Callie glows like the matter’s been settled, then digs into her soup.
Frances isn’t about to let the issue drop. “He’s staring at you. I see drool coming out the side of his mouth.”
“How am I supposed to know what’s going on with him? It’s not like we’re BFFs.”
I don’t want to look in Christian’s direction, but some invisible force compels me to. Major mistake. He points to his watch then smacks his lips. My cheeks burn with embarrassment. When I turn my attention back to our table, inquisitive eyes gaze at me.
“Breaking news,” Frances announces, using her fork as a microphone. “Hell has just frozen over. Abbie Cooper has the hots for Christian Wheeler.”
“I do not.” My denial is quick. The last thing I need is for Frances to make a big deal out of nothing.
“You can be honest with us,” Callie says, trying to coax the so-called truth out of me.
“Will you two stop it? Christian is being Christian. He likes playing games, and I let him because I find his antics amusing. Get a grip, people.” I roll my eyes for dramatic effect.
The girls aren’t convinced.
“He’s still looking over here,” Frances says, waving to Christian, who has the nerve to wave back. “What happened this morning?”
I weigh the pros and cons of telling my girls about the incident with Sidney and the note. I don’t want to worry them, especially since the likelihood that I received it in error is high. We’ve been a tight-knit group since we met as wide-eyed fourteen-year-olds our freshman year and have seen each other through some tough times. It’s Callie’s turn. Her parents’ pending divorce has been tabloid fodder for the past few months. Our friendship has been her refuge.
I fill them in on my run-in with Sidney and the reason Christian keeps staring at me from his lunch table. I’m not even sure this is his usual lunch period. He probably showed up just to bait me.
“Whoa,” Callie says. “Do you still have the note?”
I reach for my backpack, and then pull out the note. I flatten it on the table. Frances and Callie lean in to read it. They have identical frowns on their faces. Callie picks it up and reads it again, then hands it back to me.
“I think someone stuck it in the wrong locker,” I explain. “I don’t know how they got past the combination. They couldn’t have pushed it through the vents because I found the note sticking out of my psych textbook.”
“You should file a complaint,” Frances says. “Someone violated your privacy by opening your locker. That’s huge.”
“I don’t have any proof. Unless there’s a witness willing to come forward, we have nothing.”
“You’re right,” Frances says. “I forgot about the no ratting policy. You could get the death penalty for violating that code. We can still ask around, discreetly.”
“You’re the reporter,” Callie says. “Find out if anyone has been lurking around Abbie’s locker.”
“We might already know who left the note,” I point out.
“You just said it was the wrong locker,” Callie reminds me.
“Sidney. You know she hates me. Throw in the Christian factor and that’s her way of telling me to back off. Is she crazy enough to write a note like that? She isn’t, right?”
Callie shrugs and stuffs a piece of fruit in her mouth. Frances isn’t so nonchalant. She rakes her fingers through her hair and won’t look at me.
“You know something,” I say.
She gestures for us to lean in closer as if she’s about to reveal state secrets.
“This is off the record. I promised my source I wouldn’t say a word to anyone, but since you received this anonymous message, I should tell you.” Frances ramps up her dramatic tone as she launches into the story. “Remember that accident last winter, the one that put Willa Schofield in a wheelchair?”
“Someone ran a stop sign and plowed into her. It was horrible,” I say, shivering at the memory. Willa and I had creative writing together, and I tutored her in pre-calculus.
“My source says Sidney caused that accident. She was totally wasted, missed the sign, and almost killed Willa.”
“Shut up,” Callie says. “No way.”
The revelation stuns me.
Frances carries on. “Her parents paid a lot of money to the Schofields to keep it quiet. A lot. When your daddy is a former White House Chief of Staff, you can get away with anything. My source also said it’s not the first time her parents bailed her out of serious trouble.”
“That girl is a walking disaster,” I say. “She shouldn’t be left alone with sharp objects or cars, apparently.”
Frances takes a sip of her drink and then places the glass on the table. “She’s capable of sending you that note. Probably got one of her minions to do it. She’s jealous that Christian keeps asking you out. The entire school knows her only goal in life is to become Mrs. Christian Wheeler. I mean, where are her self-esteem and ambition?”
“You should go for it with Christian,” Callie says, her eyes full of mischief. “Because he’s into you, it would piss Sidney off, and because you need to do something crazy before we graduate.”
Frances agrees. “Yeah, Abbie. Live a little.”
“Says the girl whose idea of acting crazy was burning her sister’s fan letter from Tom Cruise.”
Frances’s older sister, Penny, is a world-renowned concert pianist, and they’re involved in a serious case of sibling rivalry.
“Penny had it coming. She’s still mad months later, so I got her beat on that round.”
I shake my head. “I can’t date Christian.”
Callie folds her arms and leans back in her chair. “Why not?”
I tick off a list of Christian’s transgressions, counting them on my fingers. “There’s too much drama with the whole Sidney thing, he has a horrible reputation when it comes to girls, and he was kicked out of two other boarding schools for bad behavior. You know, the stuff that makes Christian, who he is.”
“Sounds to me like you’re chicken,” Callie says.
