Hard to Get (10 page)

Kelly widened her eyes. “I know, I know! That's why I came back to tell you.”

Becca rushed off across the grass, already rummaging in her bag for her keys. The three of us sat silently, staring at the brilliant green of the playing field in front of us. Faint shouts echoed from the rugby players. Bruce was sitting very close to me. The edge of his sweaty jersey brushed my arm. His stertorous breathing was loud in my ear. I glanced up at him. There was the beginning of a zit on the side of his nose. He smiled at me again and edged a little closer.

Kelly slid carefully off the end of the bleacher. “Hey, I'm going to go back and get a head start on my American history reading—you know how I like to work ahead.” Her voice was a shade too loud.

I rose to my feet. “Okay, I'll come with you. The first bell's about to ring anyway.”

“Yeah, I'd better get going too.” Bruce also stood up.

Kelly sat down abruptly. “On second thought, maybe I'll just stay here and do the reading. You guys go ahead and walk back together.”

Faintly, from the school building, the
bell chimed. I grabbed Kelly's hand and pulled her up. “Come on. We're going to be late.”

As Kelly and I hurried across the grass together, leaving Bruce trudging well behind us, I hissed, “You're so obvious.”

She gazed at me innocently. “What do you mean?”

I rolled my eyes and pushed the school doors open, letting us into the stream of students filling the halls. “I know you're just shoving guys at me to get me to break the GNBP. But seriously, you're going to have to do better than Bruce the Sweaty. I'm really not into all that body hair. Think more like that guy Craig from your party.”

“Oh.” Kelly seemed taken aback. “Okay, thanks for the tip.”

“Sure.”

“Oh, girls!” We looked up to see Mrs. Masterson in front of us in the hall, her curly red-brown hair disheveled as usual, waving a handful of papers. “Kelly and Val. Just who I was looking for! Come in here for a minute.” She gestured to an empty classroom on our right.

We stepped into the relative silence of the room and Mrs. Masterson spread the papers
out on a desk in front of us. “I'm tracking down each of the students who still haven't turned in their junior community-service projects. I don't have papers from either of you yet. Now, are you expecting to work on the group food-bank project or will you be taking the individual option?” She poised her pen over the forms expectantly.

“You can put me down for the group option,” Kelly told her.

“Val?”

“Um …” The thought of carting around boxes of canned goods while fending off the advances of Kevin and Company at the same time was less than appealing. “I'm going to do an individual project, I think.”

She made a little tickmark on her list. “That's fine, but the forms are due tomorrow, you might remember.”

I swallowed. That was sooner than I had thought. “Okay, no problem,” I said with a blitheness I was far from feeling. “I'll have the form to you by tomorrow.”

“Excellent.” She gathered up her papers and swept from the room, just as the students began to trickle into the classroom.

“Val, how are you going to come up with a project by tomorrow?” Kelly asked as we
parted by the science corridor.

“Kel. Remember who you're talking to.
Of course
I'll come up with something.” I waved at her as I headed into anatomy, trying to feel as confident as I sounded.

Becca grabbed me as I was getting my homework stuff out of my locker after last period and hustled me to the car.

“I still need my anatomy text!” I protested.

“Shut up!” she ordered. “Just get in the car. I'm getting you out of here.”

“What is this, a bank heist? You're acting like James Bond,” I told her, sliding onto the buttery leather of the BMW's front seat. “Where are we going, anyway?”

She looked over her shoulder and threw the car in reverse. “Somewhere far, far away.” She signaled and turned onto Glengarry.

“Like Cabo?” I asked hopefully. “Because I could really use a vacation right about now.”

“Not Cabo, but almost as good. You need
to get away from that school and … everything.” She made an indeterminate gesture with one hand. “That guy Bruce was practically sitting in your lap today at lunch! I can't believe Kelly is trying to sabotage you like that!”

