The Crush Dilemma (Dear Aubrey Book 1)

by Hatler, Susan

  I really just wanted to get to my next class and erase the disturbing picture of them huddled together that seemed permanently etched into my mind. I slowed, but didn’t stop.

  “You turn in your essay today?” he asked, breathing hard as he caught up to me.

  “Yes.” My tone wasn’t frosty but it wasn’t friendly either. I’d started to fall for him, but apparently he was interested in Trish, which hurt. Big time. Sure, she was pretty in a more obvious way with her fashionable outfits and perfectly applied makeup. But, I really thought we’d connected, especially after that night at my house. Clearly I’d been wrong.

  “Oh, good.” He swung his backpack over his shoulder as we exited the hall and turned the corner. “I wanted to tell you about my essay. You totally inspired me.”

  “Sorry, but I have to get to class.” I couldn’t help wondering if that’s what he’d been sharing with Trish. “I have P.E. and it wouldn’t help bring my grade up if I’m late.”

  “Okay.” He paused and reached for my arm. “I’ll tell you at lunch then?”

  I stopped in my tracks, my stomach fluttering uncontrollably. Had he just said . . .? “You want to meet for lunch today?” I asked, a bit too loudly, but I couldn’t believe my ears.

  He nodded. “In the cafeteria? My treat.”

  I squinted from the sunlight as I gazed up into his soft green eyes. “You want to buy me lunch?” I asked, to confirm I wasn’t losing my mind.

  “Sure.” He shrugged and began backing up. “Yeah, I know it’s miserable cafeteria food, but hey, it’s the least I can do after how you helped me.” He smiled, turned on his heel, and waved over his shoulder. “See you then.”

  I stared after him as he hurried in the opposite direction. Daniel wanted to buy me lunch. Did this mean he liked me? Or, did he want to tell me about his essay in a friendly way because I was his tutor? Wait, if he wanted to have lunch with me then what was up with his long, whispering conversation with Trish last period?

  Suddenly, I felt a gaze burning against the side of my head. I turned in that direction and locked eyes with Trish, who was standing next to another guy from the basketball team. But, she wasn’t listening to whatever he was saying. Her eyes narrowed and she walked around the guy in his mid-sentence, heading straight for me.

  I started toward the gym, but she stepped right in front of me.

  “Did I just hear you say you’re having lunch with Daniel in the cafeteria?” she said.

  Each word she spit off felt like bullets to my face.

  “Um, yes?” My face heated, and I wanted to kick myself for answering her with a question.

  She studied me a moment. “Sounds like you helped him with an English assignment?”

  “I guess.” I moved to step around her. “Excuse me, I have to get to class.”

  She side-stepped me, blocking my path again. “I heard you were tutoring him in U.S. History, too.”

  My throat tightened and I started to feel dizzy. I bowed my head and took a step to the right.

  She pointed a finger right into my chest, so hard that it actually hurt. “Oh, I get it. He’s just being nice to you because you’re tutoring him. Now, it finally makes sense. I’d been wondering what was going on between you and him.”

  My heart pounded, tears burned my eyes, and I just wanted to escape. I looked around me, but the courtyard was empty as the last bell rang. “I-I have to get to class.”

  She laughed. “Well, go, Poppy-corn. Who’s stopping you?”

  This time when I moved to go around her, she didn’t block me. With my head down, I hurried away as fast as I could and smacked straight into a concrete column. My head spun, and it was all I could do to make it to the gym without my legs giving out.

  Trish’s laughter echoed behind me.

  ****

  In P.E. class, my stomach roiled as I waited not-so-patiently to negotiate with Mr. Santiago about bringing up my grade from my current (and pathetic) C. I tugged at the hem of my shirt while Mr. Santiago messed around with the rack of balls for a few minutes.

  When he got done he looked up, saw me standing there, and frowned. “Pinkleton, what are you doing? You’re supposed to be on the court warming up.”

