I sighed and leaned my head back. “I know.”
“I can help him,” Gabby said from the front seat. “I can teach Tim the moves he’s been missing.” She turned to look back at me. “Do you want to start tonight?”
I shook my head. “I have to do Ry— I mean, my homework.” I shifted in my seat, and the square of folded paper that listed my new tasks shifted in my pocket, reminding me of its presence. Like I could ever forget.
Uncle Theo dropped us off at the curb and sped away to meet his date while Gabby skipped up the walkway ahead of me.
“What did you think of the new Ryan?” she asked. “Pretty dreamy, right?”
“More like nightmare-y,” I said under my breath.
“What?” Gabby waited for me to catch up.
“I said V did a good job.” I forced a smile.
“Do you think Ryan has a girlfriend?”
I almost tripped. “Oh no. You are not going out with him. He may seem charming, but it’s all an act. Trust me.”
Gabby scoffed. “Like you can tell me who to date. Besides, I was just asking.”
“He doesn’t have a girlfriend,” I said. “It would’ve made the news, along with all the flying pigs.”
She rolled her eyes and opened the front door. “I think he cleans up pretty nice.”
“Yeah, and you also tried to drown a guy in grape snow-cone syrup,” I reminded her. “So excuse me if I don’t entirely trust your judgment.”
Gabby looked at me for a second and then shouted, “Mom? Who has better judgment, me or Tim?”
From somewhere in the kitchen there was laughter.
I smirked at her and shrugged as if to say See?
Gabby stuck out her tongue and headed to the kitchen, where Mom and Dad were studying a cookbook together.
“Why don’t you think I have better judgment?” my sister demanded.
“Oh, that was a serious question?” Mom blinked. “I think it depends on the situation. Sometimes you both have great judgment, and sometimes you both have terrible judgment.”
“Hey!” I sat on a kitchen stool. “Name one time—”
“When you were six, you wanted to be one of King Arthur’s knights,” said Dad, snapping the cookbook shut, “so you tried to saw off the corners of our dinner table to make it round.”
“When you were ten, you thought it would be cool to build your own robot, so you hot-glued the toaster to a skateboard,” added Mom.
Gabby giggled. “I remember that. You called it the BagelBot 5000.”
I pointed to each of my family members. “And you would have all been thanking me when BB brought you warm, toasty bagels in bed.”
“After it learned to open the fridge,” said Dad.
“And put bagels in itself,” added Gabby.
“And go up the stairs,” Mom chimed in.
I wagged my finger at them. “See, this kind of doubt is why the BagelBot 5000 will never be a reality.”
Gabby wrapped her arms around one of Dad’s. “So, what’s for dinner?”
“I couldn’t find anything quick in here.” He held up the cookbook.
“Why don’t we do a family scramble?” suggested Mom.
“Yeah!” said Gabby and I.
Family scramble is a group effort at dinner, where we start with a pot of linguine and each get to add one ingredient . . . within reason. My folks insist that the end result still be edible, so lemonade, marshmallows, and bananas are not allowed (all failed attempts by Gabby and me).
Dad rubbed his hands together. “Let me get the water boiling while you guys grab some ingredients.”
Mom held open the pantry door and grabbed a box of linguine for the base. Gabby and I scanned the contents of the rest of the pantry for our scramble items.
“Black olives,” I said, grabbing a can.
“Very nice,” said Mom. “I’ll go for some stewed tomatoes.” She grabbed a different can.
“Cheese!” said Gabby.
Mom pointed to the refrigerator, closing the pantry door.
Gabby pulled out a bag of shredded mozzarella, and we placed all our ingredients on the counter. Dad studied them and reached for a potted plant by the sink.
“And I will contribute some fresh basil,” he said, plucking off a few leaves.
While we waited for the water to boil, I nudged Mom.
“So you have examples of my bad judgment,” I said. “What about my good judgment?”
She regarded me for a moment and smiled. “Your good judgment comes in making decisions based on who you are,” she said. “I’ve never met a kid who was more confident about the things he liked.”
