by Linda Kage
Bridget thumped me on the back, right between my shoulder blades as if I were choking and needed air. And like some kind of old record player that had slipped back on track, I was able to stop sputtering. I spilled out the entire encounter in hyper speed, not even pausing to breathe.
“Technically, I couldn’t really turn him down. He never asked me out. He just asked for my name, and I said, ‘Not interested,’ because, well really, what else could I say? Then he went totally weird on me, talking about the words ‘not interested’ as if they were my real name, asking if it was from German or Irish decent.” I looked at Bridget and sucked in air since my head had gone a little light from lack of oxygen. “Then he said we should name our firstborn child ‘Absolutely.’”
Bridget’s eyes widened to the size of marshmallows—not the minis but the big marshmallows you put on s’mores. “He did not,” she whispered.
I nodded. “He so did.”
“Holy Hosanna, Grace. That’s just awesome. Totally awesome. What’s his name?”
“Ryder,” I uttered in a hollow voice. “He said his name was Ryder. Not that I believe him. But that’s what he said.”
“Ryder,” she murmured huskily. “I like it. Ryder what?”
I shrugged.
“Oh, for the love of—” Snatching an abandoned roster off the bleacher seat behind us, Bridget ripped it open and bit her bottom lip as she ran her finger down the column. “Forty-two. Forty-two. I don’t see a forty-two.”
I glanced over her shoulder and found her scanning the wrong team’s list, so I helpfully suggested, “Probably because you’re looking at Hillsburg’s roster.”
Bridget growled out a sound of irritation and turned the page. “Hey, here it is. Forty-two. His name really is Ryder. Ryder Yates.”
“Ryder Yates,” I repeated in a reverent manner.
“Holy Hosanna, Grace. He’s gorgeous. Just gorgeous.” She patted me approvingly as if it were my fault Ryder Yates was gorgeous.
I rolled my eyes and clenched the back of my teeth. But I forced myself to relax a moment later, remembering what my new stepfather always said to me about dental care and how bad gritting one’s teeth was. The thought of braces didn’t appeal; I immediately loosened my jaws and ran my tongue over my molars, apologizing to them for the possible harm.
Needing another escape outlet, I glanced down at my fingernails. I didn’t see any dirt or gunk under them but picked them clean anyway. “Why do you say Holy Hosanna?” I muttered, hoping that’d be a sufficient change of subject. And honestly, I had always wondered. She said it more than I said “honestly”, which the nerd herd teased was my special catch phrase.
Bridget gave a half shrug, lifting her camera to focus on number forty-two through her lens. “’Cause.” She sounded distracted as she concentrated on her task. “It’s like cussing, but not. You know.” She shrugged again. “My dad doesn’t freak if I say Holy Hosanna.”
I cast a brief glance across the court only to see him sitting on the bleachers with his team. Not paying any attention to where his coach knelt in front of the group, avidly talking with his hands and pointing at a clipboard on the floor to give last minute instructions before the game, Ryder Yates turned his head my way.
I whipped my attention back to my friend and cleared my throat. “But technically, isn’t it still taking the Lord’s name in vain?” Her dad was a preacher and didn’t approve of commandment breakage. He’d probably prefer to hear a real curse word than someone deriding God.
Bridget lowered her camera with a dramatic sigh and a roll of the eyes. She swiveled her head to send me a dry stare. I swear, no one held a stare like her. She could get her meaning across on facial expression alone. If I were Bridget, I don’t think I’d ever speak. I’d just look, and people would know.
“I just say it. Okay? Holy Hosanna. I’ve always said it. Why are you taking issue now?”
I gave my own half-hearted lift of the shoulders. If I told her the truth—I was trying to divert her attention away from Mr. Still-couldn’t-take-his-green-eyes-off-me—she’d read too much into my answer and realize how truly traumatizing this was for me. Best friends sucked that way sometimes. It was nearly impossible for a girl to keep anything to herself with such a close companion like Bridge.