  “I know.” I grabbed a ball, trying to act like holding it was a natural thing for me. The ball slipped through my fingers and bounced along the scratched up wooden floor. A boy from my class scooped the ball up and an impromptu game broke out. Great. I’d distracted the students, who were supposed to be warming up. Not a good start to my negotiation. I gave Mr. Santiago a hopeful smile. “I need to talk to you about the C on my progress report.”

  Mr. Santiago grunted. “There’s nothing to talk about, Pinkleton. You haven’t been participating.”

  “I have participated, though . . .” My voice died off as he lifted one brow toward the top of his skull. “Well, I’ve tried my best to participate, anyway.”

  “There is no try. You either participate or you don’t.”

  He thrust a ball into my hands, and then lifted a whistle to his mouth. He gave a sharp blow on it and I winced. When he finished with the whistle, he dropped it back around his neck.

  I stepped forward. “So if I participate today . . . can we discuss my grade?”

  He waved a huge hand in my direction like he was shooing a fly. “Pinkleton, get yourself out on that court now.”

  With a defeated grunt, I trudged to the side of the court, scared and trembling. Negotiation failed. Maybe if I “participated” I could try again.

  The teams were already forming and nobody ever wanted me on theirs. In elementary school, our teachers used to make us line up while the team leaders got to select us one by one in the most humiliating process of team formation ever. I was always the last player chosen and had to suffer though the cries of “not fair” and “no” from whichever team got stuck with me. That feeling of not being wanted or good enough to play had never left me either.

  Luckily, Mr. Santiago had us form teams alphabetically by last name. I scrambled into my team forming on the right. Trish stood on the team opposite of mine and crossed her arms. I didn’t dare make eye contact with her. The whistle blew and the game started.

  “Hey, Poppy, look out,” Denise yelled.

  I blinked and turned my head toward my journalism buddy. “Huh?”

  Just then the ball hit me right in the belly. “Ow.”

  Trish shook her head. “It’s basketball, Poppy-corn. You’re not supposed to dribble the ball with your stomach.” She laughed and raucous laughter ensued all around me.

  My cheeks heated. I glanced over to Mr. Santiago, who stared at me with a raised brow. I could not have a C in P.E. My entire collegiate career depended on bringing my grade up in this class. So I picked up the ball and took a deep breath. I could do this. I summoned up everything Daniel had shown me and started dribbling my way down the court.

  Denise jogged beside me. “Poppy! Stop!”

  “No way.” Even though Denise was on my team, not she nor anyone would keep me from making this basket. Although, most of the opposing team seemed to be hanging around watching me, so taking the ball down the court was a breeze. Wow, did I look so determined that nobody dared to stop me?

  Denise panted next to me. “Poppy! No!”

  “I have to,” I replied, continuing down the court, completely focused as the rest of my team sprinted up. What were they doing? Oh, guarding me, of course. Doing the best imitation of Daniel I could manage, I tossed the ball hard, then watched it fly toward the basket and bounce off the rim. I dropped my hands to my knees, trying to catch my breath. Okay, I hadn’t made the ball in the basket but I had tried, and participated. Surely that was worth something.

  Then one of the guys on my team retrieved the ball and started up the court in the opposite direction. Trish bent over laughing and shouted, “Way to go Poppy-corn.”

  I turned to Denise, who gave me an agonizing stare. “Our basket’s down there, Poppy.”

  �
�Oh, no.” My stomach sank like a stone as I followed her gaze down the court. I looked back up at the basket hanging above my head, humiliation coating me like a wet blanket.

  Mr. Santiago bellowed, “Pinkleton!”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled. I’d blown my first shot big time. But I wouldn’t let that defeat me today. I set off down the court with renewed determination.

  Trish came out of nowhere, dribbling the ball. “Back off, Poppy-corn. You can’t beat me.”

  No. I couldn’t. I couldn’t beat her at basketball and I couldn’t beat her at the boyfriend game either. She liked Daniel and she wanted him and it was clear she would do anything to get him. But I could participate, right here, right now. This was my P.E. class, too.

  The ball shot was taken away from Trish then shot toward me. I reached for it. Trish blocked me neatly and then she had the ball and her team went running back toward their basket. I ran after them but everyone else from my team was already there. I was too late. The ball went in the basket and the other team earned points.

