On the Loose (11 page)

“I think she’s nice.”

I pat Hannah on the back. “You think everyone is nice.”

“That’s not true!”

Frances pulls a breakfast bar out of her backpack. “Hannah, last week you said you felt sorry for the Al-Qaeda.”

“Well, I just think they need some love and understanding.” She pinches off a bite of Frances’s breakfast. “And maybe some fiber in their diet.”

I shut my own locker, and that’s when I see Nash. “Frances! Where are you supposed to be?”

Her brows lower in thought. “Biology class?”

“No! Strategic hall placement! Remember?” Ugh! All my efforts are being wasted!

Frances shoves the rest of the breakfast bar in her mouth, her eyes wide with fear. Or too much granola.

“You missed your chance. Here he comes. You were supposed to be near his locker this morning.”

Frances squares her shoulders. “Not too late.” She continues to chew. “Ah can do dis.”

Oh, no. Here we go. “You have a giant granola bar in your mouth, for Pete’s sake. Stop while you can and don’t do this. This is not in our plan.”

“Ha, Nosh.”
Smack, smack.

Part of me wants to turn away so I don’t have to look at this.

“Hey, Frances.” Nash takes off his hat and bows like he’s a knight in the queen’s service. “Ladies.” He rises with a wicked grin.

“We saw you at church last night. Great job.” Maybe if I dominate conversation, Frances won’t be able to get a word in.

“Tota-wee awthome.”

Mini chocolate chips shoot out my friend’s mouth.

Hannah wipes her cheek. “Ew.”

Nash frowns. “Thanks.”

“Wadda wook on our scieths far projeck?”

My eyes implore Frances to give it up.
Abort mission! Abort mission!

“Huh?” Nash shakes his head.

I move in front of my friend, who now has oats hanging from her upper lip. “She said we’ll see you in biology!” A Chelsea-like giggle bubbles out of my mouth.
Tee. Hee.
Yes, so, so funny. We all smile like cheerleaders until Nash is gone.

“Wow. I didn’t know you liked . . .” Hannah twists her hair with a ringed finger. “Granola bars.”

I grab Frances and lead her to biology class. “What happened to sticking with the plan?”

“I’m giving up, Katie. Seriously. It’s over.”

“What’s over?” Someone’s breath tickles my neck.

I settle my backpack on the lab table and turn around.

Charlie Benson.

What’s over? Your girlfriend’s lipstick—all over your face.

Okay, it’s really not.

As if I care anyway.

“What’s over?” He sits on his own lab stool and crosses his arms, patiently waiting for our story like he’s Dr. Phil.

“Your ego, Charlie. It’s overrated.”

“I think you mean overinflated.”

He has the nerve to smirk.

“Whatever.” I turn my back to him.

“What’s not working is your scheme to hook up Frances and Nash.”

Frances gasps.

“Yeah, I saw you in the hall.” Charlie grimaces. “Train wreck.”

“Frances is doing just fine, thanks.” If I were Pinocchio, my nose would be in the next county.

Charlie lifts his muscled frame from his lab stool. The leather of his letterman’s jacket squeaks as he leans onto our table. “I think I can help you.”

I sniff with disdain. And get a nose full of his woodsy cologne. “You can take your offer of help and stick it where the quarterbacks don’t—”

“We’ll take it,” Frances interrupts. “Your help, that is.”

“Wait a minute.” I am so onto him. “What do you want in return?”

Charlie runs a hand through his honey-colored hair. “Well, you see—”

“Whatever it is, we’ll do it.” Frances’s words come out in a rush. Her eyes nervously skitter across the classroom, checking for the absent Nash.

“So it’s a deal?” Charlie extends his hand out to Frances.

Before I can throw myself between them, their hands connect, and Frances shakes on it.

“It’s a deal.”

Great. Über–good girl Frances just made a deal. With the devil. Probably his help in exchange for her beating heart.

“What do you want, Charlie?” I cannot believe he took advantage of my friend. In her most vulnerable state.

