How to Hook a Hottie

by Tina Ferraro

  An icy gust of wind suddenly whipped across the quad, doing an Einstein thing to my unhatted hair. Batting it down, I watched a couple of the guys hunch their shoulders against the cold.

  The bell rang, and we all said our goodbyes. Dal walked me toward the science wing. I waited until I was sure we couldn't be overheard, then told him about yesterday—how Chelsea had hired me, and how I wanted his help.

  Astonishment creased his brow. “You want me to ask Mark if he likes her?”

  “Well, I'm hoping you'll be a little smooth about it.”

  “What's in this for me?”

  “Ten bucks.”

  He turned and studied my face. Holding his gaze, I realized I was fiddling with my hair, which I'm sure meant something deep to body-language professionals but which merely told me I was probably coming off as anxious as I felt. And had probably left Cheeto dust in my bangs.

  “Okay,” I amended. “Twenty.”

  He just stared at me—he had me over a barrel and he knew it.

  “And,” I said, dredging the words up from deep within me, “another ten if I need to use your services to close the deal.”

  “Another twenty.”

  “Twenty! Hey, I'm spearheading this. You're just a contractor. And besides, I'm supposed to be saving for my future.”

  “And I'm not?”

  Man, I hated it when he was right. And when my face acknowledged it without my permission. I had no choice but to cave. “Fine.”

  He studied me. “You backed down too easily, Kate. It's not like you to throw around money.”

  “What can I say? It looks like an Ideal Opportunity.”

  He grinned. I knew he wasn't laughing at me exactly, more like with me. He'd heard me use that phrase once or twice or a hundred times in the past year. Usually as in looking for the Ideal Opportunity.

  “Well, then,” he said, and seemed to swallow his grin, “if this is an Ideal Opportunity, how can I refuse? But one question: what happens if you end up short at graduation?”

  “I figure you'll give it back to me.” He didn't laugh, so I did. “No, look, if I'm going to do this, I'm going to do it right. And for that, I need your help,” I said, and sort of held my breath.

  “Okay, but I'm keeping whatever you pay me.”

  “Only fair,” I said, feeling a smile creep to my lips. I'd just passed a test in Business 101. I'd assessed the problems, acknowledged my limitations, found a supplier, and successfully negotiated the contract. “There's enough money out there for both of us.”

  He stopped at the fork in the path. “Okay, then, I guess I've got a job to do. And you do, too,” he said, and nodded toward the science wing. “Go break his heart, baby doll.”

  I gave him the eye roll he deserved, then walked away, dollar signs still filling my head.

  I had more than just the usual hunger for cold, hard cash. At the beginning of the school year, I had talked my parents into signing an unusual agreement: if I raised Five Thousand Big Ones by my graduation and showed them a senior report card with nothing but As, they would—despite what they admitted were the strongest reservations—hand over the balance of my college savings account. Which at last peek was over ten grand.

  I knew they'd only scribbled their names to shut me up. They figured I'd fall short financially, and the good grades would help get me into a good college. But more likely, they would learn that they'd underestimated me. Because I didn't do anything halfway, and I didn't take on anything I didn't think I could win.

  I would get that money and use it as start-up capital on whatever venture struck me at the time. I'd enter the real world and blaze my own trail, get a jump start on others who'd be wasting four years in college.

  Not that I had anything against college. There were obviously worlds of knowledge to be acquired there, connections to be made, good opportunities to take advantage of. But college wasn't the only way.

  Look at my dad. With nothing more than a high school diploma, he'd parlayed his plumbing skills into a company so successful that he actually turned work down. And I was my dad's daughter, right?

  Besides, I was off to a good start at meeting my end of the deal. My grades were high, and I had about $2,400 in a shoe box under my bed. Paychecks from the Hoppenfeffers would get me to $4,000 by June. I could factor in interest after I brought myself to deposit the cash in a savings account, but right now I was having too much fun looking at it, counting it, playing with it.

