It’s an A Day, so Chris and I share a lunch period. Ugh. I linger for a while outside the nurse’s office contemplating how easy it would be to fake a stomachache, especially given the proximity of the stomach to the heart, but I know I can’t avoid him forever. Might as well rip off another Band-Aid.
I skip the lunch line and grab a Power Bar from the machine. Somehow I don’t think I can handle tacos today. When I get to our table, Chris and Massey are already there.
“So, have you banged her yet?” Massey is asking him.
Lovely. Simply lovely.
“Dude.” Chris glances at me and his face darkens. “Show some respect. And what are you even talking about? We’ve been dating for exactly, what? Twenty-two hours?”
Twenty-one hours and ten minutes. Not that I’m counting.
Massey shakes his head. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed her …” He pauses to look at me and clears his throat. “Curves. Besides, rumor has it she’s banged the entire soccer—”
“Shut up, Massey.” I throw my half-eaten Power Bar at him. “You shouldn’t be talking about girls like that. Especially not Chris’s girlfriend.” The cafeteria tilts slightly, and I grab the table to steady myself. I said it out loud. Chris has a girlfriend.
“Chill out, Lexi. What’s your problem?” Massey picks up the Power Bar and takes a bite out of it before throwing it back at me.
I push my seat away, stand, and head for the door.
“Lexi! Lexi, wait!” Chris follows behind me. He catches up partway down the hall and grabs my arm. “Hold up.”
I stop and face him.
“Don’t let Massey bother you. He’s an idiot.”
“He’s gross.”
Chris’s eyes hold an apology. “I’m not like that, you know.”
“Like what?”
“What Massey was saying. I’m not like that. Shoot, Massey isn’t even like that. He talks big.”
Okay. This is awkward. I appreciate what Chris is trying to do, but I really don’t want to discuss his sex life, or even lack thereof. I look down at our feet, but that just makes me realize how gigantic his feet are, and then I start thinking about what they say about big feet, and … gaaahh, what the heck is wrong with me?
“I gotta run,” I say, mostly to his feet. “I, um, have stuff to do.”
“Lexi.”
I look up.
“I feel like things are getting weird. Could we—”
“Hey there!” It’s Lindsay. She’s wearing a short, floaty purple dress and has one of the roses from yesterday’s bouquet weaved into her hair. She strolls up to us and slips her arm through Chris’s. “What’s going on, you two?”
“Nothing.” I shrink back a step. “We were talking. Obviously. About stuff. I mean … what’s up with you?”
Lindsay shrugs. “Not much. You know, Chris, I was thinking. We should go to Lexi’s game on Saturday. It’s only about an hour away.”
I hold my breath. Of course Chris is going to my game. It’s the state championship. He sure as heck doesn’t need her invitation.
He shifts from one foot to another. “Sure. Yeah, I was planning to, actually. We can go together.”
“Sweet.” Lindsay lifts her eyebrows at me. “I know you two are such great friends. This’ll be fun.”
I want nothing more than to yank that stupid rose out of her hair and stomp on it, but instead, I offer her a fist bump. “So fun.”
As horrible as it will be to see Chris and Lindsay together in the stands at the game Saturday, it’s nothing compared to the torture of imagining what they’re doing together Friday night.
They’re out on their first date. Chris told me they were going to dinner at Ford’s Fish Shack and the latest Bradley Cooper movie. Meanwhile, I’m sitting at home trying to keep myself occupied, earbuds cranked up to full blast, playing game after mind-numbing game of Angry Birds. I name every pig Lindsay.
Has he kissed her yet? Blam. Is he kissing her right now? Blam. Does he have his arm around her? Are they sharing popcorn? Are they going to sit all the way through to the end of the credits and make fun of the minor roles such as “Girl #3 in Bathroom Scene” like Chris and I always do? Blam, blam, blam.
Partway through level four, my bedroom door flies open. “Lexi!” My mother looks ticked, sort of like Matilda just before one of her egg-shooting rampages.
