Since when did Dad know about basketball and overtime? Had he been studying too?
“You ready?” asked Jack.
I nodded, possibly a bit too emphatically. I grabbed my coat and struggled into it on the way out the door—the faster we left, the better.
“Sorry,” I said.
“For what?”
I nodded toward the house.
“That?” He gave me his little-boy grin. “You forget. We’re having dinner with my dad.” With that cryptic remark, he led me to the Toyota.
Apparently, Jack could cook.
Outside, the Paulsons’ old Victorian sported two basketball hoops. Inside, a wood stove warmed the house, and the tangy scent of tomato sauce and basil made my stomach growl. Spaghetti swirled in a pot of boiling water. It was the sort they served in the cafeteria at school, the thick kind that stuck to your insides. No spinach-colored angel-hair pasta in this house.
“Do you do all the cooking?” I leaned against the kitchen counter.
“Since eighth grade. My dad”—Jack lowered his voice—“really can’t cook.”
“I heard that!” The response came from the living room. Jack made a face, and I giggled.
“At first all I wanted to do was figure out my mom’s recipe for spaghetti sauce.” He chased the noodles around the pot, the steam from them making his skin glow. “She was one of those people who kept it all up here.” He tapped his head.
“Looks pretty impressive,” I said.
“You think?”
“Yeah, I do,” I added, but I was talking so softly, the steam absorbed my words.
Jack smiled. “The secret ingredient is sugar,” he said. “It cuts the acid from the tomatoes. Here, taste.” He gave the sauce a quick stir, then stepped close to me and held the spoon to my mouth.
“Mmmmm, delicious,” I said. And it was. In more ways than one.
“Are you sure? Usually I put more garlic in it, but since…” Jack’s voice trailed off.
“Since what?” We stood so close that speaking above a whisper seemed weird.
“Since…,” Jack whispered back. He looked up at the ceiling for a second, then grinned back down at me. “Since you were coming over.”
What did that have to do with…? Oh.
Jack still held the spoon. His other hand still cradled the space beneath it, guarding against spills. But he leaned in anyway, and I closed my eyes. Our lips met in a not-so-garlicky kiss.
Just then Jack’s dad shouted from the living room, “How’re things coming along in there? You need any help from me?”
My eyes flew back open.
Jack kept his lips on mine, and my mouth buzzed with his words as he said, “What do you think? Are we doing okay? Or should I call for reinforcements?”
I pushed him away, and we both laughed.
Mr. Paulson set the table while Jack pulled garlic bread from the oven. I was reduced to carrying three glasses of water. Please, I thought, let me make it to the table without tripping. Mr. Paulson grinned at the two of us as I twirled spaghetti on my fork, conscious of every move. It was the wrong thing to eat when you were under scrutiny.
Jack’s dad excused himself. “Forgot the drinks,” he said.
I pointed to the water glasses, but my protest died when a rattle came from the kitchen. Mr. Paulson returned, tossing a can across the table to Jack.
“There you go, Jackie.”
In a blur of red, white, and blue, Jack popped the tab and took a long swallow—of beer. Then he froze, his eyes meeting mine above the rim of the can.
“Oh, Bethany, honey, I’m sorry,” Mr. Paulson said. “Would you—?”
Would I what? Like a can of beer? I tried to hide my shock while I gave my head a quick shake. So yeah, my parents drank once in a while, wine at Christmas, that sort of thing. When they came home from their New Year’s party, they even opened a small bottle of champagne and poured a glass for me. But they didn’t pop cans of Bud at the dinner table. And they never offered one to me.
“I’m fine with water, thank you.” Gah, my voice sounded so prissy.
“You know, Jack’s mom used to like a glass of wine with spaghetti, didn’t she, Jackie?”
Jack unclenched the beer can and set it on the table. “She did.”
“But I guess you’re stuck with us two bachelors,” said Mr. Paulson. “Not a drop of vino in the house.” And then he stared, obviously expecting an answer.
