Adorkable (7 page)

Cutting him off before he could get going, I said, “Okay, Becks. You now have ten seconds to tell me your demands.”

His jumped off his bucket in protest. “But, Sal, you can’t—”

“Eight seconds,” I said, looking at my watch.

“But—”

“Five, fo—”

“A month’s worth of Calc homework and hand over the Goobers,” he said in a rush.

I gaped at him, forgetting the counting altogether.

“But you’re great at Calculus, nearly as good as me.”

“So?” he said. “It was the first thing that popped into my head.”

“Becks, it’s unethical.”

“Sal, I’ll check over the work. I just want you to do it first.”

“Why?” I asked, truly dumbfounded.

“Like I said,” he repeated, “you’ve got to give a little. It’s only fair.”

“Okay,” I said, picking up my books, turning to the door in a daze. I couldn’t believe we’d skipped half of second period. I’d never played hooky a day in my life. Even more unbelievable I’d just gotten my first boyfriend for a month’s worth of Calc and a box of Goobers. The whole thing seemed surreal. The fact that the boyfriend, real or fake, was Becks was just too impossible to take in.

“Hey, Sal.”

When I turned back around, Becks was holding his hand out, palm up.

“Goobers?” he said.

Still reeling, I handed them over, watching as he emptied the entire box into his mouth in one go. I was seriously considering the possibility that this was a dream when I opened the door and saw Hooker scowling on the other side, bathroom pass dangling from one hand.

“Spitz, you cannot be serious,” she said flatly. “This is
Becks
we’re talking about.”

And that’s when I knew it was real.

Could this situation be more awkward?

Answer: Yes.

Backing away from Hooker, I nailed Becks right in the chin. He groaned and stumbled, tripping over the bucket he’d been sitting on, taking out a few mops along the way. Luckily, Janitor Gibbens showed up, drawn by all the noise, and told us to get to class.

“This isn’t over,” Hooker had warned. But I’d dodged that bullet. At least for now.

Becks was waiting for me at the end of second period.

“What’s up?” I asked as he walked over.

“Want me to carry your books?”

“Huh?”

Grabbing my binder and books, he grinned. “I’m your boyfriend now. Remember?”

“Oh.” He said that so easily.

“Girls let their boyfriends carry their books,” he said slowly as if I needed it explained.

“Sure,” I said. “Okay, then. Have at it.”

Hooker knew my schedule, but I knew hers, too, so I led him the long way to my class. The upside was we didn’t run into Hooker. The bad part? We walked right into Eden Vice—or rather, she nearly knocked me over in her haste to get to Becks. Fingers gripping the front of his shirt, eyes wide, the girl was in a state.

“Becks, it can’t be true,” Eden said. “This is just some lame rumor, right? You’re not really dating that Spitz girl.”

“Her name is Sally,” Becks said. I jolted as one of his hands landed on my waist, drawing me to his side. Crossing her arms, Eden pouted while I tried to ignore the warmth of that hand. “And yes, I am.”

“But why? I don’t get it.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But
Becks
,” she whined, “I don’t understand. Why her?”

“Nothing to understand really,” he said, smiling down at me. “Sal’s my girl. Always has been.”

As he squeezed my hip, I swear I stopped breathing. Eden was a dip, but she walked away at the clear dismissal. I was having trouble getting my lungs to work. And Becks was just standing there, smiling like all was right with the world, like this was all normal.

“Man, I tell you it’s a lie. Becks wouldn’t waste his time.”

I was so close I actually felt Becks’s body stiffen. Loud and obnoxious, the voice brought back bad memories of last night’s wandering hands. I knew I should’ve punched Chaz Neely when I had the chance.

“Spitz is an ice princess,” Chaz continued, speaking to the two guys at his locker. They were a little ways down the hall, backs to us, but their voices traveled.

“I don’t know,” Rick Smythe, goalie for CHS, spoke up. “They’ve been friends a long time.”

“Yeah, friends with benefits,” J.B. Biggs laughed. “There’s got to be something in it for him.”

“We went out last night,” Chaz said. “Lamest date I ever had. She wouldn’t even let me get to second base. Way I figure it, Spitz is a prude.”

I blushed furiously as we walked up behind them. I couldn’t believe Becks had heard that.

“Either that or she’s not into guys.”

“Maybe she just wasn’t into you,” Becks said.

