Hooked (Harlequin Teen) (4 page)

The girl’s eyes remained lowered as she used both hands to
deliver a dessert plate to each of us. Everything proceeded smoothly until she
delivered the last piece.

Mine.

Her eyes rose and flickered at me as she moved alongside my
right elbow, brushing against it.

I was still majorly numb from Zack’s party, so I barely
noticed—until the piece of birthday cake that I didn’t want, in a fancy
restaurant with my parents where I didn’t want to be, eating weird food that I
hated, fell off the edge of my white plate like a brown avalanche and plopped
straight into my lap.

“Oh, god!” the girl gasped. The plate dropped to the floor
and shattered. Her hands flew to her mouth.

I leaped out of my chair, but it was too late. “Shit!” I
said as the gooey mess rolled off me in a solid, heavy lump. In the confusion,
my wooden chair crashed backward like a gunshot, reverberating inside my
head.

A lady screamed behind me.

I glared down at the girl, angry and more than a little
embarrassed. “What is your problem?”

The girl’s black eyes widened. “I am so sorry.” She reached
for a linen napkin on the table and tried to blotch out the chocolate stain on
my pant leg but succeeded only in spreading it. And making me a million times
more uncomfortable as her hands reached dangerously close to my crotch.

My breathing quickened. I could hear it whizzing through my
teeth as I continued to glare at the girl.

No doubt every head in the restaurant had turned to watch
the entertainment as the room grew silent, except for harps and flutes, playing
through hidden speakers, that sounded just like the mind-numbing music played in
the girls’ yoga classes at school.

“Settle down, Ryan,” Mom said, her gaze sweeping about the
room. “It was an accident, for god’s sake.” She grabbed my arm as Dad watched
from across the table with tightly pressed lips, his disappointment as obvious
as the wet stain on my pants.

Not a huge surprise.

Riley, meanwhile, tried to stifle nervous laughter by biting
down on her linen napkin.

All in all, epic! Why hadn’t I stayed home? Pretended to
have the flu or something?

“Can we get some towels over here?” Dad called to the
waitress on the other side of the room, the one who seemed to be in charge of
our table. He waved his hand over his head. The woman darted over to us.

“Certainly, sir.” She began pointing to other bussers for
water, napkins and possibly even another mesquite-honey mousse cake. “My
apologies,” she added. “We’ll take care of it.”

I would have told her not to bother, but I was too
preoccupied with the wet stain on my pants and the girl who’d caused it. She
kept trying to blotch it with a napkin.

My breathing was still pretty heavy. “Just...just leave it
alone,” I stammered, sitting back down in the chair, which someone had picked up
for me. “You’ve done enough already,” I said as she took a step back, the
stained napkin still clutched in one hand, poised and ready.

“Fred?” the waitress called from behind the girl. “We need
you in the kitchen.
Now.
”

I looked around, blinking, waiting for a quarterback with a
wide neck to appear with an armful of heavy trays. Instead, I watched as the
girl darted for the kitchen, her chin buried in her neck. I blinked again, my
gaze finally clearing. The last thing I saw was her braid, swinging across her
back like a windshield wiper. It almost reached the teal-blue sash wrapped twice
around her waist.

Brighter than the sky, it was the only color I remembered
all day.

“I’m disappointed in your behavior, son,” Dad whispered
behind his hand.

I swallowed, pulling my eyes away from the blue sash. “It
wasn’t my fault.”

Mom’s nostrils flared. “I’m going to make another
appointment for you with Dr. Wagner.” But she directed it to Dad, like I wasn’t
even there. Done deal.

My head dropped back, and I sighed. “I don’t need to see Dr.
Wagner.” My temples began to pound louder. I’d vowed last time that I wasn’t
going back to our quack family therapist. It was a complete waste of time. All
he did was talk in circles.

“I’ll be the judge of that, Ryan,” Mom said. Mom thought
everything could be cured by doctor visits and enough medication.

“Are we done yet?” I snapped. My feet fidgeted like I was
readying to run a marathon.

“Yes, we are.” Dad’s lips pressed together again. “And thank
you for ruining your mother’s birthday. I hope you’re satisfied.”

