by Clara Stone
“It’s done,” Jack—one of my teammates—whispers as he slides into the chair next to me. I lower my book as more of my teammates join us, noisily placing their lunch trays—full of spaghetti and dipping sauces—on the table.
I smirk. “You were able to—”
“Yes,” he answers, glee lighting his features.
“And—”
“Not a single person suspects.”
I nod, his enthusiasm starting to rub off on me.
“Blake,” Wesley says, his eyebrows furrowed. Disapproval drips from his tone. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t chicken out now, Wes.”
“Yeah, dude,” Jack agrees. “We’ve got everything under control, and no one can prove it’s us.”
We’ve talked about this, over and over again, going back and forth. I really thought the last conversation won him over. But apparently not. I don’t care what he says, though. We’re moving forward. I look at him pointedly, willing him to see things our way.
“Fine.” He nods, his arms folded.
I look over to Hudson and his group of friends. Some of them—Hudson included—get up, ready to leave. I take a deep breath. “You guys ready?”
The girls in the group nod and push to a standing position. We each take a tray filled with sticky sauces and walk toward Cranbrook Preparatory High’s debate team. I carefully watch my target—Hudson. He’s breaking off from the group and heading in a different direction.
Nonono. I take quicker steps toward him, not caring that I just separated myself from my group. I’m sure they know the plan, just as I do. I need to catch him before I miss my chance. I hear commotion behind me, but I don’t turn to look. I already know what happened. Hudson continues to walk away, strutting like he’s the most eligible bachelor the world’s ever seen. I grind my teeth until I feel something pop in my jaw.
“Hudson!” I call after him, running. He stops abruptly and turns around, a smile on his face. Not expecting that, I barrel into him.
The tray smacks right into his broad chest, food smearing down the front of his tightly tucked dress shirt, dripping all the way to his slacks. His eyes widen. But I can’t stop myself; the momentum’s got me smashing into him as surely as the food did. The tray clatters to the floor, and we both dance around, arms flailing as we try to catch onto something for balance.
I ready myself for impact with the hard tile floor, squeezing my eyes shut, but warm arms wrap around me protectively as I fall. The impact is soft and hard, all at the same time. I peek one eye open and find I’m laying on top of Hudson, my arms wrapped around his neck, holding on for dear life.
When I realize what happened, I push off him and jump to my feet. Only, I lose my balance again—the floor beneath me is slippery—and fall right back on him with an “oomph.”
The entire length of my body presses deliciously against him, and his arms once again wrap around me, a cocky smirk etching his lips.
“All you had to do was ask, if you wanted a hug,” he teases.
Heat floods through me, and I beat at his chest, once. “You wish, butt-wipe.”
This time, I change tactics and roll off him. My teammates have arrived, standing at the edge of the mess and staring. Wesley is the first to offer his hand and help me up, a dirty look barely concealed behind his calm mask.
I ignore him.
Hudson’s teammates surround him too. I fight back a smile as I take in my team’s handiwork. The CPH team is covered in varying shades of red and brown sauce, and a few look like they’ve wet themselves. Mission accomplished.
Part one of the plan: We “accidently” bump food on the rich turds and make them think that is the end. However, as luck would have it, I got messy too. I look just like our competition. This time, I have to bite my lip to keep from smiling. It’s perfect.
Hudson’s eyes rake the length of me, and he licks his lips. “Next time, you should try something a little more lasting than food, ladies. Because, if this is the best you’ve got, I must say, I’m disappointed.”
I scowl, as I’m certain the rest of my team is. We have to keep up appearances, of course. But on the inside, I’m like an overcharged kid bouncing off the walls. I can’t wait to see what happens when they clean up from our “prank.”
Can’t. Wait.
After they leave, I head to the locker room myself.
“What the hell happened?” Wesley asks, pulling at my hand just as I’m about to enter the swinging door.
“Hey, ow,” I say, snapping my hand from his grip. I rub my other hand over it, turning to face him with a scowl.
He ignores it. “How did you manage to get dirty?”
I shrug. “I miscalculated how fast I was running and wasn’t expecting him to stop.”
His eyes turn wide.
“Take it easy. This is good. If none of us got messy, we probably would’ve been suspected of a prank. Now, they have no reason to expect what’s coming.”
He glares. “This is why I said no pranks, Blake. You didn’t think this through.”
“Wait—”
“No more pranks. Or I swear to God . . .” He takes a deep breath. I’ve never seen him like this before, so worked up and pissed.
I raise my hands in surrender. “Fine. Whatever. I promise, no more after today.”
The tension leaves his shoulders, and he smiles, hesitant. Almost like he’s afraid that if he does, I might change back into a bratty little kid.
“Blake,” Sara calls, clothes in hand. She hands them to me as soon as I’m within reaching distance.
“Thanks so much, Sara.” I take the clothes and lean forward to give her a hug, but stop, remembering the mess of mashed-up food decorating my body. I settle for a fist bump instead. “You’re the best.”
She shrugs shyly. “You should hurry up and get showered. You don’t want to miss the next part.” She winks.
That I don’t. So, without wasting another minute, I get showered and ready to meet the other teams for round two of the debate competition.
An hour and forty-five minutes later, my team and I are celebrating an easy win against the Cardinals, sending us into the semi-finals.
Next up is Cranbrook Preparatory High vs Lawson. Both are top-notch private schools, renowned across the nation.
Hope is the only girl on the Cranbrook debate team, and the only person that isn’t scratching herself. About ten minutes into the debate, she throws her team a harsh look, telling them to pull themselves together. They end up winning, despite the distraction, taking them into the semi-finals as well.
Once the winners from both rounds are announced, our team meanders out to the parking lot, spending the next twenty minutes talking before we head back to our reality and homes. We analyze the mistakes we made during our debate and also the weak points for Cranbrook. Just as I reach Wesley’s car, someone calls my name.
“Blake!”
I pause and pivot around. Hudson’s running toward us, still scratching. He’s wearing a Lacrosse uniform now—blue mesh jersey with a huge “20” plastered across his chest, matching gym shorts, and socks and shoes that bear the school colors. So he’s a jock as well. Super.
He’s a little out of breath as he comes to a stop before me.
“How can I help you?” I say sweetly.
“Cut the bullshit.” His hands rub across his torso, causing his shirt to ride up a tad. I quickly glance away, connecting with his intense stare instead of his intense abs. “And don’t even deny it.” He leans closer, his breath lingering over the outer shell of my ear. “Tic-Tac-Boo. I hope you’re ready for what I have planned for you, firecracker.”
Excitement and anger floods through me. I hate nicknames. But something about the way he says “firecracker” . . . . It does things inside me.
He pulls back, a confident smile spreading across his lips.
I blink, caught for a moment on his mouth.
He walks backward, his arms stretched
wide as his smile grows mischievous. “Karma’s a bitch, Blake,” he yells for everyone to hear, taunting me with the words I’d said not thirty-six hours ago.
I cross my arms in fake offense. But inside, a thousand scenarios blast through my head as I try to picture how he’ll get back at me.
Yes. Yes, she is. Karma is a bitch.
I HAVE NEVER done anything so liberating in my entire life. For as long as I can remember, even before Mom passed away, I strove to be the poster child of perfection. I did my homework on time, made it through school with a perfect GPA, and had all the teachers eating out of my hand.
But after Mom was admitted to the hospital, I felt trapped. I started wondering what the point was, when nothing in life is certain. That question was, is, a constant annoyance in my head. I may have been barely entering my teen years, but I felt like something was amiss even then. I just didn’t know how to fix it. Then Mom died, and I was handed the responsibility of taking care of my brothers.
But now, as I lean against this wall, waiting for Blake and her teammates to come out of their meeting, I can’t help but feel excitement pour through me. If I didn’t care about ruining my reputation, I might even giggle hysterically.
“Dude, you sure this will work?” Roy—fellow debate team member and friend since middle school—asks.
I bite my fingernail, my insides coiling into a tight knot, ready to burst open. Come on. Come on. Open the door, Blake. Of course, my entire plan will go to shit if Blake isn’t the one to open it. More than anyone else, it’s her I want to get back at. She’s the queen prankster.
Between the itching powder in my clothes, the skunk scent they somehow got on me, and . . . I shake my head, not wanting to think about the other insignificant, but effective pranks she managed to hit us with.
If I pull this off, I’ll make amends before finals.
“They’re coming,” someone says, and I zero in on the door, letting my gaze trail up the string attached to it that leads to an arsenal of water balloons filled with honey. It took some bribing to get the chemistry students to dilute the honey just the right amount, so it would fall easily and stick to hair.
The door handle turns down, then slowly swings open, and out walks Blake. Her eyes connect with mine and widen. Time freezes in that second. My eyes dart to the balloon that’s half a second away from finding its target.
A shrill scream sounds at the exact moment the balloon splatters all over Blake, who has her arms partway up to her head.
My teammates and I laugh and high-five. Not only have we gotten Blake, but three of her teammates as well. Fuck. Yeah.
I push off the wall and saunter toward her, biting my lip to hold back the giggles.
Blake’s arms are stretched out, and she’s stomping her foot, shrieking so loud it resonates the walls with anger. She runs her fingers over her eyes and wipes away the honey that’s rolling down her face, dripping in dark splotches onto her shirt.
When I come to a stop in front of her, she looks at me, fury blazing in her eyes with the ferocity of firecrackers on the Fourth of July. “You!” she yells, her finger pointing and dangerously close to me.
She punches her fist toward me, but I step out of the way, just barely escaping my shirt getting sticky.
“Can we call it a truce?”
“Are you fucking kidding me, golden boy?”
I cock my eyebrow. She growls, taking a step forward and swinging her arm, only to lose her balance. Instead of stepping out of the way this time, I grab hold of her arms and keep her from face-planting into the floor.
My uniform is officially ruined, but I don’t care. I wanted to get back at her, and I did. For fun. I’m not the asshole she thinks me to be, for reasons unknown. I wouldn’t let her hurt herself. If that means a ruined uniform, then so be it.
“Let go of me,” she yells again.
“If I do, you’re gonna fall on your ass,” I respond coolly.
She grunts.
“Listen, Blake. You’ve gotten me several times now. This is payback. It was fun while it lasted, but our final competition is in two days, and I really don’t want unimportant things distracting us. Can we just call it quits?”
Her chocolaty brown eyes pierce into me, like she’s wondering whether I’m being serious or just pulling her leg.
“Please?” I add, hoping it’ll show good faith.
She wrenches her arms from my grip, and I let her. My hand goes into my pocket, finding Jags’s key.
“No,” she finally answers, with a laugh that sounds way too menacing. “No, Mr. Poster Child of Saintliness.”
I flinch at her word choice. She pauses, her eyes squinting. I mean, it’s not like she knows anything about me, but still, that hit a little close to home, and there’s no way she didn’t notice my reaction.
No. Flipping. Way.
She walks toward me, careful not slip. I don’t move back. She comes close enough that her pointer finger jabs at my chest. “You just started a war you can’t win.”
“But . . .” I stop, because she’s already walking away from me. She throws a scowl over her shoulder, giving me the universal sign for “I’m watching you.”
I laugh. Because really, I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone or anything take my mind off all the pain and responsibility of being the eldest in my family as effectively as she does.
Blake’s done the impossible. I’m thinking about what’s waiting in store for me between now and the end of the week, instead of the ten thousand other things I know I should be worried about.
BLAKE’S STRUCK AGAIN. Two days after my victory in the hallway, I’m left wondering how I could ever have thought her presence a good one. This time, she’s gone too far.
I’m going to throw a banana peel in front of that Sunset High brat. I grind my teeth so hard it feels like my molars are about to pop and stare at the eggshells marring the perfect clear-coat on my baby, my Jags. My stomach coils with anger. How could she? My car! My fucking car! I place my hand on the hood and drag my fingers over it, my heart constricting.
My poor, poor, Jags. She didn’t deserve this kind of violation. What kind of person does something so vile to such a beautiful machine? A heartless one. That’s who.
I hear voices coming up behind me and look over my shoulder.
Blake’s teammates walk out of the main building, laughing and talking loudly. Probably about what an excellent job Blake did pulling this prank.
I growl. Blake. She’s going to be the death of me. I know it.
With determined strides, I head toward them. This ends, once and for all.
“You.” I point at the guy that always seems to cling to Blake like a pet octopus. Weasley, or Possum, or something equally asinine. He turns, eyebrows raised, and crosses his arms in defiance. The group around him pauses, their curious eyes on us. I ignore them. “Where is she, Weasel?”
“My name is not Weas—”
“Weasel, Wormhole, whatever. I don’t care. Where. Is. She.”
He grinds his teeth. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Oh, really?” I take a threatening step toward him, cracking my knuckles. I’m not above bruising a chump to get justice for my Jags.
“What’s going on?” A voice, filled with authority, comes from behind me. Something stirs in the pit of my stomach . . . irritation, anger, or . . . ?
I take a deep breath and pivot. “Blake.”
She looks unimpressed, her eyes boring into mine. I notice the crowd around us is still hovering, interested to see where this is going. But once again, I ignore them.
I step toward Blake, searching the chocolate depths of her eyes for any sign of guilt. There isn’t any, but the fire that seems to crackle just beneath their surface leaves me suspicious. And slightly mesmerized.
A small smile appears on her lips, but quickly vanishes.
“Golden Boy here is looking for you,” Willy Wonkers says, shouldering past me to stand next to Blake.
&
nbsp; I growl. “Who the hell are you calling—”
“Golden Boy.” Blake cuts me off.
I grunt. “Don’t call me that.”
She raises an eyebrow and takes a step toward me, away from Wes the Pet. “So . . . ?”
“So . . .” I prod.
She bites down on her lower lip, waiting for me to say something. And I don’t. Because there is no way I’m asking if she messed up Jags. I want her to confess.
She clears her throat. “You were looking for me?”
Un-freaking-believable. Really, Blake? Really? Confession be damned. I need answers. Now. “How could you do that to my baby?”
She tilts her head to the side and shoves a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyebrows knit together. “Your baby?”
“Yes, my baby.” I’m wailing inside, but my voice comes out strong.
“Your baby?” she asks again, her head shaking.
Why is it so damn hard to understand that harming my Jags is worse than telling a two-year-old Santa doesn’t exist? I shove my fingers through my hair, frustrated that she’s acting confused. I want to scream at her, but I don’t. “Yes, my baby. Jags.”
Her playful smile vanishes into a scowl of. . . disappointment?
“She’s . . . she’s . . . you did this to her.” I pull out my key and run my finger over it. “Do you know, I’ve never let anyone else take care of her?”
“I-I . . .”
“I give her a bath every week. Every week, Blake.” I sound like a broken man. Hell, I am.
She points a finger at me, her expression one of disbelief and horror. “You only give your daughter a bath once a week?”
“And I never let anyone drive her. I’ve been—”
“Drive . . . w-what the hell, Hudson?” Her eyes are wide with either fear or disgust. I can’t tell. She doesn’t understand the kind of love I have for my Jags. Girls rarely do. A man’s true nature can only be determined by the way he cares for his car. And damn it, I love that car.
“What kind of sick—”
I walk past her, toward Jags, and pause. A few lingering students head to their cars without taking note of us. I get a few nods from my teammates as they meander to the field for practice. Practice. Shit. Coach is going to kick my ass for being late, but I can’t think about that right now. “I need to get her cleaned and probably detailed . . .”