Frances sighs dramatically. “I know what this is about. It’s time to let go, Abbie.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ty. He’s in college now, and you’re in the friend zone.”
“This has nothing to do with Ty. I don’t want to be one of ‘Christian’s girls.’”
Callie starts clucking like a chicken and flapping her arms.
“I’m not afraid. I like things a certain way. Christian is a hot mess.”
“I have an idea,” Frances says. “Come to the party. If he’s still chasing you, then you have to go out with him. At least once.”
I glance at her, puzzled. “What party?”
“Evan Mueller’s senior year kickoff bash at his parents’ house in Wellesley,” Callie answers. “You have to come.”
“I don’t know,” I say, eyeing the lunch I haven’t touched since I sat down. The fries are soggy, and the meat in my burger looks like something that died on the side of the road. I stick a fork in my garden salad and start eating. “I’ll have to think about it. Plus, I wasn’t invited.”
Frances pulls her phone from her purse and presses a few buttons. “Check your email.”
I reach for my phone in my bag. I open the email from her and see the Evite. “Evan won’t mind?”
“He asked me to invite you. He knows we’re friends,” Frances says.
CHAPTER 3
I exit the main building, and an unseasonably warm breeze greets me when I arrive outdoors. Indian summer. I trudge toward the parking lot reserved for non-boarders. Saint Matthews Academy is tucked away from the main road that runs in the direction of downtown. The school sits on 250 sprawling acres of wide, open space peppered with brick and Tudor-style buildings in Castleview, a small, affluent suburb with a bucolic feel, thirty miles west of Boston. Castleview doesn’t have a Wal-Mart or Target or any large retail presence. Instead, the town is dotted with small independent markets and surrounded by
open land. Most of the white-collar professionals who inhabit the town take the MBTA Commuter Rail into Boston for work.
I drink in the panorama of colors displayed on the surrounding trees: the reds, yellows, oranges, and all shades in between. It’s breathtaking, the last fall I’ll ever experience at Saint Matthews. I shield my eyes from the sun’s glare as I arrive in the parking lot, but I can’t be certain I see what I think I see. As I get closer, he comes into focus, leaning up against my car, hands in the pockets of his well-fitted jeans, and a confident swagger to match.
I go on the attack as soon as I’m face-to-face with him. “What are you doing here? How did you know which car is mine? Are you stalking me?”
“It’s after 3:00 o’clock, and school’s out. You owe me an answer to my question from this morning. I have my ways of finding out stuff. And no, I’m not stalking you. Sweet ride by the way,” he says, running his hands against the exterior of the car.
Dad bought me a midnight blue Audi R5 Cabriolet for my seventeenth birthday. It was a nice surprise, and I fell in love with it right away. I deactivate the alarm and nudge Christian with my hip. “Get out of my way.”
He edges closer to me and leans in to whisper in my ear. “You know, babe, if you want to get physical, all you have to do is ask. I’d be happy to oblige.”
“You disgust me.”
He grabs my wrist as I open the driver side door. “We had a deal. So, what will it be? Are we going somewhere just the two of us, or do I have to accidentally on purpose mention the note to…who knows? My tongue might just slip at the wrong time.”
“Why won’t you let this go?” I snatch my wrist from his grip. “Look, Christian, I just can’t, okay. I’m applying early action to Princeton, and the deadline is coming up fast; plus, I have my STEM Fellowship and my debate team advisor gig.”
“You’re pulling the ‘I’m too busy’ excuse? Come on, Abbie; you can do better than that. Admit you’re too scared to take a chance. You’d rather play it safe like you always do.”
“Did you talk to Callie?” I ask, my tone suspicious.
“What does Callie have to do with this conversation?”
“I can’t afford distractions right now, especially not you.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m not interested in dating anyone who hooks up with tons of girls, just for his amusement.”
“Wow. That’s harsh.”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
His expression is bleak. Yet, the determined jut of his chin isn’t lost on me. I reach for the door handle, but he stops me. “Can I call you? Just to talk, no pressure.”
“I doubt you’re that hard up for friends.”
“I’m not looking for new friends.”
“Then, what is this?”
“I want to spend time with you, in a non-friend kind of way.”
He shoves his hands into his pockets. He looks down at the asphalt and shuffles his feet. Vulnerability is not a word I associate with Christian. I’m touched, even if I don’t want to be. He’s thrown down a challenge I’m not ready to answer.
“Look, don’t get your hopes up, okay?” It’s the quickest way to end the conversation without agreeing to anything.
He looks up at me. His eyes dance, their magnetic pull trying to drag me under. “You didn’t say no.”
“I have to go.”
I toss my backpack in the passenger seat, shut the door, and then start the engine. As I join the line of luxury cars leaving the parking lot, I peek at my rearview mirror and catch him staring back at me.
“Are you okay? You’ve barely said two words since you got home.”
“I’m fine, Mom.”
“Hmm,” she says, pulling out the chair across from me. “You’ve been biting your nails, again.”