I stared back at him, speechless. My life totally
sucked.

Chapter 3
Fred

“I TALKED TO
a falcon sitting on top of a paloverde tree this morning.”

“Where?” I asked while Dad tinkered underneath the van. I sat
on a towel in the dirt beside him, handing him tools. It was Sunday, but that
didn’t mean Dad got a day off. The van leaked again, bluish-black oil as gooey
as tree sap. That couldn’t be good.

“The one out by the road. The same one you and Trevor used to
climb when you were kids. Remember?” He paused to bang something against the
van’s metal frame. “Hand me the silver wrench, will you?”

“Yeah, I remember,” I said, handing him a tool that held more
rust than silver. I squinted against the morning sun toward the tree, which
stood not far from the road that ran alongside our trailer. Trevor had carved
our initials into one thick green branch, but the tree had grown so high that I
could barely see the letters anymore. “How’d you know it was a falcon? Maybe it
was just a crow,” I said as if that would make the sighting less
significant.

Dad chuckled. “I think I know a falcon when I see one, Fred.
Aren’t many out here, you know.”

I lowered my chin to my knees, considering this. A falcon could
mean something. A falcon could be another sign. My life was full of them lately.
It was one thing to see a falcon; it was quite another to understand its
meaning. “What’d it look like?” I asked, still a little doubtful. The Rez was
covered with birds—mourning doves, quail, crows as chubby as cats, even hawks
and the occasional horned owl. But falcons? I hadn’t spotted too many, at least
not around the trailer.

Dad yanked on the frame as he spoke, and it sounded like he was
talking through gritted teeth. “Pretty thing. White breast, notched beak,
gold-and-brown feathers that look like a checkerboard.” He stopped to suck back
a breath before giving the van another
whack.
“I
haven’t seen her in a while.”

“How’d you know it was a she?”

He chuckled again. “Thought I heard some of her chicks chirping
nearby.”

“Well, what’d she tell you? Did she happen to mention when I’m
going to get a new pair of golf shoes?” I said glumly. After last night’s
restaurant fiasco, I figured that I was permanently banned from any kitchen
within a hundred miles. I wouldn’t be asked back, not unless the chef got
desperate. And that meant an end to my source of cash. The Rez wasn’t exactly
brimming with teen job opportunities.

It was just that I was nervous about Monday’s practice, my very
first with the team, especially after what Trevor had said about needing to
watch my back. I’d never had that worry before. Usually it was the complete
opposite. Was life easier when nobody noticed you?

Like an idiot, I’d dropped things all night—silverware,
napkins, bread, rolls—and then finally the dessert right into the boy’s lap.
That had been the last straw, though it wasn’t like he didn’t deserve it. I’d
recognized Ryan Berenger from English class at school, although I’d bet my
parents’ trailer that he hadn’t recognized me, not that he would. Boys like Ryan
and girls like me moved in different circles—well, I was pretty sure he had a
circle; I simply moved.

I couldn’t understand why he’d sat and glared at everybody all
night, even his own family. He’d acted as though he would have preferred to jump
through one of the restaurant windows than enjoy a dinner with them. And his
parents seemed so lovely, so perfect. They’d looked like the perfect family, out
enjoying a perfect dinner on a perfectly good Saturday night. How nice would it
be to have your parents treat you to a fancy restaurant with a special birthday
cake and everything? Where’s the misery in that? Clearly Ryan Berenger was
deranged.

Dad slid out from underneath the van on a piece of dusty
cardboard. “No, the falcon didn’t say anything about shoes.” He sat up and
brushed his hands together as if he was trying to wipe away my sarcasm. His
hands were coated with dirt and grease that never seemed to wash away, no matter
how much he scrubbed. “The falcon told me about something better than a pair of
new golf shoes.”

I could manage only a half grin. “Better?” Dad always told me
old stories and Indian legends when he thought I needed a bit of cheering up.
After last night, he’d be right.

But I needed more than cheering up—I needed a decent pair of
leather golf shoes, with real cleats, that didn’t pinch my toes when I walked.
Was that asking the ancestors for too much?

“The falcon is a clear sign of new beginnings and adventure,
but you already know that, don’t you?”