  The last grand would have to come from somewhere—but I told myself not to worry. I'd earn it. Somehow. I had to. I could and I would be a player. ASAP.

  A hand reached out and grabbed me outside my chem class. I turned to see Chelsea, a look of relief on her face. “Here,” she said, and pushed a fistful of bills into the pocket of my coat.

  “I thought we'd talk more about this later,” I said, but involuntarily, my hand slipped into my pocket and closed around the cash.

  “Just make it work, Kate. Seriously.”

  And she was off into the crowd before I could say another word, leaving me with nothing but fifty bucks and a lingering reluctance to go face my other problem.

  When I walked into the chem lab, Brandon was already at our table, straddling the back of his chair. For a split second, he held my eye, then he shifted his gaze away.

  I was not about to play the I-don't-see-you-either game. We were allegedly friends—or, if you believed the gossip, more than friends—so we had to at least acknowledge each other. “Hey, Brandon.”

  He glanced up at me. “Oh, hi.”

  “Did you get the homework done?”

  He shrugged. “Two words: ‘Xbox.’ ”

  I shook my head and sank down into my seat, pretty sure that “Xbox” was one word.

  After a pause long enough for him to have hit a homer and run all the bases, he nudged me. “Uh, Kate?” I looked over. His forehead was wrinkled, his eyes sort of squinty. “About the banquet. We have to talk.”

  I felt a laugh bubble up inside me, but I wasn't sure if it was from self-congrats (I mean, had I called this one right or what?) or utter embarrassment. Even though he didn't do a thing for me, I didn't want him breaking things off. If the date had made news, the dump would make headlines.

  As Coach took attendance, Brandon screeched his chair toward mine until he was so close I could feel his body heat, could breathe in his musky scent. Which wasn't altogether unpleasant. Though it didn't start my engine roaring, either.

  “Don't hate me,” he said in a half whisper, confirming my suspicions.

  I shook my head. I'd have to love him or at least like him before I could hate him, right?

  “I told my mom about the banquet last night, and she reminded me that I won't even be here. I'm leaving on Sunday.”

  Uh-huh. How convenient.

  “I'm going to some baseball showcases. You know, where college coaches come to check out high school players.”

  No, I didn't know. Nor did I necessarily believe him.

  “How long will you be gone?” I asked, just because I wanted him to squirm.

  “Two weeks. I have to bring homework and stuff.” He shrugged. “I mean, I knew I was going, but I forgot how soon. I'm sorry.”

  I shrugged. “Turns out I had a conflict, too. So I wasn't going to be able to go.”

  “Oh.” He glanced at a poster—as if he cared about electrons—then back at me. “I was going to give you the tickets so you could take a friend or something. But . . .”

  His voice trailed off, which was fine with me. All I wanted was this conversation over.

  That, and another lab partner.

  And if the rumor mill transformed this breakup into some humiliating story, I'd probably want another life, too.

  But logic told me he was probably telling the truth. I mean, the guy still practically used his fingers to count, so it stood to reason that calendars were over his head.

  Then there was the fact that it was beyond stupid to make up a story like
that. He'd either be at school these next couple of weeks or he wouldn't.

  “Kate,” he said, interrupting the hurricane in my brain. “I know this is last minute, but if you're not busy, I thought we could go out tonight instead. Get a pizza. See a movie. Something.”

  I was too dumbstruck to keep up pretenses. “What? You want to go out . . . for real?”

  Brandon laughed, way too loud for class. Especially since nothing amusing was happening—or had ever happened—in that particular classroom.

  “No, for fake.”

  I studied his face, my thoughts drifting back. “Was this your mother's idea?”

  He shrugged, telling me what I needed to know.

  I sat back and bit my lip in consideration. Did I particularly want a date with him?

  Uh—no.

  But did I want to be the butt of jokes for the rest of my senior year? The geek girl Brandon Callister briefly toyed with before putting her back in her place?

  Uh—not even a little bit.

