Dumb fool.
My heart suddenly felt like someone had punched through my chest and squeezed the blood out of it. I closed my eyes.
So stupid.
I slapped the mat by my hips. How was I supposed to know Beth was a card carrying member of the Prude Patrol? I was lucky she hadn’t beaten me into liquid form. I’d never heard of a girl saving her first kiss for marriage. It seemed psycho, but at the same time… cool. That about summed up Beth. Psycho and cool.
Too bad it was long past over.
REPORT NUMBER: 6
REPORT TITLE: A Game of Truth or Dare Gets Me a Homecoming Date
SUBMITTED BY: Agent-in-Training Spencer Garmond
LOCATION: 95 Juniper Avenue, Pilot Point, California, USA
DATE AND TIME: Tuesday, November 11, 3:00 p.m.
I avoided Beth, but for all I knew, she was avoiding me, too. And now I needed to try and get into the regular LCT class if I was going to learn enough fighting to protect myself. I had no idea how many personal points I had. So I asked Mr. S after class Tuesday morning.
“Let’s see…” He opened the points book on his desk and flipped some pages. “Well, now… Spencer Garmond.” He drew his finger across the page. “Ah, here we are. One hundred points.”
I crouched to look in the book. “Are you serious?”
Mr. S closed it before I could get a peek. “Is there a problem?”
“No.” But I certainly didn’t remember getting that many points in the last month. But I could finally take the real LCT. “Uh… thanks.”
The discovery was bittersweet. Jake said Boss Schwarz was an animal.
That afternoon, I took a deep breath and walked inside C Camp. I’d never been there when it was crowded. The mats were covered with students, paired off and working on a defense drill. A beast of a man stood across the room in the corner yelling commands that sent his pupils scrambling up and down on the mat.
“Knee!… Sprawl!… Clinch!… 1,2,3!… Breakfall!… Stand up!… Elbow!… Circle!… Stand up!… Elbow!… Elbow!… 1,2,3!… Knee!… Knee!…”
The guy stood about six foot five with a grayish blonde crew cut, square jaw, and bulging arms. A camouflage tee clung to his sculpted torso. He was an inflated, intimidating version of his son, Isaac—last year’s Alpha team leader.
His eyes marked me, and he glared like I was a maggot in his breakfast cereal. This was not good. Mr. S said practice started at three.
“King! Take over!”
A short, muscular guy popped out of the crowd. His hair was black, and he was so tanned he looked Hispanic despite his white boy features. He yelled out commands, “Elbow… Circle… Stand up… 1,2,3…” but his voice had nowhere near the power of Boss Schwarz’s.
Boss made his way around the perimeter of the class, gaze never leaving mine. He stopped a foot away. I wanted to inch back against the wall, but I stayed put.
Steel blue eyes—hostile versions of Isaac’s—scowled at me. “This is a closed class,” Boss said, his voice vibrating my bones.
“Uh… I’m Spencer Garmond, sir. Mr. S—er, I mean Mr. Stopplecamp told me to come.”
“Class starts at fourteen forty-five, Garmond. You’re late.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Know what we’re doing?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then get out there. King! Partner up with Garmond.”
King jogged across the matt to where I stood in back, still giving commands. “Breakfall… 1,2,3… Knee… Elbow—”
“Sprawl!…” Boss Schwarz took over. “Clinch!… Knee!… 1,2,3!… Elbow!… Circle!… Circle!… Stand up!… Elbow!… Circle!…”
“You go,” King yelled over the stampeding rhythm of bare feet and bodies slapping the mat. I dropped to the mat and circled, blocking King’s offense.
Ten minutes later, Boss Schwarz yelled, “Focus mitts!”
“I’ll get them.” King trotted over to a supply closet along one wall. He returned with a set of black focus mitts and a pair of fighting gloves. He tossed the mitts to me. “I’ll hit first so you can learn the drill.”
“Thanks.” I pulled the pads onto my hands as Boss’s voice broke the sound barrier again.
“Ready? One!”
King’s right jab almost knocked me over. I balanced my feet and braced for—
“Two!”