But, Holy Hosanna, Ryder Yates was gorgeous. A gorgeous boy had acted interested in me for the first time in my life. It was the strangest sensation, knowing such a complete hottie was checking me out. Of all the people in the crowded six hundred fifty-capacity gymnasium, I was the one to hit his radar. I had no idea how to deal with the attention. So, I pretty much functioned in freak mode—as in, I was so freaked out I needed a change of subject before I drove myself insane from excitement.
Bridget lifted her camera again, zoomed in, and clicked off a picture of him.
“What are you doing?” I demanded, utterly panicked. I swung out my arm and whacked her precious mechanical piece of equipment out of her grasp, making her lose her hold and drop the camera, until the strap around her neck caught it and made it thump against her stomach. Yeah, wouldn’t Mr. Forty-two be so proud she actually knew how to use her strap. “Don’t take a picture of him!”
With an aggravated twist of her nose and mouth, Bridget lifted her camera and inspected it for damage. She blew off a speck of lint and patted it reverently.
“Why not? Adam and Schy aren’t going to believe this unless I have proof. Visual, pictorial proof.”
I opened my mouth to tell her the other two members of our nerd herd didn’t need to learn about this. Ever. But the buzzer sounded again, letting everyone know it was time to start the game.
Bridge popped to her feet. “Ooh! Hold that thought. I want to take pictures of the cheerleaders’ gymnastics when they call out the starters.”
As she hurried off, I remained behind, too afraid to move. The announcer boomed the name of the first Hillsburg starter, and everyone around me clapped, roaring with approval. Two cheerleaders did back flips across the floor. I picked up the roster and examined Ryder Yates’s stats.
Number forty-two, Ryder Yates, senior, six feet even.
That was all it said. Staring at that single line, I gnawed on my bottom lip, wishing they could be a bit more descriptive with their player information, something more along the lines of, “Honor roll student, class president, and history club member. Likes spending time with his family and friends and taking long walks down deserted country roads. Lover of small furry, animals and cute babies. And in desperate need of a good, faithful girlfriend.”
But no, all I got was his age, height, and name. Bummer.
Bridget nudged my elbow. “Game’s starting. Were you going to take any pictures tonight?”
I jumped, not realizing she’d already returned from her photo-taking jaunt. Surprised to find all ten starters on the court and in position to begin, I blinked, then immediately searched for number forty-two. When I didn’t find him on the floor, I frowned and looked again before scanning the entire gymnasium. When I finally spotted him on the bench two spaces down from his coach, my mouth fell open.
“He’s not starting? Why isn’t he starting?”
Bridge shrugged. She didn’t have to ask who he was. “Maybe he sucks at basketball.”
I shook my head in instant denial because no way did that seem possible. He looked, and smiled, and laughed too perfectly to be anything other than a perfect athlete as well. But as a referee tossed the ball in the air and the game began, Ryder Yates remained on the bench. One of his teammates jumped up and swatted the ball to another teammate. Southeast passed down court, and two tosses later, they made a basket. All within the first four seconds of the game.
Bridget groaned. “We’re going to get massacred.”
“He’s not starting,” was all I could utter.
“Well, if he’s that sucky of a player, then I really wish he would start. How am I supposed to get any good pictures if we’re going to get beaten to a bloody pulp?”
I blinked at my friend. “He doesn’t suck.” I’m not sure why I sounded so defensive. As far as I knew, Ryder Yates was the worst player to join a basketball team.
Bridget glanced at me, her eyebrows crinkling to let me know how insane she found my statement. “If he doesn’t suck, then why’d you tell him you weren’t interested?”
I sputtered, unable to believe she didn’t already understand my position. Finally, I was able to form actual words. “Well…well…what would you say if Zac Efron walked up to you right now and asked you out?” I knew her fascination with the movie star, so I used him as an example.
Bridget snorted. “I’d ask him to hold on a second before I dropped to my knees and thanked the Lord for answering my prayers.”
I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Never mind.”