  He was probably harmless, anyway. And we were only talking pizza, maybe a movie. One date for the sake of my rep wouldn't kill me, right?

  Four

  Dal was sweeping the foyer when Lexie and I cruised into the rink later. He wore his navy blue polo shirt and a no-nonsense expression.

  “So, Kate,” he said, again not bothering with preliminaries. “Did you get the job done?”

  “Yes and no,” Lexie spoke up.

  His gaze fled from mine to hers and back to mine again.

  “The banquet date is off,” I said. “Brandon has to go to some college baseball tryouts.”

  He nodded. “I heard about that. I just didn't know it was so soon.”

  “Apparently, neither did he.” I tried to sound like I didn't care, although with all the random people who seemed to know about his road trip, I no longer suspected Brandon had tried to pull a fast one on me.

  “Instead,” Lexie proudly continued, “she's going out with him tonight. They're—”

  “Wait,” I said, interrupting her before Dal could jump to conclusions. “I figured pizza is the best way to fend off unflattering rumors.”

  “Besides,” Lexie added, standing between us, hanging on my every word. “Brandon is hot.”

  Dal frowned at her. “What do you know? You're like . . . ten.”

  “I'm twelve,” she said, and gave her blond hair a proper toss. “And I know hot. Apolo Anton Ohno, Orlando Bloom.” She slanted a look at me. “Don't you think Brandon's hot, Kate?”

  I shooed Lexie toward the locker room before she and Dal tangled it up good. “You'll be late,” I said, trying to ignore her.

  “You just don't want to answer me,” she charged. “You want me out of here before the good stuff starts. Just like my parents.”

  “What I want is for you not to have to do penalty laps for being late. Your mother would find out and dock my pay.”

  She sniffed but headed toward the doorway. I watched until she cleared it, then I turned back to Dal, whose dark eyes were back to a more human shade of green.

  “She asked a good question, Kate. Maybe you do think Brandon's hot.”

  I'd had about enough of this! “Yeah, hot like the desert in the summer. Sweltering, bone-dry, just-get-me-out-of-here hot.”

  “Oh,” he said, his voice taking on a teasing tone. “The kind where you end up practically naked, rubbing lotion on your body?”

  I groaned and gave him a bump to knock the smile from his face. “Look, the only thing I'm trying to do is prevent ‘Kate DelVecchio Got Dissed’ from being the header in hundreds of this weekend's e-mails, okay?”

  Suddenly Mr. Serious, Dal narrowed his eyes. “What if you end up having a good time? You could lose sight of everything you've been working for.”

  A parental tone was never a good one to take with me. “I don't know where this is even coming from, but you know how I feel about him.” I frowned. “Besides, I don't see your relationship holding you back.”

  “Marissa and I are different.”

  Not that I wanted to know anything private about her, but only a coward would back off. “Yeah? How's that?”

  His jaw twitched, his expression sharpened, then he shook his head. “We just are.”

  Oh, that helped.

  I was tempted to ask if he thought she was hot, but he'd been going out with her for about a year and a half, so I figured that was a given.

  “Look,” I said, and then didn't look at him. “Maybe it's best if we just drop this.” After an awkward beat, I pushed on and changed the subject. “I don't suppose you got the chance to talk to Mark?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.”

  He leaned against his broom handle, making his biceps go all big. Dal had a great body, and I was sure he knew it. But it didn't feel right to check him out—ever. And especially not on top of the talk about Marissa. So I quickly averted my gaze back to his.

  “He's going to the banquet,” he went on, “and doesn't have a date.”

  “All right! Now, that's what I wanted to hear.” I put up my hand and he slapped it. “The big questions are, does he want a date, and what does he think of Chelsea?”

  “I didn't ask.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, we can't rush things. We want him to be into her, right? Not just looking for a one-nighter.”

  “Uh, yeah,” I said, although honestly, I hadn't thought past arranging the hookup and taking the payment. “Sure.”

  “So we need to go slow.”