“Both of you,” added Dad.
Gabby beamed, but I pressed my lips together and stared up at Mom.
“You really think that?” I asked.
“I really do,” she said, hugging me close and kissing the top of my head. “If there’s one thing I can say with confidence, it’s that I raised two great kids who know who they are.”
Dad cleared his throat. “And I was just in the background waving pompoms?”
“Of course not!” Mom let me go and reached for Dad, making kissy lips. Gabby and I both gave cries of protest.
“Don’t do it!”
“Not near the food!”
But our parents ignored us and kissed anyway.
When I climbed into bed later, there were several voices in my head, and none of them belonged to me. I could hear Ryan’s taunting, the two ladies at the dance studio praising me, and Mom telling me how proud she was that I knew myself.
Mom’s voice spoke loudest.
She was right; I wasn’t the kind of kid who gave in to a bully’s demands. I never let people push me around. Why was I letting Ryan?
Because he could destroy me.
I flipped over in bed and punched my pillow. I couldn’t let Ryan keep bossing me around, but I couldn’t let him make me a laughingstock, either. I needed to stand my ground.
The question was how.
No answers came in my dreams, but for the first time in days I had a solid night’s sleep. I knew who I was and who I didn’t want to be.
I could figure the rest out in the morning.
“Running’s easy. It’s running fast that’s the hard part.” Abel Hart was sitting on a couch in the student lounge before school the next morning, talking while I scribbled in my notebook.
“That’s good,” I said, tapping the page. “Say more stuff like that.”
He grinned. “You want me to spout inspirational quotes?” He struck a regal pose. “Life is full of hurdles. Jump or eat asphalt.”
I snorted and scribbled out what I’d started to write. “Okay, let’s just get to the important stuff. Brooke says you’re going to break a bunch of records this season.”
“Well, I’m going to try,” said Abel. “I’ve never really been good at anything athletic except running, so I figure I might as well be the best at what I can.”
“I like that,” I said. “And how are you getting ready?”
“I swim in a kiddie pool of pudding. Builds resistance.”
I gaped at him. “Seriously?”
“No!” He laughed. “I run! How else can you get good at it?”
I laughed too. “I meant do you eat certain things or have any rituals?”
Abel nodded. “I eat pickles. Lots of pickles.”
“Really?” I jotted that down. “How do pickles help you run better?”
“Oh. They don’t. I just like them.”
I shot him a withering look. “They’re never going to make a heart-warming sports movie about you.”
He snapped his fingers. “I do always wear the same pair of socks before a race. Never been washed.” He wrinkled his nose. “At this point, they could probably move without me in them.”
I mirrored his expression. “Brooke sure picked the right guy. She also mentioned that you’ve been running a bunch of 5Ks. Is that . . .” I paused when I realized Abel wasn’t
paying attention. He was squinting at something beyond me. I glanced over my shoulder and fought back a groan.
Ryan was swaggering into the student lounge in my pants and a polo shirt that looked brand-new. Students around him were whispering and staring, but the looks they were giving him were ones of surprise and approval.
“Is that Ryan Durstwich?” asked Abel. “He’s changed.”
“Yeah,” I said. “So about those 5Ks—”
“He’s changed a lot. Kinda weird for that to happen overnight,” said Abel, watching Ryan work the crowd. “And his personality seems almost tolerable.”
“I guess,” I said.
As if he could feel us staring, Ryan glanced over and gave us a finger point and a smirk. Abel continued to stare in fascination.
“Why did this happen?” he asked.
“He brushed his hair and put on some clean clothes.”
Abel shook his head. “Not how. Why? People don’t make sudden changes like this for no reason.”
I shrugged. “I guess we’ll never know. Can we go back to the interview questions?”
But it was too late. Ryan was headed our way.
“Hey, guys!” he said. “Tim, I need help with something.”