“Who the hell—” Chaz’s big mouth snapped shut as he came face to face with Becks’s glare.

“You are such a sleazebag,” I spat.

“What was that you said about my girlfriend?”

The way Becks so casually called me his girlfriend distracted me.

“Apologize,” Becks said.

“What?” Chaz tried playing dumb. “Becks, you heard wrong, man. What I meant was—”

“Apologize,” Becks repeated, stepping closer, “or I knock your teeth down your throat. Your choice.”

“Sorry, Spitz,” he said, still looking at Becks.

“Sally,” Becks said lowly.

“Sally,” Chaz squeaked. “Sorry, Sally. God, I’m sorry.”

“Better.” Becks nodded. I started when one of his hands gripped mine. “Sal’s my girlfriend. You mess with her; you mess with me. Got that, Neely?”

There it was. That word again. As Chaz scurried away and the warning bell sounded, the hall cleared pretty fast. Everything that’d just happened hit me full force.

“How do you do that?” I asked after putting some space between us. It was impossible to think with him so close.

“Do what?”

“
That
.” Gesturing to his face, I laughed uneasily. “All that stuff about me being your girl, laying it on a little thick there, don’t you think?”

“Sal,” he said, “you are my girl.”

I waited for him to explain, but he didn’t. Instead he reached out to grab my hand again, and (of course) I jumped about a foot.

“So, what’s up with the jumpy thing?”

“What jumpy thing?” He cocked a brow, and I flushed. “I don’t know. Just not used to you touching me out of the blue, I guess.”

“We’ll have to work on that.”

“How?” I asked miserably. If I was this awkward when Becks held my hand, what chance did we have at making people think we were dating?

“I’ll have to think on it.” When I lifted my head, Becks’s eyes were lit up. “There are so many possibilities.”

I didn’t know what he meant, wasn’t sure I wanted to. His face was full of mischief, and, for some reason, his earlier comment replayed in my head:
I’m a guy. I love women.
Ugh.

#

Football was a religion down South, but in Chariot, North Carolina, soccer reigned supreme. Forget helmets and all that padding; our boys played sans cups, preferring the less restrictive, less protective jockstrap. Greater risk of injury, but they were unwilling to sacrifice range of motion. I’d always thought that a tad shortsighted, but when I’d asked Becks about it, he’d said, “Long as you know what you’re doing, there’s no need.” When I’d given him a skeptical look, he’d tacked on, in his infinite wisdom, “Cups are for pansies,” and that put an end to it.

Cups or not, Chariot High was known for its soccer. We’d taken the state title home the last two years running. College scouts attended nearly every game; the cheerleaders cheered; parents, teachers, students, everyone showed up to watch the Trojans decimate their opponents.

But they were really there to see Becks.

Only one Trojan consistently made headlines. Only one held the school’s official records for most goals in a season, most minutes played, most penalty kicks taken and scored. And only one had already been offered scholarships to the top ten collegiate soccer programs in the nation.

Everyone called Becks “The Second Coming,” obviously a reference to his British predecessor, David Beckham, one of the greatest names in soccer history. But Becks never bought into the hype. He knew he was brilliant on the field, was confident enough not to compare himself to anyone else, and outspoken enough to tell others not to—but they continued to do it anyway.

Becks was actually the reason I’d gotten the sports beat in the first place. He refused to talk to anyone, wouldn’t give quotes to any of the local papers or media, until he’d talked to me first. As much as I adored him for it, I knew I wasn’t exactly qualified for the position. After four years, I still carried my soccer-slang cheat sheet tucked in the front pocket of my jeans just in case.

“Am I seriously supposed to believe this?”

I sighed. Here we go again.

“Believe it or not, it’s true,” I said, studiously watching the players sprint across the field, making a real effort
not
to look at her.

“So, what?” Hooker said. “You’re telling me you just woke up this morning and realized you’re into Becks, a guy you’ve been friends with since second grade? A guy who coincidentally realized he’s into you at the exact same time? A guy you and I personally saw eat a worm at Tobey Steinman’s thirteenth birthday party?”

Not one of Becks’s finer moments.

“I know it’s hard to believe, but yes.”

Catching my eyes, she narrowed her own. “Or is this recent development not so recent? Have you been holding out on me, harboring a secret crush on him all these years, afraid to speak your true feelings for fear of rejection?”