I sit at the kitchen table, my first stop when I get home from school before heading upstairs to my room to get started on homework. It’s a large, comfortable, eat-in kitchen with top-of-the-line cabinets and stainless steel appliances, tiled flooring, and a large island at its center. Mom’s decorative skills give it a cozy feel: small potted plants along the window sills, curtains that scream country kitchen, and framed art depicting wholesome foods made the old-fashioned way.
She looks at me, concern written all over her smooth, girlish face.
“I thought my senior year would be easy. It isn’t.”
“How do you mean?”
“The stress of applying to college. Plus, I still have to keep up my grades.”
Mom covers my hands with her tiny ones. “I know it’s hard, sweetie. You have a solid plan, though, and it will all be over soon. But are you sure college admission is the only thing on your mind?”
I should have known she wouldn’t take my excuse at face value. Christian, Sidney, and the anonymous message are all running through my mind. I wish they would stop. It’s getting crowded in there.
“Christian Wheeler keeps asking me for a date,” I blurt out.
Mom leans back in her chair with a wicked grin on her face. “The Christian Wheeler? The one you trade insults with? The one you called a heartless, soulless Neanderthal who has no respect for women? The one who thinks—?”
“Okay, I get it,” I say, throwing up my hands. “I said awful things about him. He deserved it, though.”
“Is the feeling mutual? Do you want to go out with him, too?”
I frown at her. “My friends think I should. But come on, Mom. It’s Christian.”
“I know that. You’ve only been talking about him since junior year.”
“Because he annoys me,” I say. “One minute he’s saying disgusting things to me, and the next he’s all sincere like he’ll die if he doesn’t get a date with me. What’s up with that?”
“He might be afraid you’ll reject him.”
I can’t imagine Christian being afraid of any girl rejecting him. He dates only the most gorgeous girls at Saint Matthews, and when he’s not at school, it’s starlets and heiresses, according to Callie.
“I doubt that’s the case. He just likes tormenting me.”
“Are you sure that’s all it is?”
“What else could it be?”
“That he likes you.”
“I don’t think so, Mom. I’m so not his type.”
“What type is that?”
“You know what I mean.”
She leans in closer to me. “No, I don’t know what you mean. Tell me.”
I can’t believe she’s behaving as if Christian asking me out is the most natural thing in the world, and I should have expected it. I didn’t. The truth is, I’m not exactly ugly. I inherited mom’s big, doe eyes framed by a set of double lashes, my best feature. At five-foot-eight and a solid D cup, I’ve heard guys refer to me as a closet hottie, whatever that means.
“Christian and I don’t have a lot in common. He’s only interested in casual hookups. Besides, he’s been in trouble a lot.”
“I see.” Mom gives me a skeptical look. “Well, if you’re sure….”
“What do you mean? Those are good reasons to stay away from him.”
“I think you like him, but you’re too stubborn to admit it. That’s why you give him a hard time.”
I stare at mom, my mouth wide open with shock. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am, sweetheart. Always. I just don’t want you torturing yourself.”
Three hours later, I abandon the homework desk and stretch. I pad over to my bed and sink into the plush comforter, enjoying the stillness for a few minutes. Soon, my brother, Miles, will bang on my bedroom door, announcing that dinner is ready. Mom makes a big deal about eating dinner as a family since she doesn’t get to do it every night. She’s usually at Shelby’s Place, her five-star restaurant (voted one of Boston’s best by The Improper Bostonian), returning home late from taping her popular show for the Cooking Network in New York, or working on another bestselling cookbook. Dad makes it home most nights, exc
ept when he travels on business.
My phone rings on the nightstand, and I reach for it. I don’t recognize the number. I hesitate for a few seconds then decide to answer.
“Hello.”
“Good evening, Ms. Cooper. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.” The voice is male, one I don’t quite recognize.
I have to be cautious since people have been sending me strange notes lately. “Who is this?”
“You’ve forgotten me already? That hurts my feelings, Abbie.” Then he bursts out laughing.
“Christian! How did you get my number?”
“I get creative when I want something that’s, shall we say, difficult to obtain.”
“I’m going to kill Callie. Don’t bother denying it: She gave you my number, didn’t she?”
“Does it matter how I got it?”
“She can’t give out my number without my permission. I’m going to wring her little neck.”
“Callie is smart enough to know we should be getting to know each other.”
“She thinks you’re hot, and we should go out.”
I don’t know why that slipped off my tongue. Just because his phone voice reminds me of the rich, smooth organic maple syrup I have with my morning pancakes doesn’t mean I should lose my head.
“Do you agree with Callie?”
“I can’t control what my friend says or thinks.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I extend my legs until they touch the headboard. “It’s the only one you’ll get.”
“Why can’t you just admit that you like me?”
“Oh, my, what a massive ego we have. Still needs stroking after the endless parade of beauties who’ve fallen for your charms?”
“The only beauty I want falling for my charms is you, Abbie.”
“Aww. I would say that’s so sweet if you weren’t full of it.”
He belts out a hearty laugh. I can’t help but smile. Good thing he can’t see me. It would only encourage him.
“I like you, Abbie Cooper. I was right about you.”
“Meaning?”
“You say what’s on your mind. You don’t care about being popular or showing off to get attention, and your academic record is fierce.”
Game of Fear Page 2