by Tina Ferraro
Weird? Yeah. Especially when Chrissandra was telling her how to do her job.
“Plus, I can't risk making enemies with my teammates if somehow AJ worms her way out of this. So the perfect solution is for you to slip an anonymous note under Hartley's office door while varsity is on the field, telling her to check AJ's locker for painkillers.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. No one would think twice about you being in the locker room. They'd just think you hadn't gone home yet or were maybe hanging around to talk to Hartley. It's perfect, see? All the varsity players are safe from suspicion, AJ gets nabbed, and then you can move up to take her place.” She held up a hand as if waving a Fourth of July sparkler. “Am I good or what?”
I knew I was supposed to clap my hands and gush, to act as if she'd arranged high tea for me with my beloved Prince Harry. But ever since she'd destroyed my life, I'd had trouble taking her at face value.
The thing was, though, if AJ really was popping pills for pain, she deserved to be exposed. She could hurt herself—and the team—with a game injury. And slipping a note under Heartless's door was a heck of a lot easier (and cheaper) than bribing her at the sports fair.
But was there more to this than met the eye?
And then there was the other thing, which I let slip. “Unless Hartley promotes Lyric instead.”
“Lyric, Schmyric! Ever notice her mouth barely moves when she talks? And come on, you wipe up the soccer field with her.”
“Maybe,” I conceded, knowing Chrissandra valued confidence. “But I'm captain. And Hartley told me yesterday what a good job I'm doing. I don't think she'd want to lose me.”
Chrissandra pulled into the Dairy Queen lot and idled the engine. I knew she wouldn't dream of eating there (“all fat and fart,” she had long ago declared it), but she conceded that it was the unofficial center of town. “Okay,” she said, “we'll make things sweeter. How about I talk to Rachael, and after you leave the note, we'll both go to Hartley, backing you to move up.”
“Rachael?”
“Yeah, I have a major in with her.”
Funny, I'd gotten the opposite impression from Rachael.
“And if that doesn't work, we'll get a petition going.” She patted my hand, BFF that she was. “And if that doesn't work, we'll … we'll … all go on strike. Like in the cafeteria last winter, when all the workers walked out.” She chuckled to herself. “And it's not like they can train and replace the varsity soccer team with scabs.”
I studied her face, which looked totally hound- dog sincere. I wondered if she was really on my side or if she'd just gotten even better at BS'ing. In any case, I was tired of saying what she wanted to hear—of playing by the Chrissandra Rules—and for once, laid my cards on the table.
“Well, great,” I told her. “I'd appreciate any help I can get. But why now? Why not help me a few weeks ago, when this whole thing began?”
Something flashed in her eyes. “Oh, we wanted to. We did. But … of course, moving you up meant kicking someone off. Player limits, remember.”
“And you, Elaine and Mandy were afraid it would be one of you?” I said, hoping she picked up on the word I was screaming in my head: Coward!
Her back went ramrod straight. “More like we just weren't in power positions.” She put the car in reverse and backed out. “Look, I understand you need a day or two to think it over. But I'm sure you'll do the right thing.”
“ Uh- huh,” I said, knowing what I really needed was electroshock therapy, to erase all memory of how they'd treated me lately.
“Besides, we're not done publicly humiliating you yet,” she said with a light laugh and an evil grin. “We have more ideas.”
And gee, how could I deprive any of us of that?
•
Chrissandra drove me home, chatting amicably, as if she hadn't just threatened me. As she turned onto my street, my heart turned over at the sight of the tall silhouette up ahead. Leave it to Tristan to be shooting hoops until last light. (And, coincidentally, just when I truly needed a friend.)
I powered down the passenger window, but when Chrissandra came to a full stop in front of my house, I saw that the figure wasn't Tristan at all—but his father. And another body emerged from a shadow.
My dad.
I realized with a start that the two had been talking. And while I crossed my fingers that they were finally mending fences (so to speak), the fury on my dad's brow when he turned toward the headlights stole that fantasy.