She didn’t get it. But, honestly, what were the chances of Zac Efron leaving Hollywood, or wherever he was from, and appearing in our school? I hadn’t asked her a realistic hypothetical question. What had happened to me with Ryder Yates was real—way too real—so in my opinion, I was justifiably freaked out to the point of telling him I wasn’t interested and then running off. My reaction mortified me, true, but I still felt warranted in what I’d done.
Next to me, Bridget titled her head as she studied Ryder Yates hard. “He does look a little like my Zac, doesn’t he?”
I surged to my feet with the need to widen some space between my best friend and me. “I’m going to take some pictures.”
“Grace,” Bridget called after me. Her voice was apologetic, making me think maybe she comprehended my panic after all. But my adrenal glands remained cranked all the way to flight so I was forced to flee on.
I waved over my shoulder and kept a steady pace past Hillsburg’s cheerleaders and screaming fans to the opposite side of the gym of where I’d stationed myself earlier. Feeling like this would be a fresh start at taking a few photos, I hauled in a deep breath. After hooking my neck strap over my head, I lifted the camera, only to focus on number forty-two just as a referee waved him into the game.
I gasped and jerked the camera down. He was going to play. I was going to get to see him play.
And boy did he play.
He might not have been the best athlete on the floor, but what he lacked in talent, he made up for in enthusiasm. When Southeast scored another two points, Hillsburg took possession of the ball. We no sooner passed it in bounds before Ryder Yates appeared, whacking it out of our control. He wasn’t able to recover the ball, but another Southeast player did. Ryder hauled his hiney up court and was the first to reach the other end. A teammate heaved the ball his way. He caught it and dribbled in for a basket, only for a Hillsburg senior to foul him.
As the shot went astray, Ryder Yates and the Hillsburg player became tangled in a wad of arms and legs. They tumbled to the floor, rolling and skidding out of bounds on their backs, nearly torpedoing into my legs and taking me out with them. I leapt back, narrowly saving myself, and my camera.
Number forty-two looked up just as the momentum of his slide gave out. Our gazes met.
When he recognized me, he gave a grin that lit up his entire face. Pointing, he called from the floor, “Change your name yet?”
Before I could answer or even react, two of his teammates appeared and held down their hands. Ryder accepted one from each boy and let them tug him to his feet. As he became vertical, his eyes sought mine. He winked before turning away and trotting to the free throw line for his foul shots. There, he made his first basket but missed the next. His teammates passed by, congratulating him and slapping him on the back as they hurried toward the other end of the court.
From that point on, I decided it’d be safer to take my pictures from the stands. I returned to Bridget, who’d obviously witnessed my second round with Ryder Yates.
“What’d he say this time?” she had to know as soon as I plopped down next to her. I told her, and she gasped. “So, how’d you answer?”
I sighed, hoping she’d presume I had grown bored with the subject and leave me alone.
No such luck.
“Did you tell him your name?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t have time. His teammates came and swept him away before I could say anything.” Not that I would’ve been able to respond. If given enough time, I probably would’ve tucked my tail between my legs and booked it out of there. Again.
Bridget must’ve realized this too. She moaned as if supremely let down. “Grace.” Even the two-syllable way she said my name sounded disappointed. “You’re going to have to have to talk to someone from that school soon. They’re going to be your fellow classmates, you know. I can’t stand the thought of you going over there all by yourself and having no friends.”
My shoulders slumped. Great, she had to bring out the big guns to make me feel guilty, didn’t she?
“I will, I will,” I promised her. “But not tonight. Tonight, I’m still a Hillsburg student and a Hillsburg fan. And I refuse to consort with the enemy.”
There. That sounded good. Or so I thought. From the look on Bridget’s face, I could tell she saw straight through my excuse. She pursed her lips and squinted her eyes, eyeing me with a critical once over that saw more than I felt comfortable revealing.
But instead of pressing the issue, she said, “Fine. But I’m onto you. If they make you miserable, I’m going to…I’m going to…” She sighed. I think we both realized it was an empty threat. She could do nothing to protect me once I left.
