Hooked (Harlequin Teen) (19 page)

Chapter 36
Ryan

IN MY CHAIR NEXT
TO GWYNETH,
I pulled on the black tie at my neck. It had gotten
tighter the moment we stepped inside the Wild Horse Restaurant.

The part about school dances that I despised the most, other
than the lame dance itself, was going to fancy restaurants and pretending that
all of the other diners weren’t staring at us.

Unfortunately, the dinner was the part of the evening that
Gwyneth loved most, even though it’d be a miracle if she ate a speck of
anything. And I should have seriously paid more attention when she squealed
about the dinner reservations yesterday at lunch. I’d only half listened to her,
as I was prone to do. When our rented limousine had pulled up to the front door
of the Wild Horse Restaurant, I’d felt sick all over.

Across from Gwyneth and me at our round table, Seth and Zack
scanned the menus while Gwyneth, Sara and Kari discussed who was having the best
after-dance parties and whether we should stop at the gas station on the
reservation to buy tequila with Gwyneth’s fake ID.

“Indians never check your IDs,” Kari said. “All they care
about is selling beer.”

I sank lower in my chair as my eyes scanned the crowded
restaurant. I was torn between wanting to see Fred and not seeing her at all. It
was bad enough trying to pretend that I didn’t want to talk to her, to touch
her, every moment in school and at golf practice. The tournaments were even
worse. My play in the past three tournaments had sucked while Fred had played as
if she was on fire. I supposed she was over me with golf scores like that, if
she had ever been into me at all.

I also wondered about her and Sam. A lot. He followed her
everywhere—before school, between classes. Sometimes he even carried her
backpack. He’d become like her permanent shadow. If I had tried to approach her,
he’d have probably stuffed me into a locker or something.

Despite it all, I hoped that Fred’s waitressing career had
ended the night she’d dropped a slice of mesquite-honey mousse cake into my
lap.

“Something wrong?” Gwyneth said to me, taking a rare pause
from Sara and Kari. Since our quasi breakup a month ago, which had lasted all of
five minutes, she’d been annoyingly attentive, as if she expected me to break up
with her again at any moment.

I cleared my throat. “No,” I said.
Yes. Everything.

“Really?” Her eyes narrowed.

“Just wondering what to eat for dinner,” I lied. My menu
rested untouched in the middle of the table.

“Have you eaten here before?” Seth peered at me above the
menu.

“Uh-huh,” I mumbled. “Once.”

Seth placed the menu on the table and grinned wide enough
for my hand to tug again on my tie. “Really?” Seth said. “Me, too. Once. With my
parents.” His tone turned innocent, enough to get my attention. I knew that
tone. It was the opposite of innocent.

“Well, if we ever see our waitress, it’ll be a freakin’
miracle,” Gwyneth said behind her hand in a singsong voice but plenty loud
enough for everyone at the table to hear. “My dad promised we’d get the VIP, but
so far...” Her mouth pursed with impatience.

I ignored her. There was no pleasing Gwyneth. Instead, I
glanced across the table toward the back of the restaurant just as the rear
doors swung open. “Oh, no,” I mumbled.

“What’s wrong?” Gwyneth said.

A lady approached our table with a tight but friendly smile.
It was the same waitress from Mom’s birthday dinner.

“Good evening, kids,” she said. “Welcome to the Wild Horse.
Enjoying a dance tonight, I see. You all look so nice.” She smiled at everyone
at the table, not too brightly or loudly, but in that way that said she wouldn’t
be an intrusion.

My breathing stopped when Fred stepped around her.

With lowered eyes, she began filling our water glasses with
an enormous pitcher. She started with Gwyneth.

“Oh?” Gwyneth said before biting down on her lip to stifle a
giggle. Her eyes blinked wide as she tracked Fred’s movements. Then her hand
proceeded to cover her smile as Fred reached for her empty crystal glass.

If our waitress noticed, she said nothing, while Fred moved
silently around the table. The older lady proceeded to list the chef’s entrée
recommendations. No one really paid any attention to her, least of all me.

