by Tina Ferraro
Interesting stuff, actually. But the bottom line in almost every article was honesty, and the golden rule seemed to be “just be yourself.” Which was probably good advice for most people, but look where it had gotten me. People thought I was the girlfriend of a guy I could barely stand. And the only thing that had gotten me into that situation was just being myself. So you wouldn't see me preaching that stuff.
I tapped my nails on the keyboard, waiting for divine inspiration, and then it hit me. Or rather, it slowly sank in that I'd have to approach this problem like I did pretty much everything else in my life—by putting one foot in front of the other, armed with Wite-Out, an eraser, and the Delete key on my trusty laptop.
A half hour later, I pushed Save, then Print, which sent the document to the family computer setup down the hall. And none too soon, I held my future in my hot little hand.
Kate DelVecchio's Six-Point Plan
A Hexagon for Hooking Hotties
Above are six numbered points. Write the names of the potential couple on the center line. Read the questions. For every YES answer, darken the corresponding numbered point with a colored marker.
1: Are both parties unattached and available?
2: Do they have similar interests?
3: Are they on speaking terms?
4: Will they look good together?
5: Do they have a meeting ground outside of school (e.g., work, youth group, mutual friends' homes)?
6: Will their personalities click?
Once you have finished answering the questions and coloring the dots, connect all adjacent colored points with lines. When you are finished, examine your diagram. Is it a perfect hexagon for a perfect couple?
Flopping on my bed, I wasn't sure whether to be proud of myself or embarrassed. I mean, did the math terms make me look scholarly or like some little kid who used big words before she knew what they meant?
Just to be safe, I grabbed a pen and added in bold letters at the bottom: “RESULTS MAY VARY.” And reminded myself that it didn't matter if I bought into the presentation. Only that Dakota did.
Ten
“What good does this do me?” Dakota screamed the next day, stabbing a finger at my printed hexagon. We'd snagged a couple of seats in Mr. Packard's empty classroom under the guise of working on club business, and until this moment, we had been munching somewhat pleasantly from our respective lunch sacks.
“These,” she continued, “are just questions.”
No way was I letting her attitude get to me. I'd worked hard on the darned thing. I kept my eyes on the prize: her money. “It's the first step to determine whether or not I take you on as a client. Our preliminary interview, you might say.”
“But I want specifics. A game plan.”
“If I told you, what would be the point of hiring me? I mean, does KFC give out their secret recipe when people ask?”
I sort of held my breath while she made another grab for my hexagon. True, she held it like a used tissue—someone else's used tissue—but she studied it for a long moment nonetheless. “Okay,” she said, and blew out on a sigh. “It's Jon. Jon Keller.”
I steeled myself from letting my “eeewwww” show. Why she'd want to hang with someone so loud and negative was beyond me.
But hello! He was her mirror image. And that could mean either a supereasy hookup—or a supersized disaster.
The real question was why she wanted help from me.
“You know Jon as well as I do,” I pointed out. “And I've never seen you let anything stand in the way of what you want. Why not just go directly to him?”
“I am looking at this like I would a business merger,” she said matter-of-factly. “I want to create the right buzz, make him realize this partnership would be mutually beneficial, and that together our possibilities are endless.” She flipped her hair to her other shoulder. “In short? I'm tired of two-week boyfriends. I want a relationship.”
Whoa. Okay.
I dug up a red Sharpie from my backpack. The hexagon was about as accurate as a TV weather forecast, but what could I do?
“Are both parties unattached and available?” I read, trying not to smile. Like anyone but Dakota would want Jon. I darkened the point. “Similar interests?” I said, then marked it. In my book, being loud and arrogant counted as an interest.
“And we're definitely on speaking terms,” she said, leaning in and jumping anxiously to the next question. “And—and we'll look good together.”
Her opinion, but I went with it.
Then I hit an unknown and looked up. “Do you cross paths outside of school?”
Her brow knitted, which I took as a no.