I swallowed just as the crowd groaned. The other team had scored, but we were still up by one. Looking away from Hooker, I made a big show of straightening the plaid blanket thrown across our legs. The night breeze was chill, but it did nothing to cool the blood rushing to my face.

“What’s the big deal?” I muttered. “Becks and I are going out. He’s my boyfriend now. It’s not that complicated.”

Hooker stared at me a moment then sat back and crossed her arms.

“Say it as many times as you want, Spitz. I’m not buying it.”

Stubborn, I thought, and entirely too perceptive.

From the beginning, she saw right through me and The Plan. I didn’t know how, but she knew Becks and I weren’t really together. Hooker wasn’t like everyone else, swayed by a few lousy rumors. She was too smart for that—and she knew me too well. As much as I’d tried to lie and lie well, ever since that scene in the storeroom, she’d stubbornly refused to buy into the boyfriend ruse.

“Hey, Zane.”

I sighed. Here we go again.

“Uh, that’s not my name,” said a deep, heavily accented voice.

“Great,” Hooker said and as I opened my eyes I watched her reel Not-Zane in. It always started like this. “So, what is it then?”

“Julian.”

And he’d passed test number one. Hooker hated guys named Zane, Blaine or Buddy on principle. She shot him a mega-watt smile. “Do you have a girlfriend, Julian?”

He shook his head. Test two, I thought. If he didn’t have a girl, to Hooker, that meant he was fair game.

“Excellent, I’m Lillian, and this is my friend Sally,” she said, patting the seat between us, which he fell into with a dopey grin. “Sally was just telling me how hot she thinks you are.”

“Hooker,” I hissed, but she shrugged.

“Sally’s always been into foreign men.”

Julian didn’t glance my way. “And what do you like, Lillian?”

She waved him off. “Me? Who cares what I like? As I was saying, my girl Sally, here, is fluent in a second language. I bet you speak Spanish, don’t you, Julian?”

“If you asked—” He raised her hand to his lips, placed a kiss on her knuckles. “—I would speak Spanish to you every night,
mi amor
.”

Hooker glanced over his shoulder wide-eyed, and I shook my head. What did she expect? It always went down this way: 1) Hooker hooks boy. 2) She tries to push boy my way. 3) Boy, already completely smitten with Hooker, doesn’t even notice I exist.

“You don’t go to Chariot, do you?” Hooker laughed, pulling her hand away.

“I graduated from Southside last year with honors.”

Hooker hummed in approval. “I prefer my men dumb. The dumber the better I always say. But Sally’s the Salutatorian of our senior class.”

“Really?” For the first time, Julian’s gaze shifted to me.

“She has a thing for smart guys.”

I shot her a scowl. The girl really was impossible.

“I have a thing for smart girls as well,” Julian said, assessing me with his deep brown eyes. Yeah, okay, so the guy was hot. His accent made him even hotter, but Hooker was the one who loved foreign men not me. “
Muy caliente
.”

“Okay,” I squeaked, jumping to my feet as Julian pressed his thigh to mine. Sheesh. “I’m going to talk to Becks…my boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” Julian repeated, but by that point I was already half-way down the bleachers. I had to give it to her. Hooker was talented. I hadn’t said a word, and yet she’d convinced Julian he was interested. My bestie was a little scary at times.

What was the use, I wondered now, in having an F.B.F. if Hooker didn’t believe me? I looked back over my shoulder. Her mulish expression, the determined look in her eyes was unmistakable. Julian was still there, trying to chat her up, but she wasn’t paying attention. I could almost see her flipping through a catalogue of her rejects in her mind, comparing my likes and dislikes with theirs, almost like some jacked-up version of eHarmony. It was unacceptable. I’d have to find some way to convince her, but so far things weren’t looking good.

At half-time, I made my way to the sidelines, hoping Becks would have some ideas.

He was busy talking with Rick Smythe and Coach Crenshaw by the time I got there, so I stood off to the side to wait.

“Sally Spitz is that you? Damn, girl, you’ve grown up. I’m telling you if I was a few years younger...”

“You’d what?” I said, turning to find Clayton Kent, assistant soccer coach and Becks’s older brother, eyes twinkling.

“I’d tell you how torn up I was to hear my brother got to you first.” He feigned hurt, but the twinkle remained. “How could you, Sally? In a couple years when I’m an old man of twenty-eight, you’d still be a pretty young thing, and we’d be perfect for each other. I was counting on you to keep me spry.”