I nodded, the smirk disappearing from my face.

“With a flutter from her wings on the tree’s tallest branch,
she asked me to remind you that yours is just getting started,” he said without
a trace of humor in his voice. “The falcon said, ‘Tell the child born to the
mother of Akimel O’odham and father of the Pee-Posh that her adventure has just
begun. She should not fear the journey.’” He stood, dusted off the front of his
overalls with a few pats and then walked to the driver’s door of the van.

I watched him, saying nothing, because what could I say? I
would never doubt my father or the wisdom of the animal spirits. Dad had taught
me all about them, from the mole to coyotes to bobcats, just like his father and
his grandfather before him. Animal spirits were as much a part of our lives as
eating and breathing. Only a fool wouldn’t listen. And a bigger fool would mock
them.

I stood and brushed the dirt off my shorts while Dad pulled
open the glove box in the van and rummaged inside. With his hand behind his
back, he walked to where I stood in front of the van. Then he held out a thin
package as long as an envelope wrapped in brown paper. “For you. From your mom
and me.”

“Mom?” My eyes widened.

“Well, yes. And no. She doesn’t know I bought it, of
course.”

My smile returned. At first all I could do was stare blankly at
the package, too startled to open it. It wasn’t every day I got a present,
especially when it wasn’t my birthday.

“Open it, Fred. Go on, now. It’s for you.”

Finally, I accepted the gift from Dad. I took my time tearing
off the wrapping paper and laid it on the hood. Openmouthed, I stared as a piece
of leather as luscious as butter fell into my hand. The leather was white with
pale pink accents around a mother-of-pearl button.

“It’s not a pair of golf shoes, not yet. But you needed a new
golf glove, too.” Dad stuffed his hands in the front pockets of his overalls so
that only his thumbs showed.

Speechless, I tried on my new glove. It slipped easily over my
hand. I snapped the button at the wrist and then stretched my fingers and
clenched my fist, testing the leather.

“Golf pro at the clubhouse said that one’s the best. Size
small, too, just what you needed. Now you’ll be able to grip your clubs a whole
lot better,” he added when I didn’t say anything. His eyes narrowed. “Do you
like it?”

I swallowed back a lump growing in the back of my throat. “Like
it? It’s perfect,” I whispered. Then I wrapped my arms around Dad, not saying
another word. One more syllable and I would have started blubbering, and crying
made Dad all fidgety, like he didn’t know what to say.

Dad patted my back when I didn’t release him right away. “Now,
now, Fred. It’s just a glove,” he said in my ear.

Just a glove.

I sniffed back a tear and then pulled away reluctantly, still
unable to speak.

“New beginnings, Fred. Greet them with your eyes wide open.
Don’t forget that. That’s what that old mother falcon told me this morning.”
Dad’s forefinger pointed to the cloudless sky, as if that golden-brown bird
circled somewhere above us, eavesdropping.

“I won’t,” I said finally, unable to look away from my new
glove. Suddenly a new pair of golf shoes seemed unimportant, at least for
today.

Tomorrow I could think differently.

* * *

The next morning, Dad dropped me and my golf bag off in
front of Lone Butte High School, along with Sam Tracy and Peter Begay, who’d
ridden in the backseat. Pete’s dad had overslept and couldn’t get them to school
in time, and they’d been thinking about ditching until we saw them hanging out
at the gas station by the freeway. Dad had insisted they hop in.

“Thanks for the ride, Mr. Oday,” Sam said, turning to me.

“Next time, call if you need one,” Dad said. “It’s no
trouble.”

Sam nodded. “Need help with your bag, Fred?”

“No. I can manage. Thanks anyway.”

Sam hitched his backpack higher on his shoulder, looking
doubtfully at my golf bag lying in the back of the van. “See you around.”

“Later,” I said as I walked around to the back door and
retrieved it.

Dad pulled away, leaving me alone at the curb. And I felt
alone. Really alone. Like only-person-in-the-universe alone. I realized, too
late, that maybe I’d been too quick to refuse Sam’s offer.