  The whistle blew and we went back to the middle of the court. I wound up right across from Trish. The ball tossed in the air. I jumped for it. Trish did, too. We ran right into each other and both fell on the floor. Trish shouted, “This is basketball, not football.”

  Mr. Santiago yelled, “Pinkleton!”

  “Sorry. Again.” I scrambled up just as someone caught the ball, turned, and started to run. Since I was in their path I got knocked over again and would have fallen if Denise hadn’t grabbed me. I hobbled after my team, trying to look like I was playing even though it was clear nobody trusted me with the ball. One wrong decision and I’d been blacklisted.

  I finally got close but Trish zoomed in. Her athletic ability looked perfect, of course, while I felt all sweaty and tired. “Get out of my way!” she yelled.

  Was she talking about on the court or with Daniel? Did it really matter?

  “No!” I shouted, then dodged around her and grabbed for the ball. I had it in my hand again! I envisioned Daniel tossing the ball from far back and shot the ball out of my fingers. Unfortunately, I wasn’t Daniel. It didn’t go anywhere near the basket. It went right over my teammate’s heads and bounced into the hands of the opposing team.

  The shouts of “Pinkleton!” and “Poppy!” made me grimace in shame.

  The next time we got to center court, the ball came flying right at my face like a speeding bullet. I screamed and ducked. Denise caught the ball. Denise, of all people. Why hadn’t she been terrified like me? She went dribbling down the court and I tried to keep up next to her.

  Trish moved between us. Her hair, put up in a tight ponytail, swatted me in the face when she jumped in front of me and grabbed for the ball. She knocked the ball from Denise’s grip and the hard ball came down again, this time on my foot. I reach down, my fingers fumbling but I managed to get the ball for a second. Then Trish slapped it out of my hands and made a neat grab that allowed her to pass the ball to a boy who did a great standing jump shot, sending the ball soaring into the net just as Mr. Santiago blew the whistle again.

  “Yeah, we win.” Trish fist bumped everyone around her.

  I slunked toward the door that led to the locker room.

  Santiago shouted, “Pinkleton, over here.”

  I walked toward him, trying not to huff and puff too much. “Yes, Mr. Santiago?”

  “That’s an improvement. But to actively participate, don’t duck away from the ball. Got it?”

  Yeah, I got it. Even when I tried to participate, I wasn’t good enough. Trish knocked me down each time, sometimes literally. There had to be something more I could do. But I had no clue as to what that could be.

  Chapter Nine

  http://www.dearaubrey.com

  Dear Aubrey,

  I just wanted to tell you that I read your column every day. It’s absolutely amazing to have a teen’s perspective on things. Seriously, each time I hear your advice, it’s totally inspiring. I mean, the answers are so obvious once it comes out of your keyboard. Thx so much for starting this column.

  Not to be pushy, but will you be at Trish’s party tonight? I know you’re anonymous-girl, but I’m sure you take time to chill. Right? Hope to meet you there!

  Devoted Reader

  My eyes narrowed as I adjusted the ice pack against my throbbing forehead. I’d spent my last two periods in the nurse’s office thanks to Trish Benson. So I certainly had zero interest in attending her party, whether I was grounded or not.

  Even though I’d told Daniel I’d have lunch with him in the cafeteria today, I wasn’t about to leave the emotional and physical safety of the nurse’s office to sit near the It table and have Trish make fun of me for walking into a concrete block, getting smacked with the basketball, and for falling down on the court during P.E.

  Her wicked laughter echoed in my head like a bad movie and I glanced at the Dear Aubrey post again. Would I be at Trish’s party? Ha! Why would anyone want to attend Trish’s party? The girl was malicious. I pulled the ice pack away from my head, and stared at the blue and red writing on the white package as an idea formed in my mind.

  http://www.dearaubrey.com

  Dear Devoted Reader,

  I’m glad you’re enjoying my column. It’s my goal to help people and it makes me happy to know you find my advice inspiring. Honestly, I just call them like I see them, and we each need to make our own decisions in life.