“The chef recommends the braised lobster tail with avocado
mousse or the Sea of Cortez seviche...” the lady continued as I watched Fred
finish pouring water into the glasses. Her hands shook, but only a few drops
spilled onto the white linen tablecloth, mostly because the water pitcher was as
bulky as a goldfish bowl. It was crammed full of ice and lemon slices.

Fred saved my water glass for last. Instead of having her
reach into the center of the table, I handed her my glass, and for an instant
our fingers brushed. Hers were cold from holding the pitcher.

“Hey, Fred,” I said quietly as the waitress continued to
rattle off the specials in the background.

“...grilled tenderloin with onion pearls, marinated duck
breast in a wine reduction sauce...”

Fred’s eyes flickered at the touch of my hand but only for a
moment.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes to see what you’ve decided,”
the waitress said. “Can I bring you some freshly baked olive bread?”

“Is this bottled water?” Seth asked Fred, pointing a silver
fork at his glass. The way he tapped it against the glass made my teeth
clench.

The waitress pulled her shoulders back. “It is filtered
water, sir. Would you like us to bring you something else? A bottle of
sparkling, perhaps?”

Seth shook his head and took another long sip. “No, this is
fine. Can I get some more?” He shook his half-empty glass at Fred, and her
cheeks darkened to a deeper shade.

I wanted to reach for the water pitcher and dump the rest in
Seth’s lap.

Carefully, Fred moved alongside Seth. Seth placed his glass
in the center of their table. Fred’s lips twisted as she reached across him for
the glass. Her hands shook, and my chest tightened. I was afraid she’d drop the
glass.

As soon as Seth’s glass was full, Fred turned and walked in
the opposite direction with her empty water pitcher. “And some bread!” Seth
called after her. “Please?” he said with that perfected wide-eyed innocent look.
He turned it on the waitress, too, but she nodded at Seth with a strained smile
beneath flared nostrils.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes to let you decide on dinner.”
And then she was gone.

Gwyneth giggled as soon as we were alone. “
Awk
ward!” Her
eyes bulged with delight.

“Jeez, I think just about every Pocahontas from school works
at this place,” Seth said, nodding toward the table across from us. “I
recognized two more over there.”

“What is your fucking problem?” I glared at Seth.

Seth’s grin faded. “No problem,” he said, blinking slowly
when he realized that I wasn’t laughing. “Just making an observation.”

“Did you have to act like an asshole?”

Gwyneth’s giggling ended abruptly as Seth leaned back in his
chair. “What’d I do? I was just asking for water. And bread. Isn’t that allowed
in a restaurant?”

“No, you weren’t. You were trying to embarrass her.”

“Who?”

My nostrils flared. “Fred.”

Seth’s eyes opened wider. “So what?”

My breathing quickened. “How’d you know she worked
here?”

Seth’s lips fluttered. “I may have overheard her talking to
one of the other Pocahontases. Besides, where else can they work around
here?”

“Shut your mouth, Seth.”

“Make me,” he said, clearly enjoying his moment.

“You can’t let it go, can you?” I said.

“Let what go?” Seth said, a maniacal grin blanching his
face. “The fact that I got balled up and she got my spot?” He leaned closer to
the table, his smile replaced with a sneer. “You’re right. It still pisses me
off. Would you be okay if it’d happened to you?”

I said nothing, and the rest of the table turned silent. I
couldn’t stop glaring at Seth. It was like looking across at a complete
stranger, not someone I’d known my whole life.

But then Seth tried to laugh it off. “Hey, I’m only messing
with you. Lighten up, okay?”

My throat turned dry. I suddenly wanted to be as far away
from the table as possible. I scooted out my chair. “I’ll be back.”

Gwyneth grabbed my forearm, stopping me. “Where are you
going?”

“To find the bathroom.” I shook off her hand.

Chapter 37
Fred

RYAN WAS
PACING
outside the front of the restaurant when I found him, his
hands jammed in the front of his pants. Truthfully I had seen him through the
front windows before I pushed open the wooden door.

He had offered Peter a twenty to find me. Peter didn’t take his
money but found me anyway. I didn’t know whether to be flattered or annoyed by
his persistence, but my brain knew better than to come looking for Ryan
Berenger.

