst. “Not too late. Got it.”
Dad smirked at my uncharacteristic attempt to be helpful. “And don’t be too loud if you go outside. Don’t need any angry neighbors.”
“Sure, Dad,” I said.
“Call me if anything comes up.”
I took a few steps toward him, coaxing him toward the garage door with my body. “Will do,” I said. Another forced smile.
“Well, okay, then. I’ll see you later—”
The doorbell rang.
Dad’s face brightened, and my jaw clenched all over again. “I’ll get that,” he said. “Might be Seth. Wouldn’t hurt to say hello, right?”
“No, Dad,” I moaned. “That’s okay. Really. I’ll get it.” This was so not cool.
But Dad was too fast. He marched to the front door with me trailing behind, my eyes burning holes in the back of his head. Why couldn’t he just leave when he said he would? Why the sudden interest in my life?
Dad unlocked the heavy wooden door and pulled it open. I stood just behind him.
“Hi,” said a voice that most definitely did not belong to Seth.
“Yes?” he said guardedly, like he was greeting a salesman selling water softeners. “Can I help you?”
“Is Ryan home?”
“Ryan?” Dad turned sideways to make room for me. We stood shoulder to shoulder in the doorway.
I felt my cheeks tighten, then flush, just a little. “Dad,” I said as I dragged my tongue across my lips to coax them to move. “This is Fred Oday. The new player on the golf team I was telling you about.” Beside me, Dad’s entire body stiffened. Then I heard a gush of air.
“Oh…” Dad cleared his throat and opened the door, still hesitant. “Um, well. Won’t you come in?” It was an uncomfortably weird welcome.
Fred glanced at Dad and then me like she was having second thoughts. Her shoulders rose a little higher when she walked through the door, like they did at school. Tonight, though, she couldn’t hide behind a golf bag.
Dad continued with his nervous throat-clearing before shifting from one brown loafer to the other. I’d rarely seen him at a loss for words.
“Hi, Fred,” I said once I got control of the nervous grin stretching across my face.
Dad had been bugging me about meeting the new star of the Lone Butte High School varsity golf team. Here was his chance.
Chapter 21
Fred
COMING TO RYAN’S party was a mistake. The nervous flicker in his dad’s eyes confirmed it. Yep, I should have stayed on the other side of Pecos Road.
I’d seen that look before, unfortunately. Tons of times. Like the first day of freshman year when I’d sat alone in the cafeteria. Or when I went inside shops at the mall and didn’t buy anything or, worse, lingered around a display case. Until recently, I’d seen that look at the golf course, too. The one that said I was welcome, but not really. Kind of hard to describe. But when it happens to you, you’ll never forget it. It washes over you like a wave, pulling you lower like an undertow just because it can.
Ryan hadn’t given me his phone number, only his address, and he hadn’t specified a time so I’d taken a chance on driving into Phoenix just before it got dark, mostly to appease Dad. I was still weaning him from worrying about my night driving. Fortunately he was too tired to put up much of a fight tonight and had simply pressed the keys into my hand after giving me an abbreviated version of his It’s Not Your Behavior I’m Worried About, It’s Everyone Else’s speech.
I’d parked near the corner and across the street, as far from the streetlamp’s orange spotlight glow as possible.
I hadn’t counted on meeting Ryan’s father.
“So, Ryan tells me you’re quite a golfer,” Mr. Berenger said as he followed Ryan and me into a kitchen that was as big as the one at the Wild Horse Restaurant.
My gaze swept over all the cherry cabinetry and stainless-steel appliances. It was like walking into a department store. “Um, yes, I like to play golf,” I managed numbly. My eyes landed on a lighted glass refrigerator that held nothing but wine bottles. There must have been at least fifty stacked inside.
“Your parents belong to the club?”
I paused and tried to control myself, pulling my shoulders back. “My father works at the club.”
Mr. Berenger leaned against a granite countertop. It gleamed like wet river rock, and I fought the urge to run my fingertips across it. There wasn’t the slightest smudge anywhere. “Oh, really?” He was intrigued. “Is he the pro?”
I swallowed. “No.” I refused to let my gaze lower. “He’s the groundskeeper.”
Ryan’s eyes flicked between us, and I got the sick sense that my answer pleased him.
“I see,” Mr. Berenger replied in a small voice. He cleared his throat again and suddenly peeked at his gold wristwatch. “He must be quite a golfer, too? Like his daughter?” He said it like a question.
I smiled. “Not really. He’s usually too tired to play after work.”
“So, where’d you learn?”
“On the driving range.” I paused. Then I answered the next question before he could ask it. “I just kind of taught myself by watching other people.”
“You’re kidding?” Mr. Berenger said, wide-eyed, the first honest reaction he’d had since I’d stepped through the front door.
I shook my head. “Not kidding.”
“No lessons?” He said it like it was mathematically impossible.
&nbs
p; “Not one.”
Mercifully, Ryan said, “Dad, don’t you have to be at work or something?” He did a head tilt toward the door off the kitchen, and I sucked back a tiny breath. “I really have to get ready for the party. You know, no parents allowed.”
Mr. Berenger’s palms lifted up. “Sure, son. Sorry, Fred. Didn’t mean to hammer you. It’s just that being a girl on a boys’ varsity golf team—well, you got to admit it’s kind of…different.”
I nodded and smiled, but the sentiment was forced. Mr. Berenger didn’t need to tell me about different. I had a Ph.D. in different. “I’m only on it because the school doesn’t have a girls’ team.”
“Maybe next year.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe next year.”
Mr. Berenger’s eyes darted to his watch one final, painfully long time. It was like he was having second thoughts about leaving. But then he waved goodbye and strode toward the garage door. “Have fun, kids. Don’t forget what I told you, Ryan, about the noise.” He threaded his car keys through his fingers. And then he was gone.
The air felt infinitely lighter.
Ryan turned to me. “Jeez.” He rolled his eyes. “My dad’s a lawyer. He’s used to asking a lot of questions. It’s kind of annoying. Sorry about the third degree.”
I shrugged instinctively. “Sorry I showed up early.”
He took a step closer and stuffed his hands in the front pockets of his faded jeans. “Don’t be. I’m glad you came. I wasn’t sure if you would.”
I swallowed back the dryness in my throat. Ryan looked kind of cute, standing there all apologetic. I hadn’t expected him to say that he was glad to see me, and I wasn’t entirely unhappy to hear it either.
“Thirsty?” He turned to a refrigerator that was as tall as he was and five times as wide.
“Yeah.”
“Beer? Coke? Water?”
“Water is good,” I said quickly.
Ryan lifted a clear compartment inside the refrigerator door built especially for water bottles—stacks of them, and not the generic kind either. I’m pretty sure my mouth hung open a little. “Wow,” I gushed.
“Wow, what?” Ryan turned, opened a water bottle and handed it to me.