“Yeah, well, it's all in the name of competition. Don't worry, though. I'm not cracking.” I opened the glove compartment and extracted Becca's ever-present bag of Tootsie Roll Pops. Sticking a grape one in my mouth, I sank down in the seat and watched the neighborhoods flash by. Already the plush subdivisions with names like Polo Pointe had given way to tall brick houses crowded tightly together. Collapsing chain-link fences lined tiny downtrodden yards and rusty sedans slouched at the curb.

“This is a unique choice of after-school hangout, Bec,” I said around my Tootsie Pop. “Are you interested in getting your tongue pierced, perhaps?”

Becca just smiled and maneuvered the Beemer past a double-parked Penske truck. A young couple with dreads was manhandling a futon down the ramp. “No, we're not getting pierced. But we
are
going to Old Court.”

I inhaled a shred of grape lollipop and launched into a prolonged coughing fit. “I'm sorry,” I said when I had recovered. “It's just that I thought you said we were going down to Old Court.” Old Court was the hipster section of town near the university, where all the arty and indie-rock kids hung out. We'd never actually been there, but it was supposed to be fairly cool if you were into vinyl and faux-hawks. Which we weren't.

“I told you, you need to get away,” Becca said. “I heard there's this coffeehouse that's supposed to be really cool. And I guarantee there won't be anyone we know there either.” She smiled with satisfaction and raked a hand through her silky hair.

“You do know that it's
not
Lilly Pulitzer Day down there, right?” I asked, indicating Becca's pink Lacoste shirt and green-striped cloth belt.

“Ha-ha,” she said, unfazed. “Look for a meter, will you?”

“Okay. There's one by the S and M shop.” I pointed at a storefront displaying a mannequin dressed in a hot-pink leather corset, black fishnets, and a bullwhip. Her head had been removed and was tucked underneath her arm like a football.

Becca glanced over. I saw her take a deep breath. “This is going to be awesome, don't worry,” she said.

“Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?” I got out of the car.

“Look, that's it.” Becca pointed to a three-story brick house across the street with a large plate-glass window in front. sternwell's was carved into the ornate wooden sign creaking over the door.

We crossed the street. There was some kind of painting project going on against one wall of the building—a section of the brick was painted white and a canvas tarp was littered with open paint cans and long brushes. Steam fogged the front window, the lower half of which was plastered with hand-drawn flyers for upcoming concerts.
The Dopamines, Bikehaus, 9 p.m.,
read one.

When we pushed open the door, the rich, smoky aroma of roasted coffee beans rolled out at us, mixed with memories of ancient cigarettes and the damp sheep smell of wool sweaters. Mismatched tables and chairs were crammed in everywhere, and the dark wood floor was scarred from years of use. Potted ferns crowded the windows. Framed pastel sketches hung haphazardly
on the walls. I peered at one near me, which depicted a very fat man lounging on a sofa, wearing nothing but an orange fedora. I looked away fast.

At the table nearest us, a woman with a long braided ponytail was hunched over a stack of papers, marking them furiously with a pen. Two gray-bearded men were playing chess by the window, and clustered around a long table near the back was a group of hipster types wearing muttonchops and old gas-station-attendant jackets. They were arguing over a bunch of black-and-white posters spread out on the table in front of them.

Becca and I huddled just inside the door. Conversation hadn't exactly come to a screeching halt upon our entrance, but the paper-marking woman raised her head and gave us a long appraising stare. I offered a weak little smile. She gazed at me blankly and then returned to her papers.

“This was a brilliant idea,” I whispered to Becca. She shoved me in the small of the back.

“Let's get something,” she whispered back.

A high wooden counter stretched across
one end of the room, dominated by a huge ornate brass espresso machine. Thick, chipped mugs and saucers were stacked in tipsy towers nearby and piled high in a sink behind the counter. A brief menu was scrawled on a blackboard propped on the floor.

I trailed in her wake as she strode purposefully toward the battered counter.

