by Tina Ferraro
Oh, God, did this mean I'd started to like Tristan for real?
My life was only getting crappier.
Reassurance: Show your
partner how much you care. Try gently caressing
his cheeks while kissing.
That evening, Tristan cruised out his front door, dribbling his trusty basketball. I knew this because I was peering out from behind our living room curtains. I felt like a TV title should flash across my face—Stanhope Spies: The Next Generation.
The thing was, I wanted to talk to Tristan about the way I'd acted at school, but I didn't know what to do. Apologize for freaking out when Emma and Marg had their hands all over him? Explain that he really shouldn't let girls—even cute ones—mess with his cool? Remind him that as long as we were “together,” his actions reflected on me, too?
Nothing struck me as exactly doable, so I did just that: nothing. Including not moving away from the window.
Tristan got into a good rhythm with the ball, making a fair number of baskets, but he seemed to keep glancing my way. So when I saw him move the ball to the crook of his arm to leave, part of me felt relieved.
Until I realized he was headed in the opposite direction, away from his house.
I scurried outside to head him off on the lawn. My parents were in the TV room, and why tempt fate?
“Hey,” he said, approaching, somehow seeming older and bigger and, okay, hotter than at any time before.
I returned the greeting, then dug my bare toes into the warm grass.
“It's our last weekend together, girlfriend o’ mine,” he said, and sort of smiled. The sky behind him was streaked with magenta and purple, and I suspected that if I looked around, I'd get a glimpse of the moon. “We should go out tomorrow night and get seen, give people something to talk about and remember.”
He was totally right. But a flashy romantic date would mean lots of kissing and hand holding and snuggling and …
I shuddered inwardly. After what I'd seen in myself this afternoon, I did not think I could handle that kind of closeness without crossing some lines. What if I let out an involuntary moan when he reached for me, or my knees went and buckled from his kiss? How embarrassing would that be?
Luckily, Becca and I had talked about catching a movie, so I was covered. “Yeah. Except I have plans with Becca. Why don't you do a friend thing, too? Then … maybe we could walk around Old Town on Saturday. There's a sale at Anna Banana's.”
He slipped his hands in his pockets. “Shopping? You mean like being your errand boy between the racks and dressing rooms?”
Not a bad idea. In fact, I wanted to point out that being my personal servant would be a heckuva lot more dignified than letting froshies toiletpaper him—then thought better of it. “I meant that lots of girls will be there to see us.”
“Likely story,” he said, then grinned.
“Maybe we could cruise over to Maxim's, too. Be cause someone could use some new T-shirts.”
“Someone likes his three T-shirts. Mr. Blue, Mr. White and Mr. Gray. Why mess with success?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Besides, Parker, what we need to do on Saturday is plan our breakup. You said you wanted a clean break by the sports fair.”
He was right. We had to be dead- and- buried over by Tuesday. But I couldn't begin to go there yet. “We'll talk about it then.”
I took a step back, intending to go inside. Only to discover he'd taken a longer one toward me. And then another, closing any gap between us. Without any effort now, I could touch him, inhale his scent, pretty much taste him. I was caught up in his aura, in his being. And was losing any sense of myself with lightning speed …
“Hey,” he said playfully. “We haven't done the See-You- Later Kiss in a while.”
Omigod, I loved that one, loved it….
He angled his head, and I saw the hint of a smile. “We probably need more practice.”
“But my—my parents,” I said lamely. “Your dad …”
“We'll be fast,” he said, his voice humming through me.
But the See- You- Later Kiss was anything but fast. That was part of its allure. Even when the kissers’ lips eventually separated, it lived on (and on and on).
“I—I can't,” I said, pushing him back quickly. “Not now.”
He frowned, then shrugged, and before he could say anything, I hightailed it into my house, trying to block thoughts of Tristan and kissing and what I was missing.