I rip out my earbuds. “Don’t you ever knock?”
“I did. Twice.”
“What is it?”
She gives me her watch-your-tone glare. “I was just going through our shared files. You have some explaining to do.”
Uh oh. Did I accidentally upload one of my Boyfriend Whisperer folders? Or maybe my financials? I take a deep breath and steady my voice. “What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean.” She steps into my room, hands on her hips. “You haven’t updated your stats sheet in almost three weeks.”
“Oh, right.” I hope she can’t hear the relief in my voice. “Sorry, Mom. I’ll get to it this weekend.” I point to my temple. “It’s all up here.”
Her eyes narrow. “I’m not so sure you have anything up there these days.” She walks over and bends down to scrutinize me. “You’re not doing drugs, are you?”
“What? No. Mom, it’s a stupid spreadsheet. I’ll take care of it.”
She shakes her head. “Your stats are anything but stupid. Where do you think you’d be without them?”
I nod vaguely and say nothing. As soon as she shuts my door, I stick the earbuds back in and fire up another game. Where do I think I’d be without them? What’s that supposed to mean? Where does she think I’d be without them?
Since my first basketball game in the sixth grade, I have scored exactly 543 points in regulation. That includes eighty-eight free throws, 184 two-point shots, and twenty-nine three-pointers. I know this because of my stats sheet—an Excel spreadsheet I’m supposed to update after every game. It automatically calculates my shot percentages, my year-over-year improvements, and the differential between my actuals and my goals.
Without it, where would I be?
One bounce. Two bounces. Three. Bend the knees and close the eyes. Open the eyes, bounce the ball one more time, and shoot.
Swish.
Thank goodness. I have the highest free-throw percentage in Loudoun County and the second-highest in the state of Virginia, but we’re only eight minutes into Saturday’s game, and already I’ve missed two. About time I hit one.
Keisha gives me a fist bump as we race down to the other end of the court. “You good, Lex?”
I nod. “Caffeine’s starting to kick in.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “You’re a trip.”
Energy’s not my problem. Focus is. I’m trying to keep my mind in the game, but it insists on wandering over to the bleachers. I’m a boss at ignoring the crowd—when you have parents like mine, that’s crucial—but today I can’t help but peer over every thirty seconds to check on Chris and Lindsay.
It’s not a pretty sight. She’s gripping his arm like a spider wrapping up its prey. Somehow her plastic giggle manages to rise above the shouts of the entire freaking crowd, even my parents. The way she gazes at Chris, the way she flings her hair into his chest, I can tell they’ve kissed. They’ve definitely kissed.
Whack. A forward from the other team slams into my left shoulder and passes me on her way to the basket.
“Malloy! What was that?” Coach calls a time out. Before I even reach the sidelines, she’s in my face, blasting me for giving up the shot. “Take a seat.”
I bite my lip. I’ve never been benched like this, not in the middle of a close game and certainly not with the state championship on the line. Fortunately, my parents are now sitting behind me, so I don’t have to see the expressions on their faces.
I cheer as Carmella scores a lay-up, but after that, it’s turnover after turnover and the other team goes up by t
wo points, four points, seven points. Okay, Reilly, put me in. You’ve made your point.
Coach ignores me as she paces back and forth in front of my seat. Fine. I deserve it. I sucked out there, but is she seriously going to give up state?
Across the court, the other team’s fans smell blood. They begin chanting. “Spar-tans! Spar-tans! Spar-tans!”
I look back at Lindsay and Chris to find her running her hands through his hair. My stomach twists. I can tell she’s teasing him because his face is bright red. Must be asking about the cowlick. I get that. It’s so adorable. My fingers have itched to touch it many, many times over the past few months.
I risk a glance at my parents, who are sitting stone-faced and still. For years I’d have given anything for them to sit and watch my games quietly, but now their silence seems somehow louder than their shouting ever did.