Charlie hesitates then moves in closer. “I need you to be Chelsea’s friend.”

My obnoxious laughter has the class swiveling in their seats. “Whew! That’s a good one.” I wipe the tears from my eyes. “Yeah, we’ll go hang out with her at cheerleading practice today after school. And then maybe this weekend we can go shopping for eight-hundred-dollar handbags together.” Oh, the jokes this guy tells.

Charlie frowns. “I’m serious. And you have the wrong idea about Chelsea. There’s more to her than that.”

Yes, but the fact that she’s a good kisser and has no need for Wonder Bras still does not redeem her.

“What did you have in mind?” Frances is totally serious. She grabs a pen to take notes.

“I need you to hang out with her at church. Show her around. Introduce her to people. She’s so shy—”

My cheeks make fart noises as the contained laughter bursts out. “Oh, you gotta stop. Seriously.”

“Can you focus?” Frances jabs me in the ribs. She scribbles something in her notebook.

Probably coming up with chemical formula for a personality transplant for Chelsea. If that girl’s shy then I’m the Chihuahua valedictorian.

“I thought if she felt more welcome at church then . . .” Charlie glances at the door as Nash walks in. Mr. Hughes shuts the door behind him.

“Good morning, class. Let’s get started.”

“We’ll talk about this later.”

“Get Nash and meet us at the public library after school. We’ll talk about our projects then.” I groan. “And Chelsea.”

“I don’t know if I can.” He ambles back to his seat.

“Make it happen, Benson.” I jab my finger towards him. “Or no deal.”

In drama class
I sink into a plush theater seat. And openly stare at Trevor. He’s onstage chatting with Mrs. Hall, whose whole body is in the conversation. Sometimes I don’t know if she’s talking. Or doing an interpretive dance.

The russet tones (natural, of course) in Trevor’s dark hair shine under the spotlight. Today he’s sporting some faded jeans, a button-down polo, and his totally hot smile.

Very nice.

“Actors! Actresses!” Mrs. Hall claps her hands. “Today I have two things to tell you.” With a black-polished finger she swabs some lipstick off her teeth. “Number one, my soon-to-be ex-husband is a lying snake who has moved in with his girlfriend Buffy.” She leans in toward her audience. “For future reference, never let your husband hire a secretary named after a color of fingernail polish.”

Trevor looks out into the audience. He absently winks toward the crowd. Three girls beside me sigh.

“Item number two, today we are going to practice scenes from
Cinderella
. This is to prepare you for auditions, which are tomorrow. I know it’s soon, but Trevor will be helping you with these vignettes and will be on hand to answer any remaining questions you have about audition procedures.”

More giggling from behind.

Mrs. Hall throws her orange silk scarf across her neck. “Trevor will specifically be working with those trying out for the part of Cinderella. Raise your hand if this applies to you.”

Hands go to the ceiling like a church revival.

Great. Look at all my competition. All my simpering, giggling, too cute for words competition. And that’s just this class. There are still two other classes of Drama I that I’ll be auditioning with.

As the girls rush the stage and fight for Trevor’s attention, I hang back, choosing instead to work with my friend Jeremy.

Jeremy’s pretty cool. When I came into this class after bombing a few other electives, he was my first friend. On day one I discovered we both love the movie
The Princess Bride
and neither one of us gets mime.
And
Jeremy has connections. His third cousin’s sister has a boyfriend whose stepsister’s aunt knows the neighbor of Reese Witherspoon. He’s hoping to meet her one day. (Reese, that is.)

I help Jeremy with his scenes for the first forty-five minutes. He wants to be the king. The male roles are pretty limited in this play. It’s either the prince, king, or guys who blow bugles.

“Now it’s your turn. We’ve practiced so much I have the king’s lines memorized.”

“Memorized already? That’s really good, Jeremy.”

His face falls. “There are only five lines.”

“But you get to wear a crown.”

His smile returns.