“I’m kind of in the middle of an interview,” I said, “but you can send in an advice request and maybe get an answer that way.”
Ryan didn’t take the hint. “It’s about Berkeley’s party and what to wear.” He winked at Abel. “Gotta make a good impression, you know what I mean?”
I sighed and put down my notepad. “What you have on is fine, but if you’re not sure, ask Vanessa. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” I gestured at Abel and gave Ryan a pointed look.
He looked a little taken aback but replaced it quickly with an easy smile. “Sure thing. I’ll catch up with you later, dude.” Ryan gave Abel a quick nod and walked off to talk to a group of girls who’d been huddled together, watching him. A second later they giggled way too hard at something he said. Now I knew how Brooke, Heather, and V felt when they watched me.
“What do you say we get back to this interview?” asked Abel.
“Good idea,” I said.
I asked him a few more questions and, just in case I needed it, took his picture with my phone. “I’m sure Stefan and Gil will find all kinds of things wrong with this,” I mumbled, pocketing my phone. “Well,” I said, offering my hand to Abel, “thanks for meeting with me. The piece isn’t due until tomorrow, so if you think of anything else . . .”
Abel held up a finger. “Actually, there’s one more thing I’d like to say.”
“Oh! Fire away,” I said, pen poised over my paper.
He leaned toward me. “I don’t think you should let Ryan Durstwich blackmail you anymore.”
CHAPTER
8
One Good Turn
Statues.
That’s what Abel and I could’ve been. He sat motionless, elbows on his knees, watching me while I stared at him, openmouthed, pen still pressed to the page.
Abel squinted and pointed at my stupefied expression. “Tell me this isn’t the look that gets the girls.”
Out of the millions of words I’d read in books, only three came to mind. “You . . . How . . . Who?”
Luckily, Abel was fluent in Gibberish.
“Yes, I know,” he said. “I’ve known since the first time I saw you talking in the hall with him.”
Abel got to his feet and started pacing in front of me in slow, methodical steps. “You’re not friends, yet you spend a lot of time together. Your personalities have swapped. He’s confident and you don’t seem as much so. And now he didn’t just ask for your help . . . he expected it. Clearly, he has the upper hand, which is saying something since Ryan’s the kid who looks like he plays poker with Uno cards.”
Abel faced me with hands on hips and a knowing smile.
I’d been Young Sherlocked.
I sighed. “I’m guessing you also know what he’s using to blackmail me.”
“I think I’ve figured it out,” he said. Then he danced a hasapiko brush kick.
I clapped my hand to my forehead. “Did Brooke tell you?”
Abel shook his head. “The kid dancing in the video wears the same watch as you and is about the same height. Plus, when I asked Brooke if it was you, she screamed ‘I like pizza!’ and ran away.” At the confused look from me, he added, “We promised to never lie to each other.”
I wanted to bury my head in my hands, but I knew Ryan was still roaming the student lounge. I couldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me suffer.
Instead, I fixed my gaze on Abel. “You’re right. About all of it. I’m on the video, and I’m being blackmailed.”
Abel nodded sagely. “It’s the ones you least expect who always turn out to be the masterminds.”
I straightened up. “Well, I’ve finally had it! I won’t do any more favors for him.”
“Excellent!” Abel high-fived me. “What’s the plan?”
I clenched my fist with steely resolve. “Oh, it’s gonna be good. It’s gonna put Ryan in his place and show him that nobody messes with Tim Antonides!”
Abel cleared his throat. “You don’t have a plan, do you?”
I relaxed my hand. “I was thinking about buying a soft pretzel,” I said. “You want one?”
He shook his head and sat beside me. “You need to focus. I like what you said about putting Ryan in his place. I can help you with that.”
My eyebrows lifted. “Help me?”
Abel shrugged. “Sure! What are friends for?”
“Friends?”
He studied me. “What’s going on with you? You turning into a parrot?”
“Sorry.” I felt my cheeks warm. “I’m just . . . not really used to having guy friends. But I’m through working for Ryan! What’s the plan?”
