by Paula Stokes
“Gee, thanks,” I say, but I didn’t mean alternative like Micah. Or Phoenix, God forbid. I meant more like getting to be someone else for a change. No one knows me here. I can do or say whatever I want without having to worry about what anyone thinks.
“Hey. Speaking of Trin. I thought of a rule I want to make.”
“Let’s hear it.”
Micah looks up from the plant. “She may have said something about how being the sister to the guy dating soccer star Lainey Mitchell was going to make school suck less in the fall. I didn’t know what to tell her. But if she says hi to you in the halls, promise me you won’t ignore her, okay? No being mean to my sister.”
Being friends with a varsity soccer player is actually a big deal at Hazelton, especially when you’re a freshman. It never occurred to me that this little charade had the potential to hurt anyone besides me or Micah. “Rule accepted. I would never ignore her.”
“Cool,” he says. “I just don’t want her to have a hard time. You’re more than welcome to ignore me. I got my own reputation to look out for too, and it does not involve palling around with a soccer chick.”
“Right. You wouldn’t want our classmates to confuse you with someone normal,” I tease.
“Normal is overrated.” He points at my teal streak. “You practically said so yourself.” He gestures with his head at the table next to us—the girls with the Kool-Aid hair. “Obviously not trying to be normal. So who do you think they are?”
“Um, weirdos?” I offer.
“More specific.” He lowers his voice. “I think they’re members of an all-girl rock band who just hit the big time, hence the glasses.”
“Oh, I get it.” I sneak another peek at the girls. One of them has a Happy Cheetah Band-Aid on her thumb. “I think they’re hookers who all just got beat up by their pimp, hence the glasses,” I whisper.
“Not bad.” Micah nods slowly at me and I can’t help but smile. I wasn’t expecting hanging out with him to be fun.
The two of us scope out the other customers while we wait for our food, trying to guess their identities. We’ve identified potential school bus drivers, Satanists, illicit lovers, professional ballerinas, and a coroner by the time Phoenix returns with our food. She clunks down our plates in front of us without so much as a word.
My pancakes are heart-shaped and tinted pink, with spatters of strawberry puree drizzled across the top to resemble blood. A serrated knife protrudes from the stack. I pull the knife out hesitantly and saw off a square from the tip of the heart.
The pancake is delicious, soft and sweet like it was soaked in butter before the strawberry sauce was added. The whole forkful practically melts in my mouth.
“Ohmygod,” I say. “These are totally to die for.”
“I know, right?” Micah closes his eyes momentarily. “Now you see why even normal people are willing to come here and be treated like shit.”
I take another bite. Another explosion of sweetness and tanginess. “There aren’t any illegal substances in these, are there?” I ask. “I’m feeling sort of . . . euphoric.”
Micah swallows a big bite of cheesy-bacon hashbrowns before answering. “Nope. Just good food.” He laughs under his breath. “But I have that effect on girls a lot.”
“Oh, I’m sure.” I ball up my straw wrapper and flick it at him. My aim is about two feet wide and I nearly hit Phoenix as she strolls by on the way to take another table’s order.
I study her out of the corner of my eye. Her skin is impossibly pale except for the tattoos on her back. She’s so waifish that the bones of her spine stick out, and the snake armband she’s wearing slips down around her elbow as she walks.
“So are Amber and her sister a lot alike?” I ask. Micah’s girlfriend goes to a different school and I’ve never seen her up at Denali. “All tattoos and bad attitude?”
“No,” Micah says. “Despite my choice of eatery, I’m not into being abused.” His voice softens and he looks down at his omelet as he talks. “Amber is really awesome. She’s funny and cool and amazingly talented. I felt lucky to be with her, you know?” He glances up. “Like she was probably too good for me.”
I nod. “Yeah, I felt the same way about Jason. For the first six months we dated, I kept expecting him to break up with me. And then, I don’t know, the more time we spent together, the better we seemed to match up.”
“Really? He always seemed like kind of a tool to me.”
“Yeah, but all you see is the person he is in school. He’s different with me.”