Left jab. Left hook. Right backhand. Right elbow. Man, this kid could hit. I wondered where he was from.
“Three!”
Right hook. Right uppercut. Left backhand. It sounded like a machine gun was going off in the room as twenty-some leather gloves smacked mitts four times each.
“Four!”
Left hook. Left uppercut. Right backhand. I saw Beth out of the corner of my eye. She was hitting with Jake.
“One!”
My wrist twanged, and I shook it.
“Pay attention, or you’ll get hurt,” King said.
I gripped the pads tighter and looked back to King. “Sorry.”
When my turn came, I had a hard time remembering the order and did the wrong strike half the time. But towards the end of my fifteen minutes, I was getting the hang of things. This was good. A better workout. I loved the fast paced, keep-up-or-get-out, atmosphere. I could do this. I’d get stronger, faster, smarter. I was glad things had crashed with Beth.
I was such a liar.
After class, as the crowd of students dispersed, King stuck out his hand. “Devin King from Santa Monica. I’m a senior.”
I shook his hand. “Spencer Garmond from here. Sophomore.”
King frowned. “You’re good for a sophomore. You train before?”
“Here with Beth since September.”
“Watkins?” King’s face puckered. “I don’t know whether to laugh at you or be jealous.”
I picked up my backpack from where I left it by the wall. “Laugh, King. Laugh hard.”
• • •
That night in my room, I logged onto Facebook. Not only had none of the girls on my homecoming list texted me back, no one was answering my Facebook messages, either. I blamed Arianna. Her Prude Patrol “help” had likely involved warnings to stay away from the player. You know me. Scoring left and right with the ladies.
It was useless. And I wasn’t going to homecoming alone, so I guessed that was that.
I logged into my gmail, just in case someone had written me there. I had over thirty messages, most of which were spam for dating services and free Viagra trials.
Not one from a real girl.
Unless… An email from [email protected] caught my eye. I clicked it open.
From: Freeforlifeservant
To: Kobefly24
Ronald Ashton’s right knee still gives him trouble. –a friend
And there were three hyperlinks. The first took me to an article from the LA Times.
LOS ANGELES—L.A.P.D detective Ronald Ashton wasn’t always on the street investigating crime. Injured in December 1998 when he was shot in the knee while responding to a robbery call, Ashton took a forced extended medical leave that culminated in over two dozen surgeries in three years. But a chance meeting with Mark Laurence, MD, a surgeon at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, changed everything.
The article went on to say that after Ashton’s knee replacement, he passed the rigorous medical review board, which allowed him to return to active duty. The second link took me to the article about the robbery when Ashton was first shot. The third link was an unrelated story about Ashton arresting a mid-list actor on a DUI charge. But there was a picture.
Ronald Ashton was Gardener, one of Kimbal’s guys.
Um … So what? Why was someone randomly emailing me info about a member of the surveillance team? Could it be Anya, messing with me? Or perhaps it was Gardener himself, trying to make contact for some reason. Should I show the email to Kimbal or Prière?
I clicked back to my inbox to mark the spam, but I had a new email on the top of the list. It was from Kip’s d
ad. My stomach zinged, and I opened it right away.
From: [email protected]
To: Kobefly24
Call my cell. 818-555-0055
Doug
I dialed the number so fast my thumb was shaking.
“Spencer, hey,” Mr. Johnson said. “It wasn’t easy, but I was able to get you a name. Lisa Wright. The investigation itself… The report is redacted, and I don’t have enough clout to get the original without putting my job on the line. I only got you the name because someone owed me a favor. The article you found online said as much as the police report, though. Accidental death. Building blew up because of a gas leak.”
“So you think my mom’s name was Lisa Wright?”
“The woman who died was named Lisa Wright. White Caucasian, age twenty-five. The other two victims were men; I didn’t ask for their names. This was the ‘Explosion in Downtown L.A.’ article you sent me. The other articles were dead ends. Unless you think your mom was Hispanic or you’ve got the wrong dates or locations.”
“No, I don’t think so. Thanks, Mr. Johnson.”
“Glad to help. And it’s Doug, Spencer. Doug.”