My mom appeared in the hallway. Since I'd been forced to reveal truths about Tristan, the Plan and the kissing booth to my father, I'd gone ahead and told her last night, too. Including the part about kissing Luke, which seemed to mildly amuse her.
But from the tight look on her face, I suspected she'd been watching Tristan and me through the window in the door and was now less than amused.
“I was just coming to look for you, Parker. Chrissandra's called twice. She said it was urgent that you call back.”
I thanked her, bristling. I really didn't want to think about Chrissandra and her anonymous- note thing. I was realizing that I had a more pressing issue to deal with: how to continue this sham of a relationship with my make- believe boyfriend without him—or anyone-realizing that the only pretending I was doing now was that I didn't like him.
I felt like I'd turned into a double agent.
•
Some kindhearted custodian must have wiped my locker surface clean, because when I arrived at school the next morning, the only thing staring back at me was a piece of paper jutting from my vent. My name was handwritten on the top and inside; the message had been typed.
Leave all books and personal items
in your locker and report to the
principal's office immediately.
It was signed by the office secretary and dated with today's date.
Since the only judgment- lacking thing I'd done this school year (so far) was date a freshman, I decided not to get too uptight about the ominous summons. And when I came around the bend to see a line snaking out of the office—made up entirely of JV soccer girls—I told myself this was certainly just something routine.
“What's up?” I asked Dayle, stepping in behind her.
“Handwriting samples. Apparently, an anonymous note was slipped under Coach's door, and we're all under suspicion.”
Something jammed in my throat, and I suddenly really, really wished I'd called Chrissandra back. “When?”
“During varsity practice yesterday.”
“What did the note say?”
She shook her head. “I don't know, but it couldn't have been good.”
Well, duh!
My heart now pounding in every pulse point, I tried to reason through what might have happened. Clearly, Chrissandra had decided not to wait, to take matters into her own hands. But had she gotten someone from outside to do it? Or had she done it herself?
All that mattered was that it hadn't been me. I needed to figure out how to swallow normally again, and cruise on in there showing just a casual amount of curiosity.
Eventually, I was ushered into a conference room and told to take the chair facing the principal, Hartley and the lady I was pretty sure was the school psychologist. The principal explained that a player was on suspension pending an investigation, and Hartley added that this had been the result of an anonymous note. Then the shrink set off on ethics and how information sharing and coming clean on the tipster would benefit everyone.
Sure, everyone but whoever wrote the note.
But even if I'd wanted to be a rat, any information I had was secondhand. So I just shrugged a lot then, when they asked me to copy some sample sentences, happily agreed. I knew I was innocent.
On my way out, I saw that the varsity players had tagged on to the back of the line. Chrissandra's face jumped out at me like a beacon.
If there was something I needed to know, I wasn't missing my chance. “Chrissandra,” I said, waving her out of line, “sorry I didn't
call you back.”
She just stared at me.
Oh, God. Mistake. What had I been thinking?
Finally, her lip curled up like she smelled something rotten. “Don't you have a boyfriend to go push on a park swing?”
Mandy joined the party. “Yeah, along with Bert and Ernie?”
Elaine opened her mouth, too, but her voice was washed out by the sudden rush of blood to my head. I could describe this only as rage. I knew I couldn't lose it with them, like I had with the froshies yesterday—not if I wanted my life back. But it took every single ounce of my willpower not to respond.
Besides, this was just an act, right?
I exhaled loudly, like their barbs had hit home. (Which they had—dang, double- agent stuff again. This was getting confusing.) Then I tossed my hair and called out “Whatever!” and marched off.
I kept telling myself I was fine; but what was with the pressure behind my eyeballs, the feeling like I might burst into tears? Crying wouldn't exactly have been a bad thing for my cover, but it would have felt like bare- naked humiliation. Because I knew the tears would be one hundred percent real.
I was royally confused. I mean, the end of all this nonsense was finally here, right? Hartley would kick AJ off the team, and either she would move me up or the team members would revolt until she did. Chrissandra's Plan was in motion and actually working. And I wouldn't even have to deal with the sports fair.