“Keep working for him,” said Abel.
I held up a finger. “Is there a Plan B?”
“Listen, right now Ryan has leverage over you.” He leaned closer. “You need to get leverage over Ryan.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean, you need to find a reason for him to not rat on you,” Abel explained. “Say . . . something that might embarrass him if it ever got out?”
A slow grin spread over my face. “You mean beat him at his own game. I like it!” I started writing in my notebook. “I could swing by his house this weekend. There’s got to be something good there.”
Abel nodded. “Maybe check his bedroom.”
I shook my head. “There’s nothing incriminating there. It’s really clean.” Abel raised an eyebrow, and I blushed. “I cleaned it.”
He whistled through his teeth. “We have got to get you out of this. Forget his bedroom, then, and start looking elsewhere. Maybe his parents have some embarrassing baby photos?”
“He lives with his aunt,” I said, pausing. “And he’s also pretty good at figuring out what I’m up to. If I go wandering around his house, he’s going to notice.”
Abel and I were both quiet for a moment. Then he snapped his fingers and grinned.
“What if you’re in front of him the whole time and someone else does the searching?”
I widened my eyes. “You’re going to do it?”
“No, no. I’m thinking of someone else who’s just as fast.” He glanced past me to where Brooke and Vanessa were sitting.
“You want me to send Brooke in?” I asked.
“And Vanessa. She could be there to do some last-minute fixes to Ryan’s look, and since you’re trying to turn him into this great guy, what better way to test his limits than bringing in Brooke, the person he most despises?” Abel beamed at his own idea.
I rubbed my chin. “While V keeps him busy, Brooke could wander off to use the bathroom and ‘accidentally’ stumble across something embarrassing.”
“But that means you have to let her in on the secret too,” Abel pointed out.
I gave him a dubious look. “She h
ates Ryan. When she finds out what he’s been up to, she’ll kill . . .” I nodded and clapped my hands. “Okay, this plan works!”
He got to his feet, picking up his bag. “Talk to Brooke during your lunch. She’ll help you set up a plan, and then she’ll meet up with me. For now, act like we just finished the interview.” He extended his hand, and I shook it.
“Thanks for all the help,” I said, holding up my notebook for emphasis.
Abel gave a brief wave and walked off without another word.
I started for the lounge exit, but before I could reach it, Ryan swooped over, throwing an arm around me. A small group of girls was watching and smiling, but for once they weren’t smiling at me.
“Tim! Why don’t you join us on the couch?” He glanced at the group of girls and flashed a grin. Then out of the corner of his mouth, he added, “I have no idea how to talk to them.”
It was all I could do not to laugh and shout, “Serves you right!” After all, I was supposed to still be the humble servant.
“Actually, I have to go to the newsroom and do some work. People have been asking us for gift advice.”
Ryan frowned. “When did we start giving gift advice?”
How was this idiot running my life?
“No, ‘us’ as in the advice column.” I pointed to Brooke and V.
“Fine. Just give me something to talk about with them.” He nodded to the girls.
“Ask them about themselves, remember?” I said. “It makes you seem like a good listener.”
He nodded, and I could see his mouth working as he repeated my instructions. “Thanks. I’ll talk to you later,” he said.
“Can’t wait,” I replied.
I headed up the hall, pausing at Locker 411 to see what new gift requests we’d gotten. I was starting to like them more than advice requests. My brain was already so full having to deal with Ryan, and coming up with gift ideas was way easier than dishing out advice. Why?
Because I had a system that I hadn’t told Brooke, Heather, or Vanessa about.
Over the weekend I’d bought a magazine for girls, a magazine for boys, a magazine for women, and a magazine for men. I didn’t read them; I just looked at the ads. That way, I had a huge bank of ideas at the ready. It was brilliant, it was simple, and if Brooke ever got mad, I could simply buy her a bottle of Teen Dream perfume . . . or rip out the perfume strip from the magazines. Probably that.
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