“If you say so.” Micah shrugs. “But blowing you off like that, in front of everyone? I would never do that to a girl.”
“I’m sure he had a reason,” I say sharply, even though I can’t imagine what it was. I look down at my plate and concentrate on cutting my remaining pancake into small squares.
“Forget I mentioned it.” Micah runs one finger along the edge of the Venus flytrap’s leaves again. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
I nibble at another bite of pancake and swallow hard. “It’s no big deal.” I feign interest in the black-and-white movie until the awkward moment passes.
When our plates are empty, Phoenix slinks up to our table and rests one of her hands on the back of Micah’s neck. He makes a face at me as she runs her fingernails through his hair. “Sure you two don’t want to take our interactive tour?” She smirks as she drops the check in the middle of our table. “I’m cool with a group thing.”
Micah gives her the finger as he grabs the check.
“I can—” I start to say, but he kicks me under the table.
“I got this,” he says.
“Thanks, hon.” I give him an exaggerated smile as I reach down to rub the sore spot on my shin. Phoenix makes a gagging sound.
Micah slides a couple of bills into the black studded-leather check holder. “Keep the change.”
Apparently satisfied with her tip, she plants an air kiss next to Micah’s face. “Come back and see me sometime,” she coos as we stand up to leave. I’m pretty sure she’s not talking to me.
We head back through the restaurant and outside to Micah’s car, which surprisingly has not been vandalized in any way. He turns to me as he fires up the engine. “So what’d you think?” he asks. “Not too much torture, right?”
I’m not sure if he’s talking about the restaurant, Phoenix, or just hanging out with him. “It was pretty fun,” I admit. “Except for the shock therapy.”
“Sorry. I couldn’t resist.” He pulls away from the curb and turns south to cut back across the city. “So what now, O Great Planner?”
“I guess now you wait for Phoenix to tell Amber you’re hanging out with some other girl. And see what happens.”
He nods. “Sure, but what do I have to do for you?”
“Oh, right.” Funny. I had almost forgotten about that part of the deal. “Give me a couple days. I’ll get back to you.”
Micah nods. His phone rings and he looks away from the road just long enough to answer. From my side of the conversation it sounds like he’s telling someone he’s going to be a little late to work. I fiddle with the stuff in the center console: an insurance card, a lighter, a pack of gum, and a small, black-and-gray rectangle that looks like a knife handle. I press the tiny silver latch embedded in the metal and a blade shoots out.
Micah swerves halfway onto the shoulder. “I have to go,” he says quickly into the phone. He lets it fall to his lap and turns to me. “What are you doing? Don’t mess with my stuff.”
“Why do you have a switchblade?” I ask.
“Because I’m not old enough to own a gun.” With one hand on the steering wheel, he grabs the knife from my hand and retracts the blade. “You need to be careful.”
“But what would you even do with it?”
His hazel eyes go dark. “Nothing, hopefully,” he says. “But you never know.” I can tell he’s thinking about his dad again. Maybe the whole world becomes dangerous if you lose a parent the way
Micah did.
“You work tonight?” I ask, eager to change the subject.
“Not at Denali. I volunteer at the Humane Society once a week.”
“You work with the puppies and kitties?” I raise an eyebrow. “I figured you’d be more interested in biting their heads off.”
“They let me do that sometimes after we close,” he jokes.
“No, seriously,” I say. “I never saw you as the volunteering type. That’s kind of sweet.”
“You are so dense.” Micah keeps both eyes on the road but shakes his head. “It’s not sweet. It’s court-ordered community service. Better playing with puppies than picking up beer cans and dirty diapers along the side of the highway, you know?”
“Oh,” I reply, adjusting the hem of my T-shirt dress. “So you really went to jail last year?”
“Juvie.”
“For what?” The question leaves my mouth before I even have time to think. I’ve heard all the usual rumors that you hear about someone working the loner-rocker-boy image like Micah. He smokes weed. He deals drugs. He beats up preppy kids behind The Devil’s Doorstep. I always figured the stories were bullshit.
“Why do you care?” He glances over. “You afraid of me now?”
