Hooked (Harlequin Teen) (18 page)

Chapter 34
Ryan

AFTER LUNCH, I
DECIDED TO DITCH
school with Gwyneth and Seth. It hadn’t taken much
convincing from Seth. Ditching would feel good—anything to numb the hollowness
that had crept back inside me. And erase the image of Sam’s hand on Fred’s
shoulder. It had been there before. That much was clear. His eyes had told me
everything I needed to know.

“I wanna get baked,” I mumbled to Seth as I drove to my
house to party. Really, I wanted to forget about Fred. And I totally wanted to
forget about Sam with Fred. Good thing that Mom and Dad wouldn’t be home till
late.

“Me, too,” Gwyneth chimed in from the backseat as she
checked her cell phone for texts. Like Seth, she had returned to her old self.
It was like the morning had never happened. Everything was forgiven; everything
was forgotten. Like a blank slate. A do-over for everybody.

“I’m down,” Seth said as he turned up the volume on the car
stereo. The bass hammered like my temples, numbing my forehead. Seth slapped the
back of the seat, startling me. “See?” He grinned at me from the passenger seat.
“Now, this feels right, doesn’t it?
This
feels good. Hanging, just us. What did I
tell you?”

My shoulders pulled back, but I said nothing, pretending
instead to concentrate on something in the rearview mirror. All I saw was my
expression. It scowled back at me.

“Now, aren’t you glad you listened to me?” It came out as a
challenge. But I knew it had way more to do with Fred Oday than ditching
school.

So I nodded, once, only so that he’d change the subject.
Fred was the last person I wanted to talk about, especially with Seth.

“Good,” Seth said. “Then let the chillin’ begin.” He howled
out the window like a wolf and then cranked the music louder.

For the next four hours, we downed two six-packs from Dad’s
basement refrigerator and went through a pack of cigarettes hidden inside
Gwyneth’s backpack. Then Gwyneth suggested that we do a shot every time the DJ
said the word
awesome
on the radio. In less than an hour, we plowed through half a
bottle of Dad’s best tequila. Dad would be pissed, but I didn’t even start to
care until half the bottle was empty.

And then I woke up in a daze on a lounge chair next to the
pool with Gwyneth lying next to me, her arm draped like a weight across my
chest. My throat felt like it had been rubbed with sandpaper.

Someone kicked my foot.

I stirred a little.

“Ryan!” someone hissed. She kicked my foot again. “
Ryan!
Wake
up.”

I licked my lips and tasted chunks of salt from the last
tequila shot. My eyes opened, but the backyard was blurry. So was Riley.

Riley?

Riley stood over me, her skinny arms making a perfect
triangle on the side of each hip. She was all pinks and whites, dressed in her
funky dance-practice attire—leggings and a sleeveless T-shirt that stretched
down to her knees. The colors burned holes in my eyes. “Go away,” I mumbled
before shutting my eyes.

“Can’t,” Riley said. “The Phoenix police are standing
outside our front door.”

My eyes popped open. I bolted upright but stopped short of
standing when a sharp pain slashed across my forehead. It was like being clocked
with a golf club. For a moment, everything went fuzzy and my body spun. I needed
to spew.

Fortunately, Riley grabbed my shoulder and steadied me.
“What should I tell them?”

“Why are they here?” I swallowed back the building bile and
tasted too many cigarettes.

“Someone complained about the music.”

I titled my head. The backyard was completely silent except
for the hum from the pool fountain. “What music?”

Riley sighed, shaking her head. “The music that I just
turned down. Jeez, Ryan. I could hear it down the street when I rode up on my
bike. What were you thinking?”

I wasn’t.

Below me, Gwyneth giggled groggily, and I looked all around
the yard for Seth. He was missing. “Perfect,” I said wryly. “Seth is always gone
when I need his help.”

“You’re just figuring that out now?” Riley’s eyes
widened.

“Shut up, Riley.”

“Well, they’re gonna want to talk to Mom. Or Dad.” I could
tell by the way Riley’s eyes stretched across her face that she was scared. And
disappointed. Her gaze darted toward the glass table next to the back door. It
was littered with silver cans and cigarette butts. I wished that she hadn’t seen
that.

“Don’t worry,” I said.

“Don’t
worry?
” Riley laughed, the breathy, anxious,
on-the-verge-of-hysteria kind. “What is wrong with you? Don’t you know how mad
Dad will be? And Mom will blow.”

