My Junior Year of Loathing (School Dayz #2)

by Jennifer DiGiovanni

  “I say after the game we swing by Bella Pizza,” he says.

  “Fine, but I need a Plan B,” Becca says. “My Friday night cannot hinge on the availability of a table at Bella’s.”

  “Plan B is movies,” I remind her. “I’m checking show times.” I hold up my cell phone. “I also heard something about a bonfire in the field behind the Westerly Estate.”

  “Standing in the dark and drinking cheap beer with half the student body doesn’t qualify as a date,” Becca says, throwing Will a warning look.

  He raises his hands in the air. “Banner suggested it, not me.”

  “Whatever. Just find me after the game.” Becca flicks an imaginary crumb off of her jeans.

  “Why don’t you try to find me?” Will suggests. “Since I’m the one working my ass off to provide entertainment for the thousands of people who show up to watch me kick.”

  “Whatever. Just score a touchdown or something. Make it fun to be there at least, Mr. Rock Star Football Player.”

  After they wrap up their daily argument, Will stomps off.

  “I’m surprised he puts up with your attitude,” I say when he’s gone.

  “Me, too.” Becca watches him take his usual seat. His guy friends are clapping him on the back and laughing before his butt even hits the chair. “I don’t mean to be rude. But, it’s like, I need to know he’s really interested, not just playing games. Is that horrible?”

  “Not completely horrible, but maybe there’s a better way to find out.”

  Becca laughs. “Like checking the features column to find out what he does in his spare time? Who’s writing that page this year?”

  I glance down at my half-eaten veggie wrap with shredded carrots spilling everywhere. Containment is impossible.

  “Is it you?”

  “No, but I’m not sure if the person I selected is going to work out. So, let’s just run through a few editions before I reveal a name.”

  “Features are hard. People get so caught up in seeing their name in print. Even in Out of Tune, which is basically online.” Becca’s eyes narrow. She’s totally focused when she’s hunting for information. “Hmmm. Maybe I’ll drop a suggestion in the box, just to see what happens. But don’t tell the secret features writer it’s from me.”

  “Then find something else to talk about. You’re compromising my journalistic ethics.” I pick up my veggie wrap and the whole thing falls apart. I sigh. Why does lunch have to be so difficult?

  ***

  Harmony’s football stadium rests atop the highest hill in town. On game nights, the spotlights outshine the stars and the bleachers are packed with students, parents, and local football fans. Half an hour before kickoff, the marching band parades around the track in gold-tasseled uniforms, blaring their trumpets. When the Trailblazers take the field, a roar from the crowd shatters the air.

  Becca and I manage to find the last two empty seats in the student section. We’re surrounded by the boys’ and girls’ basketball teams, all of us cheering until we’re hoarse.

  “Looks like we’re in for a serious butt-kicking,” Becca says. Even Will’s friend Tank looks like a scrawny puppy compared to the Parktowne Lions’ mammoth front line. But the Trailblazers hang on and make a game of it, thanks to Will Gamen’s four field goals.

  After the final whistle, a mob of parents, students, and other spectators pours out of the stadium, letting loose a minor amount of grumbling complaints. We’re accustomed to losing teams at HHS. Ty breaks away from his basketball friends and joins Becca and me as we wait for Will to shower and change. He’s among the last to exit the locker room, more or less patched up after the rough game.

  “Down by 10. Not bad,” Becca says when Will appears, smiling and laughing with his buddies.

  “Told you we need a better D-line,” he says, throwing an arm around her shoulder.

  “I refuse to write that in an article,” she says. “Unless I have permission to quote you.”

  He laughs. “You’d be picking up the pieces of my shattered body from the practice turf on Monday.”

  While Becca gives Will a hard time, I focus on taking deep breaths to control my bout of nervousness. The reality of going out with Ty starts to sink in. He’s been quiet all night, but constantly close by. Throughout the game, our eyes met above the crowd in the bleachers. But we still haven’t talked much beyond the basics: hi, how are you, can I borrow a pencil, and so on. I tug the sleeves of my sweater down and angle my elbows outward, adding a casual amount of distance between us.