“No,” I say quickly. And it’s true. Even if he carries a switchblade and pretends to be a badass, he doesn’t seem much different from the kid I knew in fifth grade. “I’m just trying to . . . get to know you again.”
“That’s kind of sweet,” he says, throwing my words back at me in a high-pitched girly voice. His lips curve upward, just barely. “Maybe I’ll tell you. Someday.”
Chapter 11
“YOU MAY ADVANCE AND BE ABSOLUTELY IRRESISTIBLE, IF YOU MAKE FOR THE ENEMY’S WEAK POINTS . . .”
—SUN TZU, The Art of War
Later that night, I’m crashed out on the sofa watching a rerun of a World Cup game when Bianca calls.
“Hey.” I watch as Caleb Waters puts a free kick in the upper-left corner of the goal. The crowd goes wild.
“Hey, yourself. Weren’t you going to call me the instant you got home from your pseudo-date?” she asks. “I want to hear all about it.”
“Oh, right.” I mute the TV. “So Micah took me to this completely freaktastic place where his ex-girlfriend’s sister works.” I give her a quick rundown on Mizz Creant’s.
“That sounds . . . strange. Did you guys get along okay?”
“Other than the fact that he blasted me with some weird shock device.” I start to smile thinking about it, even though it was totally not funny at the time. “It was awkward at first. He mentioned his dad in the car and I didn’t know what to say. But there were plenty of conversation starters at the restaurant.”
“Well, I’m glad it wasn’t terrible,” Bee says. “Where are you going to take him?”
“Not sure yet. Got any great ideas?”
“Hmm.” She yawns. “I’ll have to sleep on it.”
“Sounds good. Talk to you soon.”
Right as I hang up, a commercial for a home game against the Chicago Cubs comes on. That would be perfect. Jason has baseball season tickets. He would never miss a chance to see the Cardinals waste the Cubs. I’ve been to a handful of games with him so I know exactly where he sits. Micah and I can get tickets for the same section.
But how to make sure Jay sees us at a crowded baseball game? I head into my room and paw through the old birthday cards, notes, and ticket stubs in my bottom dresser drawer until I find a Cardinals ticket from last summer. Right-field bleachers. Fifth row. Seat 14. I’ll just have to look for open seats as close to there as possible.
After texting Micah to make sure he’s available on Sunday afternoon, I get online and check out the available tickets. Most of the first ten rows are already purchased, but there is a pair of seats way at the outside edge of the fourth row. If Micah and I entered from the wrong side we’d have to squeeze past the entire section. I’d pass right in front of Jay—there’d be no way for him to miss us. I start imagining the look on his face when I stroll by with my new “boyfriend” in tow.
Hello, mountaintop.
“I can’t believe you’re taking me to a Cards–Cubs game,” Micah says. “This might actually be kind of fun.”
“It’s the perfect place to run into Jason,” I say. “He’s got season tickets.”
We’re meeting up at Micah’s house again because his mom has to go straight from her job at the tattoo parlor to her job at the diner tonight, so no one will bother us.
During the school year, I also get a lot of parent-free time, but Mom spends her summers camped out in the study writing anthropology books and journal articles. Even though she’s been known to get so into her notes that she forgets to eat, I’m pretty sure me dragging a guy with tats and a mohawk into my bedroom would not escape her attention.
“Please tell me you’re not really going to wear that,” Micah says.
“What?” I’m wearing jean shorts and one of the only red things I own—an official Caleb Waters replica jersey.
“You can’t wear a soccer jersey to a Cardinals game. It’s sacrilegious.” Micah shakes his head in disbelief. “Let me see if Trin has something you can borrow.” He leaves the room and returns a few minutes later with a tiny red-and-white scrap of cloth that looks like a dinner napkin. He tosses it to me.
I unfold it and hold it against myself. It’s a baby-doll T-shirt, not even enough fabric to cover half of my chest. “No way,” I say. “This’ll never fit.”
“It looks like it would fit great to me,” Micah says innocently. And then, when I frown: “Fine. You can wear one of my shirts.” He ducks his head in his closet and comes back with two Cardinals tees on hangers.