I give
Cinderella
my best for the next thirty minutes. Jeremy and I are waltzing (more like swaying with an occasional leg spasm movement), and I’m practicing my “Oh, no it’s midnight” face, when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

“May I cut in?”

I know that voice. I hear it in my dreams.

I swallow hard. And turn around.

Nodding weakly, I am swept into the arms of Trevor Jackson, the fairest guy in all the land.

At my look of dismay Trevor laughs. “I thought you might want to learn how to waltz.” His eyes meet mine. “The right way.”

I plaster a smile on my face, trying to buy some time until I can find my tongue.

“How . . . how do you know how to waltz?” Is this just a pre-req for guys at In Between?

His grin reveals brilliantly white teeth.
Mmm
 . . . and fresh, minty breath too. “Drama II. You’ll learn it next year.” He pulls me closer. “But why wait ’til then when you can learn now?”

Sighhh.

Only Trevor Jackson can make words like “one, two, three” sound romantic as he teaches me the waltz. Tucked close to his chest, the rest of the class period flies. By the time the bell rings I’ve stepped on his feet six times, tripped myself twice, actually achieved witty banter three times, and been tempted to hand him my heart about one hundred times.

I look at the clock just to make sure it’s really three. It is.

Trevor lifts my hand. “As an Elizabethan gentleman, this is where I bow over your hand.” And he does. He really does. “And you curtsy.” His smile sends butterflies rappelling off my stomach. “But remember . . . Cinderella is totally captured by Prince Charming. So when she curtsies, her eyes never leave his.”

At Trevor’s nod, I sweep into a low curtsey. Just like I saw on
Pride and Prejudice
last weekend. Yes, okay, I was watching public television with Maxine.

When my hand is released, I cradle it to my chest.

“Take care, Katie. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He’ll see me tomorrow? Trevor plans to see me? When? Why? I need to get my hair done!

He winks. At me. “At auditions.”

Oh, right. I knew that. Auditions.

I didn’t think he was asking me out or anything. Noooo.

Well.

Maybe for a second.

M
eet at my
house after school. CU there.

This was the text message Frances and I got from Charlie during eighth period.

After a call to Millie, in which I assured her of my safety and promised not to do anything stupid, I hopped in the car with Frances. Frances drives a station wagon. And aside from the fact she calls it Sally Ann (for no apparent reason), there is nothing cool about it. Her mom says if Frances is gonna drive, it’s going to be something that can haul all three of her siblings. This wagon could probably carry all the siblings in the state of Texas.

My car door creaks shut, and Sally Ann sputters to life.

“What’s our strategy?” Frances’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel.

“Does it matter?” I fasten my seatbelt. “You’ve totally ignored every strategic plan we’ve had.”

“No! Don’t give up on me. I need more strategy. Strategy is the only way.”

“Fine,” I say on a sigh. “Here’s what I think we should do. We’ll all have some small talk for a few minutes. I assume Charlie will probably get us something to drink or eat. This will probably take about fifteen minutes. You can handle that. Charlie and I will be there for interference. Then I’ll suggest we break up into our respective partners so we can work on our projects.”

“Uh-huh, okay, yeah.” A drop of sweat beads on Frances’s brow.

Not a good sign.

“So then you will suggest to Nash that the two of you adjourn to the dining room. Charlie and I will take the living room.”

“Why do you get the living room?”

“Because if you get the living room then you’ll seat yourself as far away from Nash as you can get. I know you.”

Frances nods rapidly, her eyes glued to the road.

“So you’ll go to the dining room. Let Nash sit down first, and then you will sit directly across from him.”

Frances chews on a fingernail. “What will we talk about?”

I open my mouth to respond, but Frances’s squealing muzzles my thoughts.

She grabs my hand. “Oh, my gosh. We’re here. What do we talk about? Help me, Katie!”

I grab my stuff and open the door. “In this order: compliment his performance at church, discuss today’s disgusting meat loaf casserole in the cafeteria, and ask him where he’s going for Spring Break. If there’s any time left, declare your undying devotion and break out into Whitney Houston’s ‘I Will Always Love You.’”