“What do you want, Ryan?” I said before the door had a chance
to close. The air swirled, hazy and weird. I looked up at the sky and heard
thunder rumble in the distance. “I’ve only got a minute.” It was the first time
I’d spoken to him in over a month. We were still paired at tournaments, but I’d
kept my distance as best I could and focused on my strokes.

* * *

“I am so sorry, Fred,” Ryan blurted. “I didn’t plan
this. None of it.”

“
Now
you’re sorry?” I heard my
voice get louder. “Great timing, Ryan.”

His hand pulled through his hair like he wanted to tear it off.
His collar was completely open, his tie crooked. He looked a wreck. “I’m sorry
about what Seth said, too. He didn’t mean it.”

“Really?” My chin pulled back. “Seems to me he’s the only one
being honest. I’ll give him that.”

Ryan paused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

My teeth clamped shut.

Ryan exhaled heavily. “Look, Seth was just having fun. The
stupid kind. That’s just Seth.”

“And I see you continue to follow his lead like a puppy dog.
Congratulations. Gold star for you.” I turned for the door.

Ryan followed and pulled back on my elbow. “Fred, please. I
want to talk to you. I need to talk to you—”

“There’s nothing to say.”

“You never gave me a chance to explain. About Gwyneth, I
mean.”

“I saw everything perfectly.”

“No, you didn’t. I was breaking up with her.”

I laughed. “And yet you’re here with her.” I looked him up and
down, all debonairly disheveled in his suit. “Going to the dance?”

Ryan exhaled. “I promised to take her a while ago.”

I turned for the door.

He pulled back, harder. “Well, what about you and Sam? I
thought you didn’t have a boyfriend. And yet he follows you around
everywhere.”

“I’ve known Sam my whole life.”

“I could say the same thing about Gwyneth.”

“Well, you’ve picked a lovely girl.” I looked down at his hand
but said nothing, because what else could I say? It was true. Especially the
part about Ryan in a suit and Gwyneth in a beautiful dress, together, at a
dance. Sam and I and our pretend dates seemed secondary. And delusional.

He lightened his grip. “I know. It’s whacked. It looks all
wrong.”

I laughed again, but the chuckle wedged deep in my throat,
threatening to dredge up tears. I wasn’t handling this well at all.

“Fred, please—”

“I’ve got to get back to work. Apology accepted, okay? But do
me a favor and leave me alone.” My voice cracked, and I immediately hated myself
for it. Now was not the time to cry.

“Please don’t cry, Fred,” he said. “Please.”

I pressed my lips together when the lower one started to
quiver. I turned and covered my face in my hands.

“How did things get so messed up?” Ryan whispered.

Slowly, I uncovered my face.

Ryan wrapped his arms around me, and, for a second, I let
myself sink against him, breathing him in, his minty shampoo and cologne. But it
was over before it started. The door burst opened behind me. I instinctively
pulled away, expecting customers leaving the restaurant—or worse, Mom hunting me
down.

But then a flash of white and a whiff of the kitchen invaded my
senses. Beside me, Sam’s hands reached for the lapels of Ryan’s jacket. In less
than a heartbeat, Sam threw Ryan into the air and across the sidewalk like he
was a pillow. Ryan crashed so hard against the cement that I worried he’d broken
all the bones in his back. In his whole body. I didn’t expect him to get up.

“Sam!” I yelled.

Without a word, Sam charged after Ryan.

I ran after him, trying to reach Ryan, but before I could get
to him, Ryan was on his feet and lunging toward Sam’s stomach, the whites of his
eyes blazing with anger. He ran straight for Sam with widespread arms,
surprising him. Surprising me.

Sam fell back, only for a split second, until he charged right
back at him.

“Ryan! No!”

Neither one listened.

“You must be deaf, because I thought I heard her say, ‘Leave me
alone,’ White Boy,” Sam said, pulling his fist back for a punch.

I screamed as I leaped for Sam’s arm. If he connected his fist
to Ryan’s face, there would be broken bones. And blood. Lots and lots of
blood.

Crack!
The sky flashed.

Then someone behind us yelled, “Hey, what the hell’s going
on?!”

In the next instant, bussers, waitresses, even customers
flooded the sidewalk, wedging between Ryan, Sam and me even as the sky split
open with lightning and thunder.