Before I could get out of Chrissandra's car, he was at the door. He had a bottomless pit of material when it came to embarrassing behavior, and if he went off on the turf war in front of Chrissandra, I thought I just might have to take my own life.
“Parker Elizabeth! Were you kissing the Murphy boy?”
I froze. “Huh?” I said, so shocked by his question that Chrissandra and her threatening presence beside me took a total backseat.
“Murphy here says when he came in the back door this evening, he saw you at the front, kissing his son.”
Oh, crap!
In a desperate measure, I denied it with an “Uh, no, Dad” but nodded my head at the same time.
“I knew this was no good. But your mom insisted you were just showing him around school.”
Chrissandra spoke up. “She was teaching him how to drive.”
“Drive?” Mr. Murphy looked from me to my dad, exploding with gale- force winds. “He's not old enough to drive yet.”
“That's why they were practicing out of town,” Chrissandra explained, in what sounded like a logical tone. “So they wouldn't get caught. Then one thing just led to another.”
“What?” the dads said in unison—arguably the first time they'd ever come together on anything.
“Nothing,” I said.
But Chrissandra's voice was louder. “Their being in love,” she said, then smiled at me.
Oh, God!
“Dad,” I said, cringing, “it's not really the way it sounds.”
“It had better not be,” Mr. Murphy muttered.
My father pivoted on one shoe until he was facing Murphy. “What do you mean by that?”
“Come on, Stanhope, do you want your daughter involved with my son?”
“Hell no, but he'd be lucky to have her.”
“Well, your daughter would be lucky to have my son.”
Chrissandra elbowed me, grinning so big I thought her face would split in half. “This is so Romeo and Juliet.”
I wanted to give her an elbow right back. A sharp one in the head, for opening her big, fat mouth. But I also wanted to power the window back up and instruct her to drive me to the Canadian border, where I'd disappear into the wilds forever.
Instead, I went with the only choice that made sense. I opened the door and stepped out. “See you tomorrow,” I said, like nothing horrible was happening.
“Yeah, sure. But remember, don't say hi to me or anything. Tonight did not happen.”
I laughed. Because at this point, I was wishing for nothing more than for it to be true. Then I slammed her door and watched her pull away.
I walked slowly toward the Murphy house as the grown men argued like grade- school bullies.
“I'm going to get Tristan,” I said, hoping one of them would stop griping long enough to hear me. “We need to explain what's really been going on,” I added brightly, praying we'd be able to. Without too much emphasis on the kissing stuff. So that I didn't get shipped off to a convent, and Tristan to a military school.
Quixotic: Take the lead from
Don Quixote: when it comes to a kiss, there's
no such thing as being too romantic.
Tristan appeared at his front door with one hand holding his cell phone to his ear, the other up in a give- me-a- minute gesture. I sighed and shifted my weight impatiently until he finished with a “See you tomorrow.”
I didn't care what he was up to—that was his own freshman business—but, for some reason, he felt the need to expla
in that he'd been talking about an English presentation.
Whatever.
“In case you didn't notice, our dads are having a showdown in the street,” I told him. “And this time, it's about us.”
He muttered something under his breath, followed me out and fell into step beside me. “Look, Parker, my dad saw us before. Kissing in the doorway. But I took care of it. I told him you'd lost a bet and had to kiss me.”
“You could have called and let me know.”
“I did. You were out.”
“Oh.” I had nothing to say to that. “Yeah, well, Chrissandra blew that cover for us, anyway, and now they think we're in love.”
“In love?”
He quickened his footsteps, and I had to break into a half jog to keep up. And while I understood the urgency, it wasn't like a house was on fire or anything. And was it really so completely offensive and out of the question that we could have feelings for each other?
Under the circle of light, our dads had stepped closer, like one was daring the other to make the first move.
