Pivot Point (14 page)

Not in a million years
, I want to say, but he has the cutest expression on his face. I take it. “Thanks. I’ll be right back.”

After I change into Duke’s football jersey, I stare at myself in the mirror. It’s so not me. I feel like a fraud. Not only am I swimming in it, but it’s like an advertisement to the world that I belong to Duke. People will think I asked him if I could wear it.

My hair only adds to my fraudulent look—I’ve been straightening it ever since Duke told me it looked hot that way, and I feel as pathetic as that sounds. Now my hair is sticky with soda and attempting to curl on one side. I free an elastic band from my pocket and pull it up into a ponytail. I tuck the front of the jersey into my jeans and make myself feel better with the fact that I can change into my emergency outfit when I get back to school. Suddenly I don’t feel quite so neurotic for keeping (