Someone pulled me back—Kelly, I think—as two guys pulled Sam
off Ryan, even as they continued to throw punches at each other, some
connecting, others missing.

Then the rain started to fall in gray sheets, mixing with the
desert air. Customers ran for their cars.

Another lightning bolt.

The thunder competed with the thrashing and yelling that
spilled into the parking lot. After a while, I couldn’t tell who was fighting,
who was hitting whom. My hair clung to my forehead like wet noodles as I stared,
stunned, at a sea of moving bodies and loud voices.

I kept trying to get a look at Ryan, but people stepped in my
way as Kelly dragged me back toward the door. Forget yelling. No one was
listening to anybody. Anger and rage mixed with the rain, charging the air.
Complete chaos, in the time it took to blink.

But then the headlights of a car appeared from somewhere in the
parking lot, freezing the pandemonium like a camera flash. A limousine. It
stopped parallel to the crowd. The door opened and someone was thrown inside. I
prayed it was Ryan.

I didn’t know what to do. I tried to run forward, but Kelly
gripped my arm, tight.

“We better get inside. We’re getting soaked,” Kelly said. “Sam
will take care of it.”

Take care of it?

I turned to Kelly. “Sam’ll kill him.”

“Sam just tossed him in that limousine. He’ll be fine. Safest
place for him.”

“Fuckers,” said a voice behind us. Yolanda. “Told you they
can’t be trusted. None of those shit-faced motherfuckers can be trusted.”

“Enough, Yo!” Kelly said.

“It wasn’t like that,” I started to say, still straining to see
between the arms and legs. “He was trying to apologize.”
And I wouldn’t listen.

With her arm still wrapped around my waist, Kelly and I walked
through the door. “We gotta get back to work. Chef’s gonna be pissed.”

I didn’t care.

Back inside the restaurant, I had no idea what to expect. It
seemed that half the guests were still milling around outside, even as the sky
opened up with rain.

When I returned to the spot where Ryan, Seth and their
girlfriends had been seated, their table was abandoned.

“I don’t believe this,” Mom said behind me, her nostrils
flaring. She proceeded to fill an empty serving tray with their unused plates,
napkins and glasses, not bothering to soften clanging silverware. “Our biggest
table of the night. Gone.” She tossed the last bread plate into the pile with a
loud exhale. Then she turned sideways long enough to glare at me. “Happy
now?”

I didn’t answer.

* * *

Instead of numbness the following week at school, I felt
embarrassment. I didn’t need a cell phone or bionic ears to know that the
Saturday night fight was all anyone was talking about.

In the cafeteria, I’d overheard that cell-phone photos of Sam
and Ryan were being texted around everywhere. Someone had said something stupid
and cruel on Facebook about Sam. About me. Even about Kelly, the nicest person
I’d ever known. I did my best to tune it out but was only mildly successful.
Like before, I clung to golf, the only thing in my life I could control.

The following Thursday after lunch, the Lone Butte golf team
boarded a bus to the Glendale Golf Club. I sat alone in the first row, my usual
spot, facing the window.

Coach Lannon, mercifully, did not insist that Ryan sit beside
me.

Ryan hadn’t tried to talk to me since Saturday night, and that
was fine with me. If things had been weird before between us, they were
in-a-parallel-universe weirder now. At least he was leaving me alone, which, I
supposed, was better for everybody.

That didn’t mean that I wasn’t completely aware that Ryan was
sitting two rows behind me next to Zack Fisher with his iPod jammed in his ears.
The volume was so loud that I could hear electric guitar blaring from Ryan’s
earbuds two rows up. On Monday, he’d had a welt on his cheekbone from Sam’s
punch, but now it was just a pale purple bruise, like a birthmark. He kept some
of it hidden behind his sunglasses. Sam had a similar one on his left cheek, so
I supposed they were even.

Once everyone boarded, the driver pulled out of the parking lot
and Coach Lannon started to bark out pairings and tidbits about the Glendale
Golf Club course that he had scribbled on his clipboard.

“Don’t forget there’s water on sixteen.”

“Watch out for the tricky sand trap in front of the third
hole—it’s right in front of the green.”

“Stay strong.”

“Stay hydrated.”