  “Wow.” Becca breathes the word when Will stops in front of Mr. Gamen’s spare vehicle, an enormous black SUV.

  “Scored this baby just for you, Thornton,” Will says. Becca hoists herself into shotgun while I slide in the back, next to Ty, grateful to Will for not forcing us to squeeze in the back of his sportster. On the way to Bella Pizza, Will brags about his prowess both on and off the football field. He’s probably joking.

  “Dude, you’re the kicker.” Becca’s retorts cut down his enormous ego. They seem to have perfected the sport of what I call “bicker-flirting.” After an annoyed Becca tells him in a mostly amused voice to shut it down, I turn to Ty.

  “How’s the basketball team looking this year? Will you make the district playoffs?” I ask.

  Ty rotates his hand, palming an imaginary ball. “We lost four of our starters, but I think the guys moving up from JV can hold their own.”

  “That reminds me. When’s the kick-off meeting for the girls’ team, Scary?” Becca asks.

  “Scary?” Ty and Will say at the same time.

  Becca covers her mouth with her hand. “Oops.”

  “It’s fine,” I say.

  “Melinda’s basketball code name is Mel B. Like Scary Spice.”

  Ty grins. “Intimidation.”

  “Not really.” I glance away from him as heat creeps into my cheeks. I notice Becca’s holding one of Will’s hands while he steers with the other. “I haven’t talked to Coach Kelly. I think she’s on maternity leave until November.”

  “Ugh. She should be nice and grumpy for training then,” Becca says.

  “I need to know what Becca’s code name is,” Will announces.

  I check with Becca before answering. She flicks her wrist. “Whatever.”

  “The Hawk,” I say.

  “What the who?” Will does a double take.

  “She likes to hover over her opponent when we’re on defense.”

  “Becca’s aggressive, huh?” Ty asks.

  “She’s also our top scorer,” I say. “Because she’s a smart player … and smart in school too.”

  “How smart? What’d you pull on the PSATs?” Will asks.

  “Aced them,” she says with a snap of her fingers.

  “I need a number,” Will says.

  She mentions her score, and he whistles.

  “Rocking the standardized tests. How did I not know this about you?” Will slaps the steering wheel, and we swerve over the center line of the road.

  “Careful!” Becca shrieks.

  I tug on my seat belt, making sure it’s clicked.

  “I’m not a genius,” she insists. “My parents forced me to go to those dumb prep classes. Plus, I’m a good test taker.”

  “I’m a good test taker, and my score was three hundred points lower than yours. After a prep course that ate into my social life all summer,” Will says. “And I bet your parents’ name will get you in anywhere. With Scary Mel’s step-dude’s connections, she’s in anywhere, too.”

  “If we choose to accept help from our parents,” Becca says, dropping Will’s hand and looking out the window as we pull in to our next stop. “Bella’s is crowded tonight.”

  “Their post-game specials rule,” Will says. “Let’s eat. I could take down an entire pie myself.”

  Inside the steamy pizzeria, we find most of the junior class has relocated from the stadium bleachers to picnic-style tables. Chairs move from section to section to accommodate c
omings and goings. People fight over every seat, blocking aisles and standing in lines five deep by the counter, waiting on orders of pizza and cheese fries. I breathe in the warm air spiced with the scents of basil, garlic, and someone’s overpowering perfume.

  “We’re sitting over here.” Taking my hand in his, Ty guides me through a moving obstacle course of players, cheerleaders, and pep-band members. The four of us settle at the end of a long table packed with basketball and football teammates. I take a minute to scour the masses, recognizing faces from most of my classes, before I realize I’m searching for Connor.

  What does he do on Friday nights? Options are limited in our small town. Would I even recognize him away from the woods, huddled around an extra-large pizza with a group of his guy friends? And why can’t I escape the feeling that I need to search for him everywhere I go?

  As Will basks in a slew of welcoming arm punches and fist bumps, Ty lifts my hand and examines my new class ring. “Nice. I still haven’t gotten around to ordering mine.”