Keisha scores two free throws, but then one of the Spartan guards immediately takes the ball down the court and sinks a three-pointer, making the score 23-15. If we don’t turn things around soon, it’ll be over. I stand up in the hopes that Coach will give up this stupid life lesson crap and put me in, but she never even acknowledges me.
Tears spring to my eyes. For real? I’m going to start crying? Maybe Coach and Chris and my mom are right. Maybe something is wrong with me. There’s no crying in basketball. It’s just … I’m not sure what to do, how to act.
For the past six years, I’ve started every game I’ve ever played. Off season, I’ve attended basketball camps every summer and practice clinics every fall. When not playing organized ball, I’ve spent half my free time on the courts at the park. Always trying to perfect my free throw, increase the range of my outside shot, take my layup a little higher.
Basketball isn’t a game I play; it’s who I am.
Or at least, it’s who I used to be.
“Good game. Good game. Good game.” I walk down the line and slap the hand of each Spartan, struggling to keep a smile on my face. We lost by two points. Coach benched me for almost six minutes of game time. Had she put me in thirty seconds earlier, things could have been different.
“Lexi!” It’s Chris, with Lindsay close behind. He gives me a hug. He doesn’t say “great game” or “you tried your best” or “there’s always next year.” He knows. I don’t need meaningless platitudes, just a hug.
Lindsay, on the other hand, does not know. “Wow, that was a close one,” she says, her eyes wide with something resembling pity. “You must be devastated, especially since you were on the sidelines for so long. Still, second place is pretty good.”
Second place is pretty good? And she calls herself a cheerleader? I search the crowd for my parents. This has to be the first time ever I’ve wanted to see them after a loss. Anything to get away from these two.
“Hey, we’re stopping at Joe’s Crab Shack for dinner on the way back. Why don’t you come with?” Lindsay’s hands are back to clutching Chris’s biceps. Those nails have to be fakes. No one could grow nails that perfect.
“Thanks, but I—”
“Come on, Lex,” Chris says. “It’ll be fun. No ball talk, promise. And I hear they’re running their crab cake special.”
I consider this. I do love Joe’s crab cakes. And basically, my choices are to ride back with them or with two very disappointed parents. Because no way am I getting on a bus full of girls who no doubt blame me for the fact that we lost and who will revel in the drama of my inglorious benching the entire way home. I’m debating my options when I spot my dad through the sea of celebrating Spartan fans. Woah. If looks could kill, Coach Reilly would be dead, cremated, and scattered across center court. “Wait here a minute,” I call over my shoulder to Chris and Lindsay as I sprint to intercept him.
I block his warpath. “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”
“What was that?” He points toward Coach. “What did she think she was doing?”
I’m tempted to commiserate. At least he’s not mad at me. But my desire to avoid a scene outweighs my instinct to deflect his wrath. “Dad, it’s no biggie. She benched me for a few minutes, and I deserved it. I wasn’t getting it done out there. You saw me.”
“What I saw was her best player struggling. You don’t bench someone for that. You let her play through it. She cost Grand View the championship.”
By now people are starting to stare. “Seriously, it’s okay. And I wasn’t struggling, I was … distracted.”
“Distracted?” My mom has joined us, and she looks as though I’ve just announced that I am in fact doing drugs. “What on earth by?”
“I don’t know. Life.” I glance over to see Chris and Lindsay watching us, and all of a sudden playing third wheel at their Flirt Fest doesn’t seem so bad. “Can’t we save this conversation for later? I’m going to dinner with some friends, and then I’ll be home. Let’s talk about it then.”
“No, this cannot wait.” Mom folds her arms across her chest and juts her hip out. “Something is going on with you, Alexis, and I want to know what it is. Now.”
I close my eyes. Where should I start? With the fact that I’m in love with my best friend? Or that I’ve managed to set him up with someone else? Or maybe I should lead off with the revelation that I no longer want to be the girl whose greatest achievement in life is that she can put a ball through a hoop better than all the other girls. That maybe there are other things I want to do, can do, and might even be good at doing.
