Adorkable (3 page)

“And when might that be?” Hooker was pushing back her cuticles with short efficient jabs. “Before or after the day of reckoning?”

I crossed my arms, refusing to let it go.

“Okay, okay.” She stopped the assault and looked me in the eye. “Opening night, new X-Men. You in or out, Spitz? I thought you’d like to go to the midnight show and see Storm kick some evil mutant ass. Excuse me if I was mistaken.”

Letting out a breath, I finally relaxed. “Rogue has it all over Storm and you know it.”

“Puh-lease,” she said, rolling her eyes, “Storm could cause a hurricane that’d knock Rogue back to last week.”

“Yeah, and all Rogue would have to do is touch her, and Storm’d be out like a light, transferring her powers to Rogue in the process.” Right as Ms. Vega was walking to the board, I asked once more, just to be sure, “So, no mystery men…or women?”

Hooker held out her palms. “Just Xavier and his crew.”

“Then I’m in,” I said back, and Hooker smiled.

Being so dateable herself, Hooker always seemed to have some guy on the side. For the past three months, it’d been Will Swift, a college boy fresh out of Chariot and attending UNC. Boys were just drawn to her. They’d been calling her up since middle school, and she couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t want her castoffs.

As my best girl friend and an aspiring professional matchmaker, she felt it her duty to “broaden my romantic horizons.” She typically arranged meetings with guys who were either hot and/or experienced—the bad part was she never actually told me beforehand. Sunday guess-who’s-coming-to-dinner was just the start. I’d show up someplace (a restaurant, the mall, a football game) at a time we’d agreed to meet, and instead of Hooker I’d find Joe Piscotti, the second guy she’d set me up with, who I admit had been easy on the eyes—but who had also been twenty-six to my seventeen. Thankfully, Mom had never found out about that fiasco. Or Connor Boone, a nineteen-year-old self-proclaimed artist who’d offered to paint me in my birthday suit. I’d respectfully declined.

It wasn’t that I thought I was better than them (except, well maybe, in the morality department). In fact, on the whole, it’d been the guys who’d ended the dates early. They hadn’t been interested, simple as that. Honestly I hadn’t been either, so it’d worked out great for everyone except Hooker, who’d taken it personally. I was now her mission.

Hooker had upped the amount of setups this year, determined to have me matched by graduation.

“Senior year, Spitz,” she’d said on our first day back. “I have to find you a guy.”

“You really don’t,” was my response.

“Yes, I do.” Her eyes were bright. “I want to be a matchmaker. What does it say if I can’t even find my own bestie her man? Unacceptable.”

“But—”

“No buts, Spitz. I’ll find you a guy or die trying.”

Too bad I couldn’t tell her I’d already found one,
The One
as a matter of fact.

But that was a secret I’d sooner take to the grave.

Still, I’d asked Hooker countless times to stop fixing me up, but she never listened. She had to know it was a lost cause. Didn’t she realize I was best buds with the Adonis of the school? The only girl in Chariot never once chatted up, picked up, or felt up by the town’s best-loved playboy? There had to be something wrong with me. Not pretty enough, not girly enough, something. I’d accepted it a long time ago, so why couldn’t she?

My classes went by quickly. After school, the German club meeting ran a little long—which hardly ever happened since there were only two other members—so I had to sprint out to the bleachers to catch the end of practice. I swiped a hand over my forehead, and the back came away damp. Apparently my glands had missed the memo about how girls aren’t supposed to sweat, because I was definitely sporting more than a glisten.

My eyes wandered to the sidelines of the soccer field, catching Becks flirting with yet another legs-for-days cheerleader, his second of the day. Coach Crenshaw yelled his name, voice slicing through the air with all the finesse of a foghorn. Becks didn’t even flinch. He was sweating like a fiend, but Miss Double Back Handspring didn’t seem to mind.

Crenshaw called Becks’s name again, turning red in the face, which was around the same time he noticed me. Ignoring the coach, Becks jogged right over.

“Enjoying the show?” he asked, tugging the bottom of his shirt up to wipe his face.

A bout of girlish squeals erupted.

“Sure,” I said, cocking my head, “but not nearly as much as they are.”

“Ah, Sal, give me a break. I’m working my butt off out there. Are you going to write me a prize piece or what?”