The air had grown so thick that I wondered if the sun had
swallowed all of the oxygen. My plaid bag made being inconspicuous impossible.
It might have been my anxious imagination, but I felt tracked by a thousand
pairs of beady eyes in the front of the school. They peered at me from
everywhere, even the windows.

Head lowered, I struggled to keep from hyperventilating as I
carved a path through the crowd toward the rear gymnasium door. The back door
was supposed to take me to the coaches’ offices, exactly as Coach Lannon had
instructed. But to get there, I had to trudge down a narrow sidewalk lined with
students all vying for spots in the courtyard where the popular kids hung out.
Up ahead, I saw Sam’s and Pete’s dark heads, but they were too far away for me
to catch up—not unless I started running with my golf bag thumping against my
back. Why not present me with the Biggest Dork Award and get it over with?

* * *

It felt like the first fifteen minutes of freshman year
all over again, only worse. Despite my best efforts, I felt my cheeks burn all
the way down to my neck.

“Plaid much?” someone murmured while another girl giggled
beside her. With wide eyes, they looked me up and down like I was sale
merchandise.

I didn’t stop to argue. What was the point? The bag was
hideous.

So instead I kept my head down, walked faster and focused on
the bottom of my shoes as they slapped against the pavement.

One, two, three...
I counted each
step as I absently twisted my hair into a roll to give my free hand something
useful to do, all the while ignoring more giggling and hushed voices. It seemed
forever before I reached the end of the courtyard and another narrow sidewalk
that took me to the rear gymnasium door.

The gray metal door had a sign that said No Admittance, but I
pulled on the handle anyway.

It didn’t budge.

I moaned. Then I tried again.

Locked.

I knocked hard till it made a hollow sound.

No answer.

My stomach sank. Maybe Trevor was right. Maybe this was a
mistake.

But I’d just die if I had to walk all the way to the front of
the school again, and what about my bag? It wouldn’t fit inside my locker, and
forget about calling Dad. He’d never leave work, not unless I was being rushed
to the hospital or something.

I sucked back another breath, feeling stupid for banging on a
locked door, but I knocked again anyway. This time with a balled fist.

Miraculously, the door opened and my breathing resumed.

“Fred.” Coach Lannon smiled before opening the heavy door as
wide as it would go. “So glad you didn’t change your mind.”

I nodded and tried to match his enthusiasm, but smiling only
made my cheeks feel like they would crack. I slipped through the door and waited
for Coach Lannon to lead the way down the bright hallway. I’d never seen this
part of the school before. It was one colorless office door after another
separated by gray-speckled linoleum tiles and pale yellow walls. The hallway
smelled like the girls’ locker room, musty and thick, almost as heavy as the air
outside.

Coach Lannon stopped at the second door on the right side of a
wide hallway. “You can leave your bag in my office during the week,” he said.
“Some of the other boys have already been by to drop off theirs.”

My back stiffened.

Although I was anxious to get started, I wasn’t ready to meet
my new teammates. I’d already lost sleep imagining what they’d think about me,
the lone girl on the team. Would it be too weird?

“And don’t worry. Your bag is always safe in here.”

An anxious chuckle rumbled inside my chest as the coach took my
bag.
Someone steal my plaid bag and rusty clubs? Not
likely.

I quickly scanned his office. Besides his desk and the other
golf bags stacked against the wall, there was barely any room to stand. His desk
was littered with folders, but I did notice a framed photo—a woman and three
teenage girls, all smiling, probably around my age. I smiled inside. At least
Coach had been honest about having daughters.

“Practice starts at 3:30,” he said as he led me outside his
office.

Like I could forget.

I nodded, tried to smile again and then lowered my head before
walking down the long, musty hallway that I hoped would lead me to the
classrooms and oxygen.

Coach Lannon called after me. “One more thing...”

I stopped and turned, my shoes squeaking on the linoleum. I’d
almost made it to the end of the hallway.

A grin spread across his face. “Welcome to the team,” he said,
just as two boys, one tall and one short, with dark golf bags threaded over
their shoulders, barreled down the hallway. Their bags brushed my shoulders as
they passed. They exchanged confused looks.

Instinctively, my gaze returned to the dotted specs on the
linoleum floor.

It was going to be a very long day.