  Yes, I definitely take time to chill out. But if you’re asking if I’ll be at Trish Benson’s party, then the answer is no. I’d rather stick a hot poker in my eye. Have you heard about the new teen club that opened up? It’s called Crush. I’m so there tonight.

  Stay real,

  Aubrey

  HYPOTHESIS: Trish Benson is dangerous.

  PURPOSE OF EXPERIMENT: Avoid Trish Benson.

  CONCLUSION: No Trish = safe forehead (and other body parts).

  Upon my second read through the Dear Aubrey post, my response seemed way harsh. While it was true that I’d rather stick a hot poker (and many other things) in my eye than attend a party Trish was throwing, that wasn’t the sage advice that should come from a pre-psych major. Plus, hello? I was grounded this weekend.

  I was lifting my finger to delete my post when Nurse Pratt called my name—

  “Poppy.” Nurse Pratt towered over me, her sympathetic smile replaced with tightly pursed lips. “You’ve been in here long enough and have two choices at this point: call your mom to come pick you up or get to class.”

  “Yes, Ms. Pratt.” I quickly turned off my phone. Even with a swollen forehead and a massive headache, I’d rather go to class than see my mom.

  I snuck into journalism class after it had started, slinking my way to the back where Mason was working on his sports article. I slid into the seat next to him and lay down on the desk with my head in my arms.

  “Tired?” Mason put a hand on my back.

  “Tired of life.” My voice was muffled, but I figured if he didn’t hear the exact words he’d still get the gist by my deflated posture. The floor screeched as he moved his chair in my direction and his arm fell across my back. I lifted my chin off the table. “I’m sorry I forgot to call you last night.”

  “No biggie. Tell me what’s going on,” he prodded.

  I groaned and turned my face to show him the massive white bandage the nurse had taped across my forehead. “Trish Benson happened,” I said, my voice an octave too high since Denise Jung glanced in my direction.

  She gaped at my forehead. “Nasty bandage, Poppy.”

  “Thanks for pointing that out,” I mumbled.

  “Hope you have better luck on Monday.” Denise patted my shoulder, then moved to a seat further away and began writing on her notepad again.

  “Me, too,” I said, knowing my forehead looked like a gauze commercial gone wrong.

  Mason leaned toward me. “Where were you at lunch today?”

  I pointed to my forehead. “Getting this monstros
ity applied. I walked into one of those pillars outside second hall and then made friends with the floor of the gym.” Even through my sarcasm, my heart started pounding and a wave of dizziness came over me as if I were reliving those awful moments. Why had I let Trish get to me?

  “Does it hurt?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “It throbs a little but I’d rather not think about it anymore. Tell me about your date with Amber.”

  A strange expression crossed his features. “Did Beth tell you about my date?”

  “Yes, plus the whole school knows about it. You can’t date the It girl and steer clear of the gossip mill. So where are you and Amber going? Please don’t tell me to Trish’s party . . .”

  “Well, she is Amber’s best friend. We’re going to a concert first, then I’m sure we’ll drop by there for awhile.” He looked me in the eye. “Do you want to come with us? Or meet us there? We could come by and pick you up . . .”

  My stomach warmed. At least Mason was still a true friend. Unlike traitorous Beth, whose only concern seemed to be her fledgling reputation with the It girls. “I appreciate the invite, but I’m grounded.”

  “You? Grounded?”

  I pointed to my bandage again. “It’s been one of those days.”

  He smiled sympathetically. “I can see that.”

  Suddenly, I felt incredibly selfish bringing up all my problems. Since I’d started my column, Dear Aubrey had consumed most of my time. I’d barely seen Mason and we usually talked every day. “Beth told me about what happened to your car this week.”

  “Yeah.” His cheeks got pink, reminding me of the sweet boy I’d grown up with, who had been my best friend since junior high. Images of Jake and Daniel that day in tutoring flashed in my head. The campus patrol running by. The cream on Jake and Daniel’s arms. Amber’s confession that Jake had trashed Mason’s car in retaliation for his dating her. Did Mason know who the culprit had been? “I heard it was Jake who messed up your car.”