  I twist my wrist, watching the blue stone sparkle under the fluorescent lighting. Tank passes by our table and deposits a pizza in front of us.

  “My treat,” he says. “Since Willamena was the high scorer.”

  Ty tears off a slice and offers it to me on a paper plate. Grease puddles on top of the cheese, so I reach for a napkin to blot. After I’ve soaked up as much fat as possible, I take a small bite, carefully avoiding burn blisters on the roof of my mouth.

  Becca reaches for her own slice, selecting the largest cut. “You know what I love? Deep-dish pizza from Chicago. My parents spoke at a primatology conference there last summer, and I got to tag along. Ever tried it, Mel?”

  “No, but I, uh, recently met someone from Chicago.”

  Becca shoots me an inquisitive look.

  “I prefer thinner pizza, though,” I quickly add.

  “With broccoli or something healthy on top, knowing you,” she says.

  “Pizza cannot be healthy. Ever,” Will says, pounding his first on the table.

  “Unheard of,” Ty agrees.

  After we finish our slices, Will shouts a few insults back and forth with Tank, and then threatens Lucas Fields, the team’s backup quarterback, who’s brave enough to say hello to Becca. Before the confrontation escalates into a post-game adrenaline-fueled brawl, Tank steps between them.

  “Someone needs to take Willamena home,” he says, adding a deep boom to his voice.

  “I’m ready, Will,” Becca says, pushing back from the table. “Let’s go.”

  Not surprisingly, Will decides to drop me off first. Ty follows me out of the truck and walks me to the side door. The SUV’s headlights snap off, leaving only a gentle glow from the slim crescent moon.

  “I had fun tonight. Except for the part where Gamen almost killed Fields,” Ty says, his words filling the awkward space between us.

  We laugh together. “And after that, when Becca almost killed Will for making a scene.”

  Ty shoves his hands in his pockets, and I do the same.

  “Can I call you?” he asks.

  “Of course.” We exchange texts. Will honks the horn, long and loud. I huff in annoyance. “He’s so aggravating, isn’t he?”

  Ty doesn’t answer, though, just waits for my eyes to meet his. Then he steps forward and places a hand on the small of my back, anchoring me against him. By now, I’m imagining Mom and Brian peeking through the white sheers hanging in the front windows. Ty hesitates, waiting for me to lift my face to his, before touching his mouth to mine. I taste the fizz of cherry cola, which is nice. Pleasant. Intriguing. I continue searching for the appropriate adjective as he shifts closer, deepening the kiss. But I can’t forget about our audience in the SUV.

  “Maybe just the two of us next time,” I say, squeezing his hand before stepping into the house.

  He grins and waves before jogging back to our friends.

  Immersed in a post-date haze, I float up the stairs to my bedroom. After washing my face, and smothering night cream on my cheeks, I throw on a T-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts. My phone beeps, signaling a missed call from Becca. When I hit return call, she answers immediately.

  “So, is Ty a good kisser?”

  “How do you know he kissed me? Were you spying?”

  “Chill, Scary,” Becca says. “Will and I were busy too. But you were gone awhile, so we assumed.” She pauses, waiting for details, which I decline to offer. After a few beats of silence, she presses onward. “Ty seemed unusually cheerful when we dropped him off.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions. That’s how rumors start.”

  “Rumors that end up in Colette Rodriguez’s student features column?”

  I gasp. “You little sneak! How do you know she’s my secret writer? We’ve only put out one issue!”

  Becca laughs. “I’m a genius, remember? And you were talking to her after school yesterday, so I guessed. Don’t worry, I won’t embarrass her if you decide to let her go.”

  Chapter Eight

  Monday morning, Becca’s PSAT score is posted on a sign taped to her locker, along with an advertisement offering paid test-taking services.

  “I’ll kill him,” she says, detaching the paper and ripping it to shreds. “That was private information.”

  “Didn’t realize we were keeping secrets.” Will pops out from behind a locker, disguised in a baseball hat and sunglasses.

  Becca shrieks in surprise and drops the bits of paper all over the floor. “Yeah, ’cause I want everyone to think I’ll cheat for them.”