“Oh yeah, definitely,” I nodded, tapping at my notebook, “Don’t you worry. It’ll be totally Pulitzer-worthy.”

“Hey, listen.” He cleared his throat as Crenshaw bellowed his name a third time. “If you can’t stand the heat, get off the field.” He paused, smiling wide. “So, what do you think?”

“About what?” I asked.

“I’m thinking that’s going to be my quote for yearbook.”

“Seriously?”

His face dropped. “Too obvious?”

“Yeah, just a little.” Unable to stand that look, I added, “But for you, it kind of works.”

“Really?” His face suddenly brightened. “Then I’ll go with it.”

“Take it off!” The shout brought on another round of feminine laughter.

Turning toward the giggling mass of girls, Becks grinned. “Only if you say pretty please.”

“Pretty please,” they replied in unison, and I nearly gagged. When he didn’t immediately strip, the girls started up a chant of “Take it off! Take if off!” This was why they shouldn’t let cheerleaders hold practice next to the soccer field. The words got louder and louder as they got bolder, an unruly mob of hormonal teenage girls with megaphones. It was a scary sight.

“You’re not seriously going to listen to them,” I said flatly.

“What else can I do?”

“Becks, beware the dark side.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a Yoda-ism,” I said, “and you know exactly what it means. Becks, have you no shame?”

“Nope,” he said, lifting the jersey over his head in one swift pull, causing a mixture of applause, screaming and appreciative sighs.

I shook my head, struggling to keep my eyes north of his jaw line.

“What can I say, Sal?” he said, backing away. “It’s like that line from that show
Oklahoma
. I’m just a guy who can’t say no.” Flicking his jersey at one of the cheerleaders, he hot footed it out to center field, grinning all the while. He gave a frowning Coach Crenshaw a swat to the backside, and then the team got down to business.

I wrote down Becks’s quote, making a side note to include it in my next article, while the girl who’d caught Becks’s jersey gripped the shirt to her heart and pretended to faint.

At least, I hoped it was pretend.

“Becks, not so high! You’ll drop it.”

An eye roll. “Relax, Sal, I do this every night.”

Looking at the frilly cooking apron he wore, I raised a brow. “You wear pink lace every night? Wow, Becks. After all these years, the truth finally comes out.”

“If that’s a dig at my masculinity, you know it won’t work.” Becks tossed the dough higher, grinning as I gasped. “Why do you make me wear this anyway?”

Because only one thing beat a shirtless Becks: Becks wearing a hot pink number, featuring “Kiss the Cook” on his chest, making pizza for me and my mom. After practice, he’d followed me home so we could hang out before he went to work. Mom wouldn’t be back for a couple hours because of a consultation in Bixby. Becks made dinner for us at least once a week. The apron was just a bonus. It’d been a gift to Mom, but even she’d said it looked better on Becks. Which reminded me…

“My mom thinks you’re hot.”

He almost missed the dough for real this time, saving it just before it hit the ground. The look on his face was priceless.

Recovering, he said, “That’s nice.” Dropping the dough on a pan, he pushed at the edges and started rolling the crust.

“Nice?” I repeated. “Don’t you mean weird? Creepy? All kinds of wrong?”

Cutting me a sideways glance, he said, “Why are you getting so worked up?”

“I’m not,” I lied. My mother was hitting on the one guy I’d secretly loved forever. No big. Who’d get upset over a little thing like that?

“At least we know Martha has good taste.”

“Becks!”

He laughed as I crossed my arms. Once he’d sauced and topped the dough off with cheese, pepperoni and pineapple, Becks popped it in the oven, set the timer, then came over and mimicked my stance. He was grinning, but I refused to crack.

“Speaking of taste,” he said after a beat, “what’s with this music?”

“Classic ‘80s,” I sniffed. “If you don’t like it, feel free to switch the station.”

“No, I like it.” Becks nudged my shoulder. “Brings back memories, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” I agreed, a smile touching my lips. Becks and I had gone through the same ‘80s phase every kid goes through. A lesser-known rite of passage.

“I seem to remember you having a thing for that guy in that dance movie.”

“I had a thing for his
dancing
,” I snorted. “And don’t act like you don’t know his name.”

Sighing, Becks ran a hand through his hair. “I won’t deny it. I wanted to be Swayze.”