I ended the call and Googled the name Lisa Wright. I finally knew my mom’s name. Too common a name. A Linked In profile, a Facebook page, a CPA, and a photographer. I tried Googling her name with different versions of the words “explosion” and “died” and got nowhere. You’d think there would have been an obituary or something.
Wright could be my last name. But it could also be my mom’s maiden name or another alias. I spent some time Googling “Jonas Wright” and struck out again. Arianna’s comment about girls came to mind. Girls were sentimental. They saved things. Maybe Grandma Alice had kept something of my mom’s. A picture. An old school assignment. Something.
Grandma kept her filing cabinet for bills and stuff in her bedroom, but she was already in bed. As busy as I’d been lately, I didn’t know when I’d get a chance to snoop when she wasn’t home. But a mother couldn’t get rid of everything about her only child, right? I just had to find the right place.
• • •
Saturday arrived and I finally got to play ball again. My ankle didn’t bother me in the game, and I was confident it had healed entirely. We creamed South Beach. I had nineteen points, fourteen assists, and nine rebounds. I was back, baby! I hated playing South Beach Christian because they had a rug gym floor. It was the only one I’d ever seen, and though I tried to be careful, I’d earned a monster rug burn on my shin when I’d gone after a loose ball. It was a battle scar, though. One I was proud of. I’d show it to Beth if she was still speaking to me.
It was an hour bus ride from South Beach to Pilot Point. The boys and girls varsity teams and the cheerleaders were all crammed on one bus. About the time we hit downtown L.A., Kip had organized a game of Truth or Dare in the back. Still sore about striking out with Beth, I wasn’t in the mood for Kip’s idea of entertainment. I lounged back, propping my neck on the back of the seat and my head against the cool glass, pretending to be asleep. I really did want to sleep—needed to sleep. Between LCT and basketball and school and my home workouts, my batteries were dead.
“Do Spencer,” Kip said. “Hey, Spencer!”
I pretended not to hear, hoping he’d give up and move on to someone else. But sneakers plodded down the aisle.
“Sit down in back!” the driver yelled.
I opened my eyes in time to see Kip fall into the seat across from mine.
“Dude.” He grabbed my hand and shook my arm. “You sleep more than Snow White. Is that how you keep your rose-pedal complexion?”
I pulled my arm away. “What do you want?”
“To bring you up to speed. You’re about to be dared.”
“I can’t pick truth?” I asked.
“Not the way we’re playing. It’s more like dare or dare.” Kip snorted a laugh.
I snuggled back against the window and yawned. “Sounds like dumb or dumber. I don’t want to play.”
Kip tugged my arm, pulling me away from the window. He flashed an evil grin. “Meagan is going to dare you to kiss Trella. Do a good job and then ask her to homecoming.”
“You said Trella didn’t want to go with me.”
“Kiss her and she might change her mind.”
“Oh sure.” Because my kissing attempts were really working out lately.
Kip got up and walked away. “He’s in, Meg. Call it.”
I sat up and squinted toward the back of the bus. The cheerleaders had crowded around Desh like he was a celebrity. In the seat in front of him, Kip sat with Megan. Her lips were twisted in thought, as if the fate of the world hinged on her decision.
“Okay.” She took a deep breath. “Spencer… you have to kiss… Oh, I don’t know!” She burst into a fit of giggles.
“Meg!” Kip jerked his head at Trella and raised his eyebrows.
I wanted to die. I didn’t want to kiss stupid Trella-the-troll. I looked to the front of the bus where the coaches were deep in discussion. Hel-lo! I wanted to yell. A little help?
“Meg, just say somebody!” Desh’s head slumped back. “I want another turn.”
“All right! Spencer has to kiss…Katie. On the lips.”
“What!” Kip groaned. “Meagan!”
Everybody else cheered.
Oh, no, no, no. I mean, I liked Katie. She was cool. And cute. But Jake’s sister? How was this going to make my life easier right now?
The kids in the back started to chant. “Spen-cer. Kat-ie. Spen-cer. Kat-ie.”