  I had to give him credit. He'd always aced me out on tests, even back in elementary school. But lately I'd become impressed with his ability to read between the

  lines, too.

  “But not too slow, Dal.”

  “Yeah, I'll try to work it in today. Maybe drop a few lines about how cute she is, and how she doesn't have a boyfriend.”

  “He's going to think you like her.”

  “No way. He knows about Marissa.”

  Marissa again. That girl was like one-size-too-small panties. No matter how hard I tried to ignore her or pretend to be okay with her, she kept reappearing to bite me in the butt.

  “Fine—do it your way,” I said, and reached into my pocket to dig up his share of the pay. “But ASAP, okay? Clock's ticking.” I slipped him his money and finally broke, giving him a little smile.

  “Pleasure doing business with you,” he said, palming the cash. “Boss.”

  I opened my mouth to tell him not to call me that, but for some reason, whatever I was going to say just flew out of my head.

  •

  As I cruised back through the rink, disembodied voices bounced off the domed ceiling and the walls of Winter Wonderland, tangling with the sounds of scraping blades. Over the past months, I'd grown comfortable with these background noises, come to count on them much the way my dad counted on the lull of the TV.

  But the voices were higher and sweeter than usual. I noticed that free skate was ending and little kids and their moms were whooshing and whirly-birding off the ice. Shaking off a memory of my mother and me in some preschool skating class—back when I was young and cute and worthy of her time—I climbed the bleachers.

  I was going through my e-mails, deleting junk and a message from my mom, when Chelsea clomped up the staircase again. It was time to get down to business. Her cash was still warming my pocket, and I wanted more.

  “Have a seat, Chelsea. I've got great news,” I said, knowing I needed to inspire her confidence. “It just so happens that Mark is dateless for the banquet.”

  I watched her hopeful look turn into that huge smile. “Oh, good! How did you find out?”

  I hesitated. Telling her Dal had simply asked seemed so . . . ordinary. Must have been all those How to Succeed in Business books I'd thumbed through, but I wanted her to think I was offering a service no one else could provide. “Let's not waste time with my methods now. Just know I'm getting the job done.”

  She nodded. I guess she thought i
t sounded good. (I know I did.)

  “So here's what's next, Chelsea. I want you to try the wristwatch test.”

  “The . . . ?”

  “Listen up. This is what you're paying me for.” I hoped. But according to the Web site where I'd found this test, it was almost always accurate. “You start by complimenting his watch,” I said, trying to sound all serious, like this had been created in a lab by some relationship scientist. “And ask to see it.”

  She nodded, leaning in.

  “If he unlatches the band and hands it to you—sorry, as they say, he's just not that into you. But if he offers up his watch, his wrist, his arm? It's simply a matter of how fast and how far you want to take it.”

  Her hands fled to her mouth.

  “So,” I said, pointing down at the snack bar. “Go back to work and run the test. And report back to me.”

  “Totally!” she said. She gave me a quick—and not altogether warranted—hug and skipped down the stairs.

  I just hoped I could help her stay that happy.

  Sighing, I went back to the Internet for a look at how my favorite stocks had fared. I was still undecided as to whether I should invest my money in the market, in an existing company, or create something of my own.

  I'd seen a CNN segment on a college student who'd started a multimillion dollar corporation by selling office chairs through the Internet, and I couldn't help admiring the simplicity of his plan. I knew zip about office chairs and had no idea how to design a Web site, but every time I thought about how quickly he'd soared to such heights, I felt this kind of bubbly excitement.

  I could do it, too. With the right idea and enough capital, and by keeping my options open.

  A heavier, less rhythmic set of footsteps pounded its ascent up the risers, and suddenly Dal was hovering over me. I was fairly certain his proximity to my face was simply meant to keep him from being overheard, but nonetheless I scooted down the bench a little to ensure enough personal space.

  “I told Mark I thought Chelsea was hot,” he whispered. “And he was like, ‘Dude, you already got a girlfriend.’ ”