So what was my problem?
Señora Trujillo took my hall pass and let me go to my seat without any questions or comments, And, although I usually found Spanish a nuisance, for once I was glad to conjugate verbs.
•
My peace was short- lived. When I cruised up to my locker just before lunch, two people were waiting for me: Becca and Rachael. And there was no way I could go off with Rachael in Becca's face—Becca had to be number one now—but Rachael's eyes were wide and insistent.
“We have to talk,” Rachael told me.
I gave Becca a desperate look. “Can I catch up with you in a few minutes? Please? By the grill truck?”
Irritation flashed on her face (what, was today Emo Day at DHS?), but I think she could tell it was important, because she nodded and said, “I'll get in the line and order, but then you have ten minutes tops to get there before the cheeseburgers go cold.”
“Thanks,” I said, and hugged her, grateful for her trust and friendship again.
Then I threw my books into my locker and followed Rachael outside to an empty spot on the bleachers.
“You don't have to tell me if you're the one who wrote the note or not,” Rachel began, crossing, then uncrossing her legs.
“I wasn't—”
“I don't care who did it. AJ shouldn't have been playing on painkillers, and I hope they give her the boot for good. But you need to know that Hartley thinks it was you.”
“But it wasn't.”
“Who was it?”
“I don't know.”
“Chrissandra?”
Probably, but I didn't know for sure. I mean, if Rachael knew about AJ's knee, how many other people did? I couldn't afford to get myself in any deeper, so I shrugged and shook my head.
“Look, Parker, there's something else you need to know. I didn't just come back to soccer. Hartley came after me. She told me I'd go straight to captain, no questions asked, no cocaptain, if I'd play again.”
I felt my eyes bug. “Great. But why?”
“To keep Chrissandra from taking over varsity, like she did JV. She said Chrissandra had bullied the other players, had argued with her coaching methods and had been a general pain in the ass.”
Sure. But Hartley was an adult. And one with tough skin, at that. I'd had no idea how Chrissandra's antics had gotten to her.
“She's good on the field, but Hartley wanted to bury her,” she went on, “make her powerless. And to be perfectly honest, I have major issues with Chrissandra myself. So I was more than happy to come back and put her in her place. And believe me, next year, when I'm gone and there's no cocaptain to move up, you'll be the top runner for varsity captain.”
“Hartley told you that?”
“She didn't have to. JV captains always move up—at least, the ones she likes. Just play your cards right now.” She leaned in closer. “So if you wrote that note, fess up. If you didn't, be prepared to defend yourself.”
“But I don't understand. Why does she think it was me?”
“Because someone—I don't know who—told her it was.” Rachael stood and brushed off the seat of her pants. “Keep your guard up, Parker. Someone's out to destroy you.”
I tried to nod, but the muscles in my neck had gone rock hard.
Soothing: Is your partner
frazzled? Smooching is a medically recognized
stress reliever.
Moving through the courtyard crowds to find Becca, I spotted Tristan leaning against a wall. Anxiety must have been leaking from my pores, because he took one look at me, said something to his buddies and beelined my way.
“Parker, you upset?” He fell into step with me.
“You could say that.”
“Anything I can do?”
I glanced up into his dark blue eyes and considered blurting out all that had happened in the past few hours. Then my gaze zeroed in on his lips, and I realized that the last thing I wanted to use our mouths for was talking….
“ Uh- huh,” I said, then grabbed his hand and pulled him into the building. I didn't care who saw.
I dragged him to Chrissandra's favorite alcove, under the stairs, which I figured would be empty at this hour. “What I could really use right now,” I told him, “is that See-You-Later Kiss.”
A smile sparked in his eyes. Then, no questions asked, his hand went to the back of my tensed- up neck, and he pulled me close. Closer. Closest. Until our lips were together, then our tongues, and our breath—even, I think, our heartbeats.