“Keep your heads down.”

“Be the ball.”

I listened to all of his cautionary words and watched his lips
move, but the only thing that mattered was this: “Fred, you’ll be paired with
Ryan again. You two had the lowest scores last week.” In golfspeak, low was
good.

I nodded at the coach, but I didn’t turn to acknowledge Ryan.
Following that breaking news, you could’ve cut the silence inside the bus with a
chain saw.

Focus, Fred,
I reminded myself a
half hour later when the bus pulled up alongside the bag drop at the Glendale
Golf Club.

Focus. You’ve got to focus.

I was the first person off the bus right behind Coach Lannon. I
was also the first to grab my bag before walking to the first tee. Midway down
the cart path, two men and one woman began asking me all sorts of nosy
questions. They’d blocked the path with their bodies, so I had to stop.

“How does it feel to be the only girl on an all-boys’ team?”
asked the red-haired woman. She clutched a small notepad with a pen poised above
it.

“Where’d you learn how to play, Fred?” asked the younger man.
He was kind of good-looking in a shiny way, and I thought I recognized him from
one of the local TV stations. Weirdly, he looked smaller in real life. He thrust
a tape recorder the size of a pen underneath my chin.

“Planning any new strategies this week?” the older man asked. I
recognized him from the first tournament, Notebook Guy with the gray sideburns.
He’d called me “the girl with the golden arm” in the newspaper. It was one of
the nicest things anyone had ever said about my swing—not including Ryan, of
course.

My eyes jumped to each of them, unblinking, just as Coach
Lannon caught up behind me.

“Whoa, whoa,” he said, placing a heavy hand on my shoulder.
“Can you save the questions for after we play?”

The threesome nodded reluctantly.

The coach stayed with me till we reached the tee box. “Don’t
mind those sports reporters, Fred. I’ll keep an eye out for them. They’re only
doing their job.”

I nodded. “But why aren’t they asking anyone else
questions?”

“They will. For now you’re the novelty.”

“Because I’m a girl?”
Or an Indian
girl?

Coach Lannon smiled and pushed his sunglasses above his
forehead like he wanted to make sure I saw the meaning in his eyes. He leaned
closer. “Because you’re good.”

I swallowed, considering this.

“Put it out of your mind, Fred, and just play golf.” His voice
turned softer. “Have fun out there, okay?”

“Okay, Coach.” But I didn’t plan to have fun. I planned to be
the best. I planned to win.

The coach turned back down the path toward the bus and the
other players.

I stood alone at the edge of the first tee box and began to
fidget with my hands. But as soon as I gazed across the fairway, I completely
forgot all about the reporters, Ryan and everything else.

There were twice as many spectators on the fairway as last week
and most of them were staring at me, including Kelly, Yolanda, Sam and Peter.
Even Vernon Parker was with them. Being a freshman, he had to have ditched
school to be here. They all waved when I spotted them. Just seeing them turned
my throat raw with an unexpected lump.

Kelly had told me yesterday during lunch that they were
thinking of attending the tournament today but I’d thought they were only being
nice. That would be like them. Because why would a bunch of Rez kids want to
drive forty miles to watch a golf tournament, especially when golf was about as
popular on the Rez as ice hockey? “We’re planning to come if my dad can get my
truck working by then,” Kelly had told me. “We’re proud of you. Everybody’s
proud. Don’t forget that, Fred. My little sister even asked my dad for golf
clubs! Said she wants to play like you.”

There were a few other people from the Rez, including the most
recognizable one: George Trueblood.

George Trueblood was sort of a legend on the Rez but mostly in
his own mind. He didn’t claim to be Gila; he claimed to belong to all of the
Tribes. He called himself a Pipatsje. He hung out most days at the Gila
Community Center, didn’t work much, but he didn’t give anyone trouble either. He
believed that he was an Indian Chief, and no one would ever tell him he wasn’t.
The elders let him lead parades, sit in the inner circle during community
meetings, tell old legends and stories at the Rez school, and allowed him
honorary positions that I was guessing he probably didn’t otherwise deserve.
Everyone loved George Trueblood. He’d even stayed in our trailer a few times
when the desert nights grew too cold to sleep outdoors.