  “Sorry, baby. I wanted everyone to know how smart you are. I’m proud of you,” Will says, sliding an arm around her waist and burying his face in her hair.

  “Ugh,” Becca says, twisting away from him. “I’m not even into school. I hate school. Mel’s the one with all the AP classes.”

  “But I needed a tutor when I almost failed pre-calculus,” I admit, sticking my face inside my locker to avoid being Will’s next victim.

  “You got one D and panicked,” Becca says, slamming her door closed. “And now I’m off to spend the rest of my day dodging requests from desperate sophomores.”

  When we meet up again in the cafeteria, she’s still complaining about Will. I power up my phone and pull up Colette’s latest attempt at a features column. She throws out a few of the more popular senior girls’ names, insinuating that they’re in the running for homecoming court. Then she mentions the possibility of a big senior trip this year—one I already know about because Kaylyn has been texting me fundraising ideas for a “secret project.” I’ve mostly ignored her cries for help, not wanting to get sucked into another committee, especially for something that doesn’t affect my class. Colette wraps up her column with a Guess the Student profile. She basically asks ten questions and provides the person’s responses and then invites readers to guess who it is. Answer to be revealed next week.

  “That’s a good idea,” Becca says, after reading Colette’s feature. “Nothing tops your Senior Superlative series from last year, though.”

  I’m happy Becca doesn’t know Colette is the person who rigged the senior superlatives, which led to my month-long investigative report. Mrs. Downey announced changes to the voting process this year, so at least some good will come out of the whole mess.

  I wrap up my third after-school meeting just as heavy rain begins to fall. The late bus pulled away ten minutes ago, and the parking lot is deserted, with not one stinking person to beg for a ride home.

  I need to talk to Mom about a car. One misstep in a deep puddle and my new moccasins will be ruined. I head toward the woods, hoping the canopy of trees will prevent my total drenching. In the back of my mind, I also wonder if I’ll run into Connor. After blowing a pop quiz in chem class today, I need to take my misery out on someone. And he never seems offended by my frustration, even when it’s directed at him.

  Other than the plop of raindrops striking leaves, the forest is dark and quiet, like someone c
alled naptime for all life forms. When I reach the end of the trail, a dark-haired figure emerges from behind the huge willow tree.

  “Do you enjoy scaring the life out of people, Connor?” I ask, halting in my tracks.

  “Sorry,” he says, not looking very apologetic. “Can I come over to play?”

  “Do you need a snack?”

  “Since you asked…yeah, I do.”

  We trek through the yard, our shoulders bumping once or twice. With his face inches from mine, I can’t avoid sneaking a closer look at his features. Connor definitely has a strong profile, but not too strong. His cheekbones jut out sharply, and his eyebrows are thick, but not a monobrow. When he glances my way, I assess his nose and rate it perfection. Not even a tiny bump or a harsh angle.

  “Why are you staring at me?” he asks.

  “I’m looking at your nose. It’s nearly perfect.” Of course I won’t admit his total perfection aloud.

  “My nose?” He touches his face and laughs. “Must be in my genes.”

  “Where did you get the name Connor from?”

  “My parents.”

  “I mean are you named after anyone?”

  “I don’t have an uncle Connor, if that’s what you’re asking. What about you? Got an Uncle Melvin?”

  I glare at him. “No! Mom liked Miranda, but Dad said it didn’t sound right with Banner—too many Rs. So, they went through a bunch of similar names and voted. They both liked Melinda.”

  “Huh. They put a lot of thought into that, didn’t they? I can see where you get your naming skills from.”

  “Would you shut up about my horse? He’s not a Death Slice Warrior, or whatever you want to call him.”

  “You started this whole name conversation, not me.” He grins. “You like my nose.”

  Why did I even check him out? I should have stuck to simply loathing Connor of the Woods. I knock my elbow into his chest, driving him further away. “At least I don’t spend most of my time jumping out at people walking through the forest.”

  He lifts his face to the sky. “I like the woods. I can see the stars at night.”