It was heaven not to talk, not to think. Not to be JV captain or the girl Chrissandra was supposed to hate or even Tristan's make- believe girlfriend. Inside that moment in time and space, I was just me, Parker Elizabeth Stanhope, throwing caution to the wind and losing myself in the arms of one heck of a guy.
“Omigod, you two,” said a voice, cutting into my stream of consciousness. “Get a room!”
Tristan and I pulled back to see CeeCee Stevens making a fourth-grade gross-out face.
It was as good a time as any to part, so I broke free, only to feel oddly cool and empty.
“See you later,” I told Tristan, then winked as I walked away.
He returned a goodbye that I didn't entirely catch, but I couldn't miss his tone, all deep and throaty.
I was no longer a walking bundle of nerves when I caught up to Becca. I gratefully accepted my cheeseburger, and in between bites, I unloaded all the dirt.
“Chrissandra,” she responded with certainty when I was done. “She's the one who's trying to take you down.”
I didn't argue but didn't agree, either. It just seemed too easy. She'd come to me privately about AJ and the pills. Why wouldn't she have come back for my answer?
When I got to my locker after lunch, a Baby Bottle Pop hung on a pink ribbon from my locker vent. I calmly untied it and threw it into my backpack. As long as the girls were still hassling me, they were still on my side. Weird as that sounded.
And who didn't like Baby Bottle Pops?
At practice, it was business as usual. We suited up and raced onto the field, with Heartless charging around, shouting out pointers and blowing her annoying whistle. I desperately wanted to talk to her—about the note, Chrissandra, my odds of moving up to varsity now that AJ was on suspension—but knew putting my head down and working hard was my best play.
I took my Smurfs over to a patch of grass to work on footwork again. I wanted Hartley to notice. And, well, I actually sort of liked working with them. I also couldn't help but wonder, if some older player had given me this kind of time and consideration
when I'd started out, would I be a junior on JV?
My good intentions died a quick death when I cast eyes on Emma (whose paw prints I still imagined all over Tristan). I cheerfully designated her our water girl of the day so that every time somebody's bottle got low, she had the honor of refilling it, necessitating a couple of long runs across the field to top off the cooler.
When she glared at me, with sweat beading along her hairline, I simply smiled. “Don't worry. I know how you like to go all out to please your teachers, and I'll make sure Coach Hartley gives you extra credit.”
The resentment in her eyes deepened, to which I turned a Chrissandra- worthy cold shoulder. Then I charged off to set up a defense drill, secretly pleased that I'd learned a thing or two from my years at the feet of the Ice Queen.
•
Becca and I wandered over to the DQ after the movie. We ordered a hot fudge–brownie sundae, then dug in with two spoons, talking and joking around. No agenda, no talk of cals or carbs or fat or farts, no one to trash or kiss up to.
Later, a few players from the boys’ varsity soccer team came over, and despite one of them asking me why I wasn't home babysitting my boyfriend, we had a good time.
Eventually, Becca and I decided to call it a night and hightailed it to my mom's SUV. As I headed for the exit, a car came in fast, straddling the line. I had to veer to keep from sideswiping it, and I turned to try to see who'd almost hit me. I wasn't surprised to see Kyle behind the wheel, his queen in her position of royal prominence beside him. They pretended not to see me, and I pretended it was because his inadequacy behind the wheel embarrassed him and not because they were too cool for us.
I dropped Becca off, then headed home. Turning into my street, I saw Tristan's long legs stretched out from the curb to the circle of streetlight. I wondered if he'd just gotten home from a night with friends, or had maybe shot hoops until he dropped with exhaustion.
I pulled into the garage and made the split- second decision to go say hi. I figured at this hour we'd be safe from prying parental eyes. But when I got to the bottom of the drive, he was standing, his head bobbing, suggesting that he was talking to someone. A five- alarm fire bell suddenly clanged in my head.