“Have the same favorite hangout? Same friends? Same . . . I don't know . . . church or synagogue?”
“No.” Worry flickered in her eyes. “Does that mean you won't take us on?”
I bit back a smile. My hexagon might have been based on nonsense, but it had successfully given me a shift of power, so it had done its job—and more. Plus, if I suspended reality long enough to assume it had some merit, it told me that this hookup needed to happen on campus, to take advantage of something they did have in common—our business club.
“Well . . . ,” I said, suddenly having a little too much fun. “I might be able to take a five-out-of-sixer like you, but of course, it would cost extra.” I paused, and when she didn't balk, I pushed on. “Hmmm . . . I'll need some additional information.” My mind raced until it settled on one of those gems of the Internet: a does-he-like-me? test. “Do you two have any classes together?”
She nodded readily. “Next period.”
I leaned in like I had to keep what I was about to say quiet. Even though we were alone I knew it all had to do with my delivery. I whispered instructions in her ear, then stood and stretched.
“Find me later, and we'll see if we can take this to the next step.”
Her face twisted in desperation, making me want to break into a dance. I so had her!
•
After school, I arrived back at my locker to find an actual line. Like I was giving away free cell phone minutes or SAT cheat sheets.
Mark was there, sighing. Dakota was beside him, throwing her hair from one shoulder to the other, as usual. She was followed by a paper-thin girl in low-rider jeans. And Carlton Camp, from the student store. Thinking back to that day on the quad, I shouldn't have been surprised that he had a crush.
“I'm first,” Dakota told the others in a don't-challenge-me tone.
“No,” Mark said firmly. “I was here first. And my business with Kate is private.” He eyed me seriously and nodded toward the row of lockers across the hall.
We took a few steps into traffic. I wanted this to be quick. I had some potential paying customers waiting, and although Mark didn't know it, his case was closed. “Can't whatever this is wait until the rink later?”
He shook his head. “One question.” His face looked set—clamped mouth, fixed eyes. “Did Chelsea pay you to get me to ask her to the banquet?”
“What?” I said, freezing in place.
“You heard me.”
My stomach clenched, and the world sort of went wavy before my eyes, like I was looking through my sister's glasses.
Mark knew. The Hook-ee had found out about the Hook-Upper. And he wasn't happy.
People streamed by us in both directions, their voices bouncing off lockers and the low-tiled ceiling, competing with the sudden rush of blood in my ears.
“That's . . . ,” I finally said, and swallowed. “. . . confidential.”
A curse fell from his mouth. I knew he had his answer. He turned away.
“Mark,” I said, grabbing his arm. I waited until he met my gaze again. “Let's talk more about this. There's an explanation.” At least, there would be, as soon as I came up with one.
“I thought we couldn't talk about it. That it was confidential.” He turned up the intensity of his glare and pulled out of my grip.
It was my turn to mutt
er a curse.
Immediately, Dakota was on top of me. “He looked at the clock. Jon looked.” A smile touched her mouth. “So we're on, right?”
It took me a second to regroup and remember the test I'd given her. The “Is He Staring at Me in Class?” test. The idea was for her to watch Jon out of the corner of her eye during class until she was pretty sure he was looking at her, then to throw an urgent look at the clock, hold a beat, and really fast, look back at him. If he was looking at the clock, odds were he'd followed her gaze. Which meant—bingo!—he'd been checking her out.
“That's good,” I managed to tell her. “Real good. What we wanted.” I drew in a breath. I really wanted to run this Dakota/Jon hookup by Dal first, to get his take. But odds were he'd be up for the challenge and the bucks, and it was best to strike while the iron was hot, right? “Okay, as soon as you deliver the deposit, we'll get to work.”
She reached into her pocket and slipped me what looked like a folded-up note. But the paper had weight, and my superior senses could smell the U.S. currency.
“Call me tonight,” she said, and left me to my line.