I rolled my eyes at her. Unfortunately, I’d had plenty of
experience in the Pissing Off Mom and Dad Department. “Are they ever anything
else?” I snorted.

“You don’t make it any easier.”

The front doorbell rang. Twice.

Riley started to twist into a pretzel. “What d’we do?” A
veil of old cigarette smoke hung in the air. It would take more than air
freshener to mask it.

Reluctantly, I stood, wobbling till Riley grabbed my arm.
“Guess I’ll go talk to them and give them Dad’s cell number.” My feet padded
against the warm concrete. Riley trailed after me.

“Dad is
so
going to kill you.”

That made me chuckle. “It’ll just get added to the list.”
But then I swallowed, hard, as I braced for the worst.

At least everything was back to normal again. I only wished
that
normal
felt better than it did.

Chapter 35
Fred

THE NEXT MONTH
passed as cruelly as the Monday morning when all of the rules in my life
were supposed to have changed.

Days and then weeks began and ended in alternating waves of
slow motion and fast-forward, waiting for me to either catch up or slow down
when I could barely manage either.

I slept and ate very little. One night Kelly and Yolanda showed
up at our trailer in Kelly’s pickup truck and pretty much forced me to go mall
shopping with them, but even window-shopping didn’t cheer me up. Then one
Friday—or maybe it was a Wednesday—Sam worked up the nerve to ask me out on a
date, but I had to say no, much to Trevor’s disappointment, even after he
offered the use of his motorcycle. Sam didn’t press, but I was pretty sure he
knew why I had turned into a total zombie. Unfortunately, the more my friends
tried to draw me close, the harder I pushed away.

Concentrating in class became almost impossible, but I still
turned in passable assignments and pretended to take notes. If the teachers were
concerned, they didn’t say. Last Thursday before school, when I dropped off my
bag, I couldn’t bottle everything inside me anymore. I just cried in Coach
Lannon’s office, and he didn’t say a single word. He didn’t ask any questions.
He just let me cry into my hands while passing me tissues. But I think he knew.
Instead of prying, he hung close to me at practice, waiting, I guess, for me to
say something, share anything. I wouldn’t—couldn’t—say anything. I didn’t know
how to put into words the pain that had torn my heart wide open, leaving it
exposed. It was easier to say nothing.

Golf was my only constant, and we’d won our last three
tournaments. It was the only thing that I could truly control, and for that
reason I clung to it while everything else spun around me dull and lifeless,
just like it was the day before I’d kissed Ryan Berenger and thought that I was
special. At least he went out of his way to avoid me at golf practice. He didn’t
even pretend
not
to look at me anymore. I had become
as invisible as the wind again.

The other players still talked in hushed voices whenever they
were around me at practice or during tournaments, and once or twice I’d clearly
heard someone mutter “Pocahontas,” but I was too numb to put up a fight, even if
the nickname burned like fire inside me.

I hadn’t uttered one complete word to Ryan since the Monday
morning we broke up—if you could call it that. We barely talked at tournaments,
even when you’d think teammates would at least exchange niceties, like “good
shot” or “you’re up next.” Ryan and I did not. And that was just as well.

A single word from him would have summoned a new round of
tears, especially when I had to remind myself that I had never misjudged a
person more in my entire life. Maybe Yolanda was right about white people—at
least white boys named Ryan Berenger.

“You’re awfully quiet again today,” Dad said when he picked me
up from school after practice. “Barely said a word to me on the drive to school,
too.”

That was true. I hadn’t felt like talking to anyone, even Dad.
“Just tired,” I said, my excuse for everything lately, as I lifted my golf bag
into the back of the van. I’d slept in fitful spurts all week. At least I’d have
the weekend.

“You sure that’s all it is?” His eyes, red around the edges,
narrowed to tiny slits. “Something happen at school? At practice? You haven’t
been yourself, Fred. Tell me what’s going on.”

I closed the rear door. It slammed with a loud
clang.
Then I paused, my hand still clutching the door
handle, trying to conjure up some nerve. With a deep breath, I walked around the
van to the passenger door. “Yeah,” I said with forced brightness. I climbed into
the seat. “I mean, no. School is fine. Practice is fine.” Golf practice was
always fine.

“Well, I want you to take a break from golf this weekend,” he
said as the van chugged away from the curb. “You’re not coming with me to work
tomorrow and that’s final. I want you to do something else.” He turned to me,
and his eyes grew uncharacteristically wide. “Anything else. You’re practicing
too much. Give golf a rest, Fred.”