“Hmm,” I said, taking in Becks’s Swayze blue eyes, the thick dark lashes. “I seem to remember you wearing black t-shirts and slacks for two months straight. I’m thinking you were the one with the crush.”

“I—” Becks froze as the song that was playing ended and a familiar one began. It was as if the radio was tuned into our conversation. “Wanna dance, Sal?”

“You sure?” I said back. “Sixth grade was a while ago.”

“Yeah, but you forced me to practice every day for four months straight.” Before I could remind him that he’d been the one to insist we practice so much (Becks’d always been a perfectionist; one of the reasons he rocked in sports
and
academics), he smiled, held out a hand. “I think I can manage.”

Taking his hand, I assumed the position. Becks at my back, he placed my arm behind his neck, fingertips doing a slow glide down my arm, the side of my ribs, to my waist. I tried (and failed) not to shiver. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea.

Learning the final dance from
Dirty Dancing
had been tough. We’d practiced long hours at my house until we had the moves. The difference between the sixth grade talent show and now, though, was embarrassingly obvious. I hadn’t expected his touch to affect me the way it did. I mean, I’d always been in love with him, but when you’re eleven things are just different. Mom had had to skip the naughty bits so we could watch the movie for goodness sake. The lyrics to “Time of My Life” were as innocent as ever. But I was so aware of him. His grip on my hip, the way he led me across the kitchen floor. Those eyes. The dance had been PG in the sixth grade, but with Becks’s sure touch and my stuttering heart, we were definitely approaching an R-rating.

When he pulled me to his chest, I jerked away.

“What’s wrong?” Becks said, reaching for me. “You okay, Sal?”

“Fine, fine.” I jumped back again, watching his hand fall, wishing my voice didn’t sound so breathless. To cover, I said, “Just out of shape, I guess. Maybe I should start working out like you.”

“Nah.” Becks leaned against the counter. “You’re fine.”

“Says the guy with a six pack,” I said, trying to get hold of myself.

“No, really,” he said. “I like girls with a little meat on them.”

Good to know.

“So, what’s your type?”

The comment was so out there I looked up. “What?”

“Earlier, at school, you said you weren’t into bad boys…or girls,” he added with a wink. “Just made me wonder who you’re into.”

You.

No joke, it was the first thing that popped into my head. Good grief. Not only would it end our friendship, Becks’d run for the hills if I said that to him. Get it together, Spitz.

“Don’t know,” I said. Afraid of the answer, I asked anyway. “What’s your dream girl like?”

“Freckles,” he said not missing a beat.

“What?” I scoffed, secretly pleased. I had freckles! “Way to narrow the field, Baldwin.”

“You didn’t let me finish.” Eyes moving over me with a focus that made my breath catch, he said, “
Cute
freckles, wavy brown hair, about five six, hazel eyes. Naturally beautiful.”

“Becks—”

“She’s smart—,” He talked right over me. “—can quote
Star Wars
, curses like a German sailor when she’s mad. Someone who makes me laugh out loud, a girl who’s herself and lets me be me. Sounds pretty great, right?”

I stared at him. A moment, two hours, I didn’t know. He’d sounded sincere, but he couldn’t be. I wasn’t that lucky. “That’s not funny.”

“You see me laughing?”

“Becks…”

“Yeah, Sal?”

“You are joking...right?” I had to ask. Even if the hopeful note in my voice revealed too much, I had to ask.

There was an awkward silence.

Then Becks’s smile broke through, eyes bright.

“Man, you should see your face right now,” he laughed while I tried to recover. “Priceless.”

Well. That answered that.

“You want to know my type, Sal? Female.”

“That’s it?” I asked.

Becks shrugged. “I’m a guy. I love women,” he said and shot me a grin. “Some more than others.”

Shaking out of it, I punched him, popped him right in the arm. “You jerk. Why’d you say all that? Was it to embarrass me or what?”

He laughed the whole thing off like nothing happened. “It’s true, Sal. You’ve ruined me for other women.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Where am I going to find another girl who throws a punch like that?”

“Haha, good joke,” I said, throat tight. I knew better. Becks hadn’t said anything, never made a move in all this time. But as he’d described me, his eyes softened—or had I imagined that?

The timer went off, and Becks pulled the pizza out of the oven. The crust was golden brown, cheese spread evenly over the top.