Tristan took a couple of long strides, then busted in between them. He was the only other person who understood this paternal humiliation, and at that moment, I felt closer to him than to anyone on the planet.
“Dad, Mr. Stanhope. This thing between Parker and me, it's not real. I'm just helping her get on the varsity soccer team. It's almost over; then we'll pretty much go back to the way we were before.”
“Practically strangers,” I said, lunging forward. “Well, I mean, maybe we'll still be friends….”
Tristan ignored me. “She hatched some plan with Clayton and Luke, and it turned out she needed my help, too.”
I nodded, like, Yeah, what he said.
My father's gaze bounced from Tristan's to mine. I made sure to nod. “This plan—it's not going to get you into any trouble at school?”
“Not at all. In fact, that's why it's going to work, because it's totally within school rules. Clayton's got all that covered.”
A smile tugged at my father's mouth, and he aimed his next sentence at Mr. Murphy. “My son's planning to become a lawyer. Have I mentioned that before?”
“Only about a hundred times,” Mr. Murphy snapped.
Dad turned to me. “How much longer till this whole thing is over?”
“Just a few days. Sports fair's on Tuesday, and we totally have to be broken up by then.”
“And at no point will you quit playing soccer?”
“Right.”
My father pressed his lips into a flat line. Then looked at Mr. Murphy. “I can live with it if you can.”
Mr. Murphy glanced at his son. “What are you getting out of this?”
“Are you kidding?” Tristan laughed. “Uh … hanging with Parker? Status at school.”
His dad considered this. “I guess.” Then he draped an arm around Tristan's shoulder and steered him toward the house. “But this doesn't change anything between us, Stanhope!”
“I'm still going to own your ass!” my dad charged back.
Tristan threw me a weary smile that I returned, and I made my retreat back to my own house with my dad.
•
I couldn't wait to see Becca that next day and get her take on everything. Although as I waited for her by the grill truck, it was hard to miss the irony that the girl I'd pushed away so I could climb to greater social heights was now the one I turned to, to bring me back down to earth.
“Talk about living large, Parker,” Becca said later, when we were finally eating after I'd spilled my life's building drama. “All I did last night was homework.”
“Consider yourself lucky.”
I glanced up, to see Kyle crossing in front of us, shooting a grin my way. I was sure that Chrissandra had told him the latest and that he was laughing both behind my back and in my face now. Normally I looked away from his kind of trouble, but today I couldn't resist lifting my hand and waving. Just to make him cringe.
He pretended not to see me. “He's such a jerk,” I told Becca. “Staring. Smiling. Trying to rub salt in my wound.”
“Oh, he wants something from you, all right,” she said, and laughed. “But I promise you, it has nothing to do with salt.” I must have looked as confused as I felt, because she rolled her eyes and continued. “Duh, Parker. He's totally into you. Can't you tell?”
“Kyle? Uh- uh. He's with Chrissandra. And that's just his smile, I mean, the way he looks.”
“Yeah. At you.”
In the back of my mind, I remembered what CeeCee had said. Huh. I idly wondered if Chrissandra had heard anything like this, too. But Becca pushed those thoughts away by asking more about Chrissandra's plan.
“So basically,” she clarified, “she wants you to put a note under the door and run like the wind?”
“Pretty much.”
“Wouldn't Hartley recognize your handwriting?”
“I suppose I could write it in block letters or type it out on the computer.”
“Or you could always cut out letters from magazines, like in ransom notes in old TV movies. Be super-dramatic.”
I nodded, but my thoughts had slipped back to Kyle. I wondered now if those rides he'd offered me last year had had some sort of deeper meaning.
And I realized that it wouldn't have mattered. Even though he might be able to pass for Colin Farrell's younger brother, the fact that he let Chrissandra call all the shots in their relationship said volumes about his character. The more I had gotten to know him, the less I would have liked him.