“Why do you have all these baseball shirts?” I ask, trying to decide between the red shirt with a cartoon bird on it and the black one with the more traditional STL logo. “I wouldn’t have thought you were into sports at all.”
“Everyone in St. Louis is into the Cardinals, aren’t they?” he asks. “My dad used to take Trin and me to games when we were little.”
“My dad and my brother go a lot. Steve loves baseball.” I pull the red shirt from the hanger. “I’ll wear this one.” I start to remove my soccer jersey and then realize Micah is staring at me. “Turn around,” I order him.
“But you’ve got another shirt on under there,” he says.
“Yeah, but it’s a tank top. Just turn around.”
He mutters something under his breath about me strutting around Denali in less—not true!—but gives up and turns to face his closet. I back away to the other side of his bed and tug the replica jersey over my head. Micah whistles and I almost drop it on the floor. He’s totally checking me out in the mirror.
“Micah!” I hurriedly pull the Cardinals T-shirt over my head. “What is wrong with you?”
“What? You said turn around. You didn’t say close your eyes.”
“Perv.” I give him a dirty look.
His lips twitch, like he’s trying not to laugh. “Man. I had you figured for a lot of things, but uptight wasn’t one of them.”
“I am not uptight,” I say in what is probably the most uptight voice ever. “Now be quiet and find a hat or something to cover that freaktastic hair of yours.”
“You like this hair,” Micah says. But he digs a red Cardinals cap out of his closet. He flips the hat around in his hands and then puts it on backward. It’s amazing how normal he looks already. Well, except for . . .
I point at his eyebrow. I cough meaningfully.
“Not happening. It’ll close up if I take it out.”
“But—”
“No. It stays,” Micah says. “It’ll be like you replaced him with a bad boy. He’ll wonder if you’ve got some deviant fantasies he totally missed out on.”
The way he says it is almost flirty and I feel my cheeks growing warm. I ignore the comment and check my phone, even though I know exactly what time it is. “We should get going soon.”
> When Micah stands up, other than the pierced eyebrow and tattoo on his neck, he looks like any other high school guy. But what will Jason think? Will seeing me with any other high school guy be enough to make him jealous?
“Want to drive my car?” Micah asks with a gleam in his eye.
“No freaking way. That thing doesn’t even qualify as a car.” I jingle my brother’s keys in front of his face. “I thought we’d take the train so we don’t have to worry about traffic.” Traffic would mean long periods of time trapped in the car together with nothing to say. Not to mention I’ve never driven downtown by myself and would probably end up going the wrong way down a one-way street or parking in a tow-away zone. Best to play it safe.
“Whatever you want,” Micah says. “I’m just a fake date along for the ride.”
We leave my brother’s car at the nearest MetroLink station and hop into the first car of a Red Line train that’s heading east toward St. Louis.
The car is half full of people in Cardinals apparel. Micah and I find forward-facing seats together. We’re ten stops from the stadium and I talk nonstop through the first eight. As the train gets progressively more crowded, I talk about the weather, Jason, soccer, Denali, Bianca, etc. The funny thing is, my brain is so busy playing out worst-case scenarios where Jason doesn’t even notice me or my “date,” that I have almost no idea what I’m saying and even less of an idea of how Micah is responding.
Or even if he’s responding.
I stop talking for a second. Crap. He’s not responding.
“Sorry,” I say. “I ramble when I get nervous.”
He punches me lightly in the side of the arm. “You ramble all the time. No wonder you got dumped.”
I frown. The words sting even though I know he’s kidding. What if that’s part of why Jason left me? If he decided I was annoying, he’ll probably be glad to see me with some other guy. Suddenly the whole plan seems like a terrible idea again, more art of insanity than art of war.
Micah hands me an earbud that’s connected to his phone. “Here. This will relax you.” A pulsing rhythm blares out of the tiny speaker. It reminds me of one of the songs we listened to on the way to Mizz Creant’s. Not the instrumental one. One of the faster songs. It’s got a catchy little chorus.