Before I could say bye to Dakota, Skinny Girl approached me. “How much?” the girl whispered.
“For what?” I had to make sure she wasn't expecting something bootlegged or illegal.
“You know, how much for you to hook me up with someone?” she said in that same superlow, hurried tone. Like she was afraid of getting caught.
I held her gaze. If this girl, who I didn't even know, knew about the business, word was truly out there. Which meant the discreetness I had been able to offer was now gone. I'd have to think that through, and use it to the best of my ability.
“Fifty up front, nonrefundable. And another fifty if we seal the deal.”
She listened, lines forming in her brow, then backed away. “I don't have that kind of money,” she said, loud enough for anyone near to hear.
“I'm sorry. But if I cut my rate for you, my other customers could demand the same. And I have expenses to cover.” To keep her from asking for specifics on those expenses, which I couldn't exactly provide, I changed the subject. “By the way, how did you hear about me?”
A smile lifted her mouth. She was attractive, in an anemic sort of way. She'd probably be an easy fix-up. Maybe we could do some sort of installment plan.
“Who hasn't heard about you? You hooked Brandon Callister, you got Chelsea Mead a date with a football player. You're like . . . a love goddess.”
Love goddess? No. Although how could I not like the sound of that?
But before I could respond, she disappeared into the crowd.
Carlton was instantly upon me. His bright blue eyes narrowed in on me like a laser beam, and my palm was suddenly holding some folded bills. I knew cash when I felt it. Still, I peeked. (I had to.) Tens and twenties. This guy did his homework.
“Brianne Betts,” he said, the name floating on a long sigh.
I knew her. Big lips. Possibly collagen. Or maybe she had an ancestor who'd mated with a duck. No guarantees, but I'd give the two of them a try. “Sure, let's do it,” I told him.
I slipped the wad of bills into the back pocket of my jeans. I felt rather like a human vending machine. Insert money, make your selection, and voilà, I will spit out your date! (Yeah, right.)
Carlton and I exchanged contact information. Then, finally alone—or as alone as anyone could be at my school—I did a book swap while I tried to make sense of everything that had just happened. I was torn between the euphoric feeling of having two more clients—and two more deposits—and well, guilt. Mark's anger was a shocker, and I had been completely and utterly unprepared for it.
Lots of thoughts. Lots of questions.
Only one answer: find Dal.
Eleven
Lexie wasn't ready when I got to her house, which meant I was forced to wait on the doorstep with her mother. I figured it was as good a chance as any to show Mrs. H. that I was a top-notch employee.
“Lexie's coach reminded everybody that deposits are due for the qualifying competition. I don't know if you paid already, but I thought I'd mention that if you or Mr. H. are unable to make the trip in May, I will be eighteen by then, and legally able to chaperone.”
Mrs. H.'s gaze iced me. I shivered inside my coat—nothing to do with the freezing temperature.
“Just an FYI,” I added.
She let out something like a snort. I figured I'd better get back on more solid ground, so I mentioned Lexie's broken laces and waited for her to tell me she had already bought twelve new fashion pairs or something.
“If you think it's so important,” she answered, “pick her up some new ones yourself. I'll throw you a few extra dollars next payday.”
My brow furrowed. They sold some plain old white laces at the rink. But those were hardly up to the elevated standard of what the other girls wore.
“Mom,” Lexie said, cruising through the door. “New laces, remember? Did you buy them?”
I glanced at Mrs. H. Surely she'd take credit for assigning me the job. Instead, she shrugged. “Kate's taking care of it.”
Then before either of us could respond, Mrs. H. closed the door—practically on Lexie's heels.
Wow.
As if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened, Lexie started toward my car. “I don't like the stupid ones they sell at the rink,” she yelled back. “They're ugly.”
“Yeah, well, if we stop anywhere, we'll be late. And we don't want penalty laps.”
I felt a little bad for her. Her mom had practically shoved her out the door. But then she made a face at me, and I did the only thing I could do. I ignored it.