I went for the take- charge types, the guys who weren't afraid to take risks or put themselves out there. Okay, not that I'd actually gone out with that kind of guy, but once this varsity mess was over and I had time to think about dating, I'd do a much better job of choosing.
“Parker?” Becca said. “You're not considering writing the note, are you?”
I snapped back to the present. “No … not really. I mean, it would be wonderful if it worked. It would save Luke, Clayton and me time and hassle and save me money—and it would totally take care of who got kicked off the team. But … well, I guess I just don't trust Chrissandra to have my back.”
“Yeah, unless you're okay with her stabbing it.”
The end- of- lunch bell rang, and Becca and I wandered inside. She was telling me about a guy she'd dated from the supermarket, and I was just about to ask if they'd tried any of the kisses I was learning from Tristan when some strained female voices, and a rush of feet, broke me from my musing.
Maybe I was paranoid, but I couldn't help jumping to the thought that it had to do with me.
“My locker again?” I muttered to Becca. It had been disturbingly clean that morning, making me think the girls were busy working on something grander than wrapping paper and coupons.
But we were still several classrooms away, so either the girls were still at work and had placed lookouts, or they'd done such a bang- up job that word had already spread. Or both.
Becca craned her neck. “Look away. I'll check and try to break it to you gently.”
I glanced off to the side—only to see my JV- soccer teammates Emma and Marg flanking my (big, strapping and incredibly accommodating) “boyfriend,” wrapping him with rolls of toilet paper from the shoes up. Marg was on one knee, perfecting a tie- off midthigh, while Emma stood, moving around the waist of his white T-shirt.
Several froshie girls watched at a respectable distance, enraptured by the whole process, their gazes flying between Tristan, Emma—and now me.
“ Uh- oh,” one girl muttered.
Emma turned, saw me and flinched. “Parker!”
“English presentation,” Tristan said from his frozen stance. “Remember, I told you.”
“You told me,” I parroted. Because I didn't know what to say, because I didn't know what I felt. I mean, who cared what Emma and Marg and Tristan did in their classes? Not me.
“It's about a summer read,” Emma told me. “With extra credit for props.�
��
“Tristan is the prop,” Marg volunteered, clearly thinking I was too dumb to do the math on that.
I kept my eyes on Emma, who was getting way, way, way too intimate with my faux beau's body parts. Which brought heat to my face and tension to my muscles. For while this public display might have been as innocent as they claimed, it didn't change the fact that “my” guy had given himself up to these girls. Which made me look like the fool who couldn't keep him happy.
“What book did you read?” I asked. “Captain Underpants?”
The peanut gallery cracked up. Beside me, Becca laughed, too.
“It was a book about King Tut,” she said defensively.
“King Tut,” I said, frowning madly, “was short.” Then I cringed, wondering where I'd come up with that and why.
“I think it's more the point of someone pretending to be Tut than the physical resemblance,” Marg explained, somewhat slowly. Like I was an idiot.
Fury—rational or not—engulfed me. I turned and stormed off. I'd deal with Emma and Marg later … as their “drill sergeant” on the soccer field. And Tristan … uh, Tristan … I'd have a good, long talk with him later, too. He'd have to know that he'd never make the A list if he let girls humiliate him in public.
“Slow down, Cleopatra,” Becca said, grabbing my arm.
I did, working to catch my breath, too.
“What was all that? ‘King Tut was short’?”
My face was still hot, but I didn't know if it was a wave of embarrassment or lingering anger. “I don't know. Emma and Marg get on my nerves— big- time.”
“Especially when they have their hands on your boyfriend?”
“He's not—” But I caught myself. Anyone could hear us. I gave her a stern look. “I guess.”
We paused in front of my locker. “Cradle Robber” had been written in red lipstick across the front, but I barely gave it a glance.
“You're jealous, Parker,” Becca said.
But there was no twinkle, no smile, no nothing. Nothing but the truth, hanging out there bolder than the message on my locker. And I couldn't deny it. Not to Becca; not to myself.