I took a deep breath and looked around. Two seats up from mine, Katie was leaning over the back of her seat, facing me, smiling. She wore lots of smoky eye makeup, and her frizzy hair poufed in a ponytail on top of her head, like some kind of bushy tree.
I turned back to Meagan. “Maybe Katie doesn’t want to play. Some girls are saving kissing for marriage.” Dude. I had just sounded like the Prude Patrol.
Desh hooted with laughter. “Just take your turn, Garmond. Today.”
“I’m not saving kissing for marriage,” Katie said, as if the mere idea were ridiculous.
“I know that for a fact,” Kip said in a low voice.
Meagan whacked Kip in the arm and he laughed.
Yeah… That’s what a guy likes to hear before he kisses a girl. That’s she’s already kissed his best friend.
Whatever. I stood and leaned over the empty seat that separated my seat from Katie’s.
Everyone began to count. “One… two…”
On three, Katie and I leaned towards each other. We both made the kissing smack, but there was no contact. We missed completely.
I was about to give it another go, but everyone in the back of the bus cheered. I looked at Katie and she winked. Oh-kay. Guess that was that. Psychotic people, anyway.
“Okay, Okay! My turn,” Desh said. “Someone dare me.”
“It’s Spencer’s turn to dare,” a girl’s voice said.
“Spencer, dare me to kiss someone!” Desh said.
“I dare you to kiss Kip,” I said.
“Dude, shut up. That’s cheating,” Desh said. “You cheat, you forfeit your turn. I say Michelle has to kiss me for one minute.”
I cringed. Poor Michelle. The bus veered off the freeway. We were almost home. When we stopped at a traffic light, I relocated to the front seat by Coach Van Buren, who was talking to Coach Scott about stats. Reviewing my success in basketball soothed my pride. Because my kissing stats of late were pathetic—0 for 2.
• • •
Sasquatch had recently become a security guard at Pilot Point. He gave me a slight nod as I entered the cafeteria with Gabe to stand in the lunch line.
“I’m afraid for her, you know?” Gabe said. “I don’t think he’s changed as much as she thinks, but every time I say something, she gets mad at me.”
“Isabel’s a big girl,” I said for what I felt was the hundredth time since Gabe had discovered Isabel and Nick were going to homecoming t
ogether. “She can take care of herself.”
“I know. It’s just that…”
Gabe was still talking, but when I saw Jake I tuned him out. Jake’s eyebrows were so low he looked Anime angry. I shook my head. Uh oh. One ticked off big brother heading my way.
“Jake…” I said. “It was nothing. I swear.”
Jake spat out a mumble of syllables and vowels that made no sense.
I held up both hands. “I didn’t do anything.”
Jake grabbed my arm and squeezed. “I’m hearing things, Garmond. Things I don’t like hearing about you and my baby sister and a game of Truth or Dare.”
Gabe stared at me.
I shook my head. “I didn’t touch her.” Which was true.
“Jake!” Katie raced up to the line and pulled Jake’s arm. “Let go. You’re hurting him!”
“Uh, no he’s not,” I said. Sure, Jake was squeezing my arm like some kind of tough guy, but hurting me? No.
“Calm down, baby girl,” Jake said. “I’m just letting Mr. Suave know where he stands.”
“He didn’t do anything,” Katie said. “If you’d just listen—”
“Oh, I’ve been listening all day. Everyone saw it.”
“They thought they saw it, but nothing happened.” Katie smiled at me. “We missed.”
Jake turned to Katie and leaned close. “You missed what?”
Katie sighed long and hard. “With the bus seats, we were too far away. They all counted to three and we kissed the air. Everyone cheered. End of story.”
Jake’s looked back to me. “You didn’t kiss my sister?”
“Nope.” I smirked at Gabe. Stick that in your juice box, Prude Patrol.
“You missed?” Jake released my arm and cackled. “You know, Spencer, Katie’s lips aren’t exactly a small target.”
Katie slapped Jake’s arm, and the two started yelling at each other. I continued through the line with Gabe and got my tray.
“Truth or Dare, Spencer? Really?” Gabe said.
“On the bus back from South Point,” I said. “They always play.”
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