“And do what?” I chuckled and then wished I hadn’t. Other than
homework and golf, I wasn’t exactly swimming in extracurricular options.

“Well, your mother said this morning they were short-staffed at
the restaurant. Maybe you should take a shift with her. How’s that sound? That
would keep you away from your clubs for at least a day.”

“Really?” I turned, feeling lighter. It’d been a while since
the chef offered me a shift. He must be desperate.

Dad returned the smile. “Really. And a couple days away from
the golf course will do you good.”

“Maybe.” I sighed, but then my shoulders lightened all over
again when I remembered something important. Something I’d forgotten.

“See?” Dad said, studying my expression between checking his
rearview and the traffic entering the freeway. “You’re smiling. It’s helping
already.”

I tilted my head toward him and smirked. Then I turned and
watched the traffic from my opened window. I blinked into the wind, the warm air
drying my eyes and brushing against my face. The wind blew my hair so that it
swirled around my head. I closed my eyes and imagined the most perfect pair of
white leather golf shoes with soft pink piping.

Then I smiled inside.

How had I forgotten?

A couple more shifts at the Wild Horse Restaurant and I’d
finally have enough money to buy them.

At least that was something.

* * *

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m not joking, Fred,” Mom said as she tied a teal-blue sash
around her waist in the Wild Horse kitchen on Saturday night. I wore the same
uniform and had tied my hair in a single braid that stretched down to the small
of my back. Mom fiddled with a few loose strands around her face and then tucked
them into the bun pinned next to her neck. Around us, a dozen other waitresses
and bussers raced through the kitchen carrying water pitchers and balancing
round trays piled high with the evening’s salads and entrées. Sam and Peter
nodded at me as they wheeled a full tub of dirty dishes toward the sinks.
Tonight just about every Lone Butte Rez teenager had snagged a shift at the
restaurant.

“But why didn’t you tell me?” I asked her.

“I didn’t know till a few minutes ago,” Mom said as she wedged
a black leather order pad into the waistband of her pants. “Apparently they’re
expecting a large crowd tonight. You think they consult with me around here?”
Her widened eyes dared a contradiction.

I swallowed, suddenly dizzy from the steamy kitchen heat and
melting-butter aromas swirling around us. My temples pounded with fear. “But I
can’t do it.”

Mom sighed like I was crazy. “Don’t do this to me, Fred. You
wanted a shift. I got you a shift. And you pick now to have a meltdown? On the
busiest night of the week? And I don’t have to remind you that if you blow it
tonight, you can probably kiss a full-time job after graduation goodbye.”

If only.

“This is your last chance, Fred.”

My breathing quickened and my nostrils flared as my mind—my
whole body—struggled for control. Instead, my eyes darted to the swinging door
when it burst open from a busboy carrying a tray stacked with dirty dishes. The
door swung wide enough for me to catch a glimpse of the table nearest the
window.

“But they’re kids from my school, Mom. It’ll be too
humiliating.”

Mom snorted. “Yeah, welcome to my world. It’s humiliating for
me every time I come to work. Trust me, you get used to it.”

My lower lip began to quiver before I could bite down on it.
“But, Mom...” I moaned softly. I hated sounding like a child, but never in a
million years had I expected to be waiting on a table full of kids from Lone
Butte High School.

In my haze this past month, I must have missed the usual
posters announcing a dance this weekend. Was it Homecoming? Girls’ Choice? I
barely noticed. Or cared. I never expected to go to dances and was too focused
on avoiding Ryan Berenger and his creeptastic friends.

Of all the fancy restaurants in Phoenix, why did they have to
come to the Wild Horse?

Mom yanked on my elbow hard enough to make me blink.

“Look, one of the kids’ parents is friends with the chef.
That’s how they got a reservation. That’s all I know. Now, you just stay behind
me and do as I say. You won’t even have to talk to them. I’ll do all the
talking.” Her tone softened a fraction. “Now, we’ve got to go to work. They’re
in our section tonight. Can you at least manage that?”

I nodded stiffly.

“Good.” Mom released my arm. She turned to a shelf just inside
the kitchen door and picked up two water pitchers, handing one of them to me.
“Try not to drop anything, Fred. Concentrate.” Her brow wrinkled with new doubt.
“Please?”

I took the pitcher with both hands. It was ice-cold and felt as
heavy as the rest of my body. With my head lowered, I followed behind Mom and
wished that I could die.