•
Dal stood behind the rental counter, shoving pairs of rental skates into cubbyholes, his triceps flexing with each haul.
I'd seen his arms plenty of times, and when I thought about them at all . . . well, I really didn't. Most days, I just looked away. But today, it was like someone had pushed my Pause button. I could only attribute their recent developments to all his hours with a hockey stick.
“Hey,” he said, turning toward me.
I shook myself from my musing. My brain must have totally been on overload. Why else would I ever have looked at Dal's arms like . . . well, a hot guy's?
“A pair of your finest white laces, if you please,” I said, and smiled big. “Size seventh grade annoying.”
Amusement flickered in his eyes as he reached under the counter and slid a pair toward me. I passed him a ten and watched him count back my change.
“I'm not sure if you know, but we have a bit of a situation,” he said as I pocketed the bills.
“Mark.”
“Yeah. He was by here earlier. Pretty ticked. Said he didn't appreciate being sold like a farm animal.”
I flinched. “Any ideas about how to handle it?”
“I already did. I asked him when the last time was that some girl wanted him so bad she'd pay to be with him.”
I nodded, impressed. “Good one. So do you think he's still going to take her to the banquet?”
“I can practically guarantee it.”
“You're great.”
He smiled. “Damn straight.”
“And it's definitely your lucky day. I took deposits from Dakota Wilson and Carlton Camp.” I mentally crossed my fingers, my toes—even my eyes. “You in?”
He didn't answer immediately, so I leaned across the counter. “I'll make it worth your while,” I said, and added in a singsong voice, “Money, money, money.”
He didn't jump. In fact, he did the opposite—he grabbed a rag and made big swipes on the counter. “We're talking a lot of work. And no promises we'll get lucky again.”
“Successful.”
“Lucky.”
I poked his shoulder. “Oh, come on, Dal. Together, we can make this thing work.” When he didn't smile or nod or say anything, emotions fluttered inside me, too many to count or analyze. “And I don't think I can do it alone.
”
Then I froze. Was there anything worse than looking desperate?
He was silent for an impossibly long moment. “Since you put it that way,” he said, then smiled. “All right. Makes this an Ideal Opportunity for me, doesn't it?”
Okay, maybe worse than looking desperate was having your own words used against you.
“But I want a partnership,” he said, dabbing at a pesky spot on the counter. “Not you just assigning
me jobs.”
I nodded, embarrassed, agreeable. Relieved.
“And fifty-fifty on the money.”
“Fif—” I stopped myself. I didn't like it, but I had no choice. “Okay. But remember, we might need to work some weekends. You can't be away all the time.” With her, I added silently.
He just looked at me, like he'd heard my thoughts. “I'm not going to leave you hanging.”
A sudden rush of skaters cut our conversation short, which was fine. Our arrangement was simple enough—I knew my business ethics, and fifty-fifty was fair.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Lexie and figured I'd better go earn my keep. She'd already complained that I was spending too much time talking to rink workers and new clients, and I didn't want her passing that sentiment on to her mother.
But as I handed her the new laces, my mind stayed on Dal. I was relieved that he was going to be in it for the long haul, but I sure wished I'd kept the upper hand during the conversation—especially at the vague mention of his girlfriend.
I needed to be better prepared for whatever came my way, to handle the twists and turns like a pro. A good leader knew how to do the jobs as well as delegate. And I could do that. I could.
From now on, I told myself, things would be different.
•
I was on my cell half the night. With Dal, Dakota, Carlton—even got a beep-in from Brandon.
“Two words,” he told me. “Hamstrings.”
I bit my lip and listened to his tips for premium running speed, something about “static stretching” and keeping those hamstrings flexible. Critical information for me to have, though I wasn't sure why.
I was relieved when my call waiting beeped again and I was able to make a graceful exit from the hamstring discussion, only to find myself talking to some guy from my math class who wanted me to hook him up with a particular cheerleader.