Though she had nothing to back her warning, I grinned and threw an arm over her shoulder, touched by her concern. “Thanks,” I said. “You’re the best friend ever.”
* * * *
Southeast won the ball game. Big shocker, huh? Yeah, I wasn’t too amazed either. But the visitors’ section went wild with applause. I guess this had been their biggest victory spread yet. Of course, even I had to admit beating us seventy-six to twenty-three was impressive.
Sighing out a depressed puff of air, I packed my camera away and followed Bridget down the stands to the floor. We waited behind a thick horde of people, shifting a foot forward every few seconds as the glacier-slow crowd inched toward the exit.
Beside me, Bridge chattered about school, classes, and assignments. I didn’t pay much attention, lost in thought over how it was all about to end. This had been my last time to cheer as a Hillsburg Viking, my last week of school with students I’d known since kindergarten.
Soon, it’d all be different.
“Get any good pictures?”
The question came from behind me, spoken in a voice I’d only heard twice but knew I wouldn’t soon forget.
I tensed and stumbled a step, shooting a panicked, help-me flinch toward Bridget. Then I pulled in a breath and glanced over my shoulder.
Still dressed in his purple and white jersey with the number forty-two branded across his chest, Ryder Yates grinned. Sweat made his face glow and his eyes sparkle with vitality.
I arched a brow, thinking that might make me look as confident as I wanted to feel. “Loads,” I answered, lifting my nose and turning back to move another two feet forward.
“Good,” he said, following along behind me. “I hope you got a couple of me.”
Shoot! Why hadn’t I thought to take a picture of him? I couldn’t beg Bridge to give me a copy of the one she’d taken either, or she’d know how much I liked his attention to me.
When I refused to answer, he must’ve turned to her. I’m not too sure because obviously I wasn’t looking. But when I glanced askance at her, she’d craned her head around. Her eyes grew huge and mortified as if she’d been caught checking him out.
“Hey, does she have a name?” he asked.
I’ll love Bridge forever for her answer.
Tilting up her chin a notch, she flung a piece of hair over her shoulder and announced, “Why, yes, she does. Thanks for asking.” With that, she hooked her arm through mine and swept us into a gap growing in the crowd.
Number forty-two didn’t follow. I’m not sure if that relieved me or depressed me. In any case, I didn’t see him anymore that night. And I knew I wouldn’t see him again until I transferred to Southeast.
But the countdown had definitely begun. I only had three weeks left until I started a new life.
Chapter 3
“You know what I’m sick of?”
“What’s that?” I asked, the only one to answer Bridget since both Adam and Schy were busy coloring.
The nerd herd decided to throw me a going-away party the Saturday before my first day at Southeast. So there we were, seated at a table for four in Garfield’s Restaurant, waiting for our meals to arrive when Bridget decided to start a conversation about—
“Sex.”
Adam and Schy paused and looked up in unison like the twins they were, matching expressions of confusion and surprise flickering across their faces. Bridget’s answer threw me off guard too, but after knowing her since Kindergarten, I’d grown used to her out-of-the-blue and totally bizarre topics.
Casually, I leaned forward and sucked Dr. Pepper through my straw. After a healthy-sized swallow, I dryly answered, “I wasn’t aware you’d had any experience with sex to grow sick of it yet.”
Bridget rolled her eyes. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Then what the heck are you talking about?” Schy demanded.
“I’m doing research on teen movies for an English paper.”
Adam, Schy, and I groaned.
Pausing, Bridget glanced at us. “What?”
“I hate it when you do research for a class project,” Schy muttered.
Schy was into art. Drawing, painting, water coloring, doodling. Before beginning school, she’d gone by her full given name, Shi Ann. But by first grade, she’d shortened it to Shi. By fifth, however, she’d unofficially changed the spelling to Schy, thinking that would give her more pizzazz, when honestly it only made everyone call her Sky instead of Shi. I had a feeling she’d revert to Shi Ann before finishing high school just to keep up the change. But that was just an educated guess. For all I knew, she’d want to go by Ann next.