“What can I get you guys?” the barista asked.

I almost fell over onto the really dirty floor. It was the guy from the party, Adam. Only now he was wearing a black apron tied around his waist and—I squinted—a white tunic embroidered with frogs down the front. And skinny jeans. They were really tight.

“Hey, Val!” Adam said, smiling. “Great to see you again. I didn't know you guys came here.” His icy blue-gray eyes crinkled up at the corners.

“Hi, Adam. This is our first time here.” I cast a sidelong glance at Becca. She was standing very still, staring at Adam, her eyes narrowed. I saw her eyes take in the frog tunic and then the skinny jeans. I nudged her in the ribs.

“Bec? Remember Adam from the party?” I prompted her.

She seemed to snap out of whatever trance Adam's unfortunate fashion sense had put her in. “Oh! Yeah, I remember. Hi. I didn't know you worked here.” She gave him a surprisingly friendly smile, considering how rude she'd been to him in Kelly's kitchen. “Can I get a cappuccino?”

“Sure thing.” Adam turned several handles and the giant espresso machine started thumping and hissing like an ancient radiator. After a minute, he pushed a cup mounded with foam toward Becca. “Here you go.”

“Thanks,” she said. “That looks so good.”

“Can I get a latte?” I asked.

“Sure.” He turned back to the insane espresso machine. A whacking sound emanated from the interior and steam began issuing from several crevices.

“Does he always dress like that?” Becca hissed as Adam busied himself with milk and little shot glasses of espresso.

“How should I know?” I whispered back. “This is only the second time I've ever met him. Anyway, he's nice—kind of dorky, but really nice. So shut up.”

“One café latte.” Adam pushed a cup the
size of a soup bowl across the counter.

“Thanks.” I tried to extract a few bills but my wallet slipped from my sweaty hands. I watched in dismay as about twenty dollars in change clattered to the floor and rolled into various dark corners.

“Oh, great!” I bent to gather the coins, taking down a straw dispenser on the counter with me. A gazillion straws joined my change on the floor. “Oh, crap!” I gazed at the mess in dismay. Becca and I crouched down on the floor, trying to corral the straws.

Adam leaned over the counter. “Guys, don't worry about it,” he said. “I'll get the broom out.”

“Hey there, can I help you?” a melodious voice asked.

I looked up to see a tall college-age girl standing over us. Her long brown hair was pulled into a loose braid over one shoulder. She wore a simple blue cotton shirtdress and leather Naots.

Awkwardly, I rose to my feet. “I'm sorry,” I said. “We can pay for them.” I reached into my bag.

The girl laughed. “Don't worry about it. There's always too much stuff stacked on
that counter anyway. I'm Sarah, by the way, the manager.” She grinned mischievously. “We'll get Adam to clean up. Oh, servant boy!” she called behind her.

Adam heaved an exaggerated sigh and extracted a grimy broom and dustpan from a little closet in the corner. “Jeez, you just never get tired of cracking the whip, do you?” he teased. He rolled his eyes in our direction. “Like
she's
ever busy. All she does is sit back in that office and shuffle papers.” He swiped a clump of straws into the dustpan.

Sarah snorted. “What I'm actually doing is trying to keep this place from bleeding to death.” She ducked behind the counter and drew a hissing jet of water into a mug. She dropped in a tea bag, pulled out a chair at a nearby table, and sank into it as if her feet hurt. “Phewww,” she exhaled. “Yeah, if I didn't have Adam to basically run everything, I'd be even more panicked.” She smiled at Adam, who was leaning back against the counter, broom in hand.

“I know, I know, you can't live without me,” he responded. They both laughed as if this was a running joke between them.

I looked from one to the other. Were
they together? There was a definite flirty vibe going on, but she had to be at least twenty-two.
Anyway, why are you even thinking about that, Val?
I asked myself sternly.
Who cares if he's hooking up with his boss?