I search the court for Coach Reilly, who is nowhere to be found. Good. She must have escaped to the locker room, unaware of the storm she just avoided. I lean in toward my mother and lower my voice. “I won’t do this here, Mom. Maybe later.” Without waiting for her response, I head over to Chris and Lindsay. “I’m in. Give me twenty minutes to shower, and I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”
Sitting in the back seat of Chris’s Corolla feels wrong in so many ways. For one thing, the seats are really short and low back here. Chris, of course, has to put his driver’s seat all the way back, so I’m stuck behind Lindsay, who is sitting in my usual spot but is doing it all wrong. She keeps adjusting the heat and the music and the recline lever on her seat, and doesn’t she know everything was perfect before she came along and starting messing with it?
Chris seems not the least bit annoyed by her constant “improvements,” nor by her inane monologue on the benefits of acai juice, nor by the fact that she laughs just a little too long and too loud at his jokes, including sometimes when he’s not even joking. By the time we reach the Shack, I’m starting to wonder whether an evening with my parents wouldn’t have been the lesser of the two evils.
The hostess shows us to a booth near the back. I expect Lindsay to order a salad or perhaps the chicken fingers, but she surprises me and goes for the Alaskan crab legs. Messy. And potentially hell on her nails. As our server walks away, Lindsay turns to me. “I’m so glad you joined us, Lexi. Isn’t this place fun?” She has to shout because half the wait staff have formed a dance posse and are kicking it up to Cotton Eye Joe. The crowd cheers them on, and two little girls at the table next to us get up and show off their moves.
Crap. This has always been my favorite restaurant in the world. I just know Lindsay’s going to ruin it. I force a smile. “Love it.”
Halfway through the song, one of the little girls walks over to Chris. She can’t be more than eight years old. “Want me to show you how to do the Cotton Eye Joe?”
Girl’s got guts. And excellent taste in boys. Unfortunately, she’s about to get her heart crushed because Chris doesn’t dance, ever. Sure enough, he smiles and shakes his head. “Thank you, but I’ll just mess it up. You and your friend are really good at it, though.”
She grins. “Thanks.”
Lindsay leans forward and slaps the table. “I’ll dance with you.”
The girl’s eyes light up as she grabs Lindsay’s hand and pulls her out onto the dance floor. Lindsay, of course, doesn’t miss a step. Perhaps learning cheer rout
ines is an underrated skill.
I turn to Chris. “Why do you think she asked me to come out to dinner with you tonight? Doesn’t it seem a little weird?”
“Weird?”
“Yeah. Two’s company, three’s a crowd, and all that.” What I want to say is that if he and I were dating, I most certainly would not want anyone else along. I would want him all to myself, all night long. His eyes. His lips. His arms circling me and pulling me close to him until—
I blink hard. I have to stop doing that. Not only does Chris not think of me that way, he is now seeing someone. Time to get used to it. “I find it strange; that’s all.”
Chris shrugs and glances over at Lindsay, who is giving the little girl a fist bump mid-dance turn. “Maybe it’s because she’s a nice person and would like to be friends if you’ll give her a chance.”
I look away and take a sip of my lemonade. Well, well. Five days into their relationship and Chris is already taking Lindsay’s side. Worst part is, he’s right. She’s been nothing but sweet to me all week and in fact has never been rude or unkind in the three years we’ve gone to school together. She’s mostly ignored me, but then again, I’ve ignored her, too.
Lindsay bounces back into the booth. “Wow, that was fun. Though now I’m a sweaty mess.” She has not a single drop of sweat on her, not even the slightest glistening across her forehead. Pretty sure I’m sweating more than she is from my mini-fantasy about Chris’s hug. She takes a sip of her water. “I’m going to run to the restroom. If our waiter comes by, could you ask him to bring me a cranberry juice?” And with that, she takes off again.
I’m tempted to make a crack about whether she’d prefer acai juice but think better of it. Then, because I feel bad and because I know Chris had a point about her trying to be friendly, I decide to play nice. “She’s a great dancer. And seems good with kids.”
The Boyfriend Whisperer Page 6