I ducked my head and studied my plate, but the garlic bread wasn’t giving up any clever small talk. At last I said, “Well, it could be worse.” Oh sure, even the garlic bread could have come up with something better than that.
Mr. Paulson laughed, and the tension eased from Jack’s face. His hand flirted with the beer can, back and forth between it and his plate, until at last I nodded. He gave me a grateful look before taking another swallow.
During the rest of dinner, I stole glances at the photograph of Jack’s mother that hung on the opposite wall. Jack was tall and lanky like his father, but he had the dark hair and eyes of his mom. That was where the true resemblance was. I kept up my compare-and-contrast until Jack caught me midlook. If he minded, I couldn’t tell.
The moment Mr. Paulson excused himself, I sprang up and collected the dirty plates, only to have Jack protest.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“The dishes?”
He reached for the plates, and we ended up in a tug-of-war over them.
“You really want to help?” he asked.
I nodded.
“We got twenty minutes before tip-off. Think we can do it?”
“You’ve never seen me load a dishwasher.”
He stared down at the dining table. “It’s just a sink.”
How could I be so stupid? In a world where “everyone” had a cell phone—except me—I should’ve known better. “Well,” I said, after swallowing hard, “you’ve never seen me sterilize dishes with only a single pot and a campfire.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Girl Scouts,” I said. “I can also fry an egg in a paper bag and start a pretty good one-match fire, if you’re interested.”
He scowled at the wood stove. “You can?”
“I’m better at it than I am at cheerleading.”
“No, no, you’re a good cheerleader,” he said. “I mean, at least I can tell you care.” If he said I let my school spirit shine, I was going to collapse and sob. “And that you like the game,” he finished.
I let out a long breath. “I do.”
“Then we better—” He looked at my hands, at the crumbs of garlic bread, the sauce and noodles that painted my fingertips. “Oh, man. I’m sorry.”
“Dinner was so great, I thought I’d wear it.”
His gaze went from my face, to my hands, and back again. Then he grinned. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get started.”
Seconds before the game’s tip-off, Jack tugged me to the couch, telling me to forget the pot with its strands of spaghetti glued to the sides.
And seconds after tip-off, Jack’s dad pushed himself up from his tattered recliner and left the living room. Before I could ask, he returned, loaded down with chips, dip, and a fresh six-pack of Budweiser. He tossed a can to Jack.
“Hey, Jackie, did you ask Bethany what she thinks of our Christmas present?”
Jack caught the beer and nodded toward the television set—a small flat-screen.
“It’s nice,” I said.
“We decided on it instead of socks and underwear.” Jack stuck out a foot and turned it, revealing the underside of his tube sock, held together by—was that duct tape? “Care to see my boxers?”
I blushed. I’m not sure whether it was from the mention of underwear or the idea that Jack couldn’t afford socks.
“No, not really,” he said, holding back a grin. “I’m just way behind on laundry.” Like I said, teenage boys = gross.
When his dad turned away, Jack set the beer—unopened—on the co
ffee table.
Watching basketball with Jack was a learning experience. He explained rules, calls, and strategies, things about the game that I didn’t even know existed. After halftime, the instruction slowed down. Jack leaned forward, almost in a crouch, hands on knees, his game face on. When the Timberwolves scored, he punched his fists in the air and fell back on the sofa, jostling me. When a referee made a bad call, he’d turn to me and say, “Oh, man. Do you believe that?”
“No, man,” I answered, deadpan. “I don’t.” Then he’d laugh, ruffle my hair, and maybe give my cheek a quick kiss. I found myself wishing the game would last forever.
But way too soon, I’d thanked Mr. Paulson—who made me promise to come back—and stood outside in the January night, the air sharp in my lungs. Jack started the truck but didn’t get inside it. He leaned against the door, arms crossed, and tilted his head toward the stars.
“He doesn’t always drink like that,” he said.
“I—I don’t…,” I started to say, but Mr. Paulson had finished off the entire six-pack during the game, with no help from “Jackie,” and we both knew it.
“Since my mom died, it’s…he’s…” He paused. “And then, of course, tonight he was nervous.”
“Nervous?”
Jack glanced away from the stars to look at me. “About meeting you.”
“No way. I’m the one who was nervous.” Try on the verge of a breakdown. I remembered Mr. Paulson’s remark about having only bachelors in the house. It made me realize that Jack never brought girls home. I wondered if he’d invited anyone to his house recently.
“I warned him he had to be on his best behavior.” He looked at the sky again. “Still didn’t help.”
“Your dad was fine.”
Jack winced. “He hasn’t been all together since my mom died. Sometimes I think a part of him died when she did. Not that he was ever any good at cooking.” He smiled for just a second, then looked at me like he was measuring something. In the clear, cold night I shifted from one foot to the other.
“I started driving when I was twelve,” he began. “Well, not legally,” he corrected himself. “I was tall enough to reach the pedals, and I’d help my dad on jobs. Then one day after I turned fourteen, we’d been doing some concrete job from hell, and he tossed me a beer. I know it sounds—weird.” Jack shrugged. “But it’s just the way things are now. I’m not always sure anymore who’s the dad and who’s the kid.”
I held out my hand, and Jack took my thick wool mitten in his worn leather glove. He tugged me closer. I stepped forward. Neither of us saw the patch of ice until it was too late. His foot skidded. My arms flailed, but he caught me, snagged my waist. I dangled in his embrace, with my head tipped back, almost like we were ballroom dancers.
Except ballroom dancers—or cheerleaders—weren’t usually so graceless. I looked up at him and laughed. It beat crying.
“Testing my reflexes?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. That’s it exactly.”
“Good thing I caught you. You get sidelined with an injury and I might lose that bet with Mangers.” He said it with a smile, his eyes warm with humor.
“That bet,” I echoed. “Were you guys really serious about that?” Maybe a hundred bucks didn’t mean much to Rick Mangers. But the boy standing across from me? Well, that was a different story.
Instead of answering, Jack nodded at the truck. “I think she’s warm enough to drive.” He gave the Toyota a pat on the hood. “And you’re probably cold enough for hypothermia.”
“I’m fine.” But the words came out soft, lost in a cloud of my own breath.
Jack went through the motions of adjusting the heater and defrosting the windshield, but he didn’t put the truck in gear. Instead he cupped my cheek with an icy glove. The mention of Rick Mangers and the bet had frozen me stiff, but Jack’s warm kiss stole all my thoughts.
And we kissed for a very long time.
“Warm enough now?” he asked, his lips still against mine.
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Me too.” He eased away from me, then he dove back in for another kiss. “I gotta get you home. Or else.”
Or else what, he didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. The quiet drive felt right. The silent walk to my door didn’t bother me. Neither did Jack’s quick hand squeeze good night. I didn’t think of Rick Mangers, how he hadn’t called Moni, or the bet. I didn’t think of Geek Night, either. At least, not until I reached my room and found my voice mail and in-box empty.
10
From The Prairie Stone High Varsity Cheerleading Guide:
Alcohol and drug use will not be tolerated on the Prairie Stone High School varsity cheerleading squad. Unlike other infractions, breaking this rule will result in immediate dismissal from the squad. No exceptions!
I spent a quiet Sunday with Jack, my telephone, and a really sore left ear. I tried calling Moni early in the day but ended up in voice mail. I tried e-mail and had to be satisfied with a short response of, No, really, I’m okay.
That Monday morning at school, I looked for her first. I didn’t need to. She sprang on me from behind.
“Just. Saw. Rick.” She bounced up and down, cheerleader-style.
“Deep breath.” I waved a hand in front of her face. “Are you hyperventilating?”
“Get this,” she said between gasps. “I told him if he won his match on Thursday, we’d have a surprise for him.”
“We will?”
She punched my arm. “The shoulder sit. We’ll debut it then.”
Oh, great.
For a second, I thought Moni would insist we practice—right there in the hall. If Todd hadn’t marched up to us, stony-faced, she might have.
“We’ve been missing you at Geek Nights,” he said to me.
“What about me?” asked Moni. “Don’t you miss me, too?”
Todd swiveled to stare straight at her. “No, but Brian does.” He dismissed her without another word and turned back to me. “Meet me in the Little Theater, Reynolds. Sixth period.”
Dork domain—it wouldn’t surprise me if Todd had recruited the entire debate team to ambush me. Their extemporaneous topic? “Reasons Not to be a Cheerleader.” He spun away from us without waiting for my response. Not that I apparently had a choice in the matter.
“Well.” Moni shook her curls. “That was rude. But then, that was also Todd.” She rolled her eyes. “Are you going to go?”
I shrugged. “I guess. What would you do?”
“After everything? Probably blow him off. He’s really being a jerk.”
It was just like Todd to go all drama king on me. He could have IM’d me over the weekend. Or he could tell me during first-period honors history. But no, not Todd. Jerk or not, I still considered him one of my best friends. I might regret it later but, yeah, I’d meet him.
Inside the Little Theater a single spotlight lit an empty chair at center stage. It made the surrounding dark seem even darker—and creepier.
“Take a seat,” a voice launched from the dark.
I let my eyes adjust and searched the room for a form to match the voice. This was too much, even for Todd.
“Come on,” I said. “Turn on the lights.”
Silence. This was stupid. I should turn around, head to the library, and spend my free period with Moni like always. Instead I took a step, then another, down the stairs that led to the main floor. Then I found myself climbing up, stage right.
My footfalls echoed in the space, and I was glad it wasn’t a cheer day. No way would I be up there in a miniskirt. The metal folding chair glinted under the light. No way was I sitting on that, either.
“Sit.” Todd’s voice held a commanding tone, but I crossed my arms over my chest and tapped my foot.
“Okay, okay,” he said. The spotlight flooded me with a soft pink hue, and the stage floor appeared to glitter. I was almost afraid to move. With a click, the door to the control room opened and shut. Someone—or something—clattered down the steps and across th
e floor. I squinted in the direction of the approaching sound. Only when he reached the stage did I recognize the mass of bed-head hair and those dork-a-rific glasses.
Todd leaned against the stage and propped an elbow on its edge. Chin on his fist, he scrutinized me.
“I take it you wanted to talk,” I said.
“Yes…and no. There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while now. It’s just…I haven’t”—he raised his eyes heavenward—“figured out how to say it.”
This could not be good. Why now? Was it because Jack had started paying attention to me? If this was one of those guy competition things, I might have to break down and cry. Todd had always claimed to be above all that.
“Todd, I don’t think—”
He held up a hand. “Please, just let me get it over with.”
I cringed, but nodded.
“I have discovered something about you,” he said.
All the synapses in my brain aligned themselves into fight-or-flight sequence. If he said one word about hooking up…
“You,” he said, pointing to me, “are a muse.”
I blinked. “I’m amused?”
“No, no. You.” Todd pointed at me. “Are my muse. You know, a daughter of Zeus. A poetic inspiration.”
My arms went slack, and I groped for the back of the chair. The metal was cool, sturdy, and real—while everything else was so not. “Maybe you could explain,” I said. “How exactly am I your muse?” If the job description for a Daughter of Zeus required hand holding and kissing, I was out of there.
“Sit. Come on, Reynolds. I’m not going to bite.” He laughed. “I’m not going to ask you out, either.”
“You’re…not?” I felt my way around to the front of the chair and settled onto it.
“Sure, I considered it,” he said. “I mean, it’s not fair that guys like Paulson get all the cute chicks. And you are almost my intellectual equal. That should make us compatible.”
“In your dreams, Emerson.”
“Well, yeah,” he said without a trace of embarrassment. “Sometimes.”
The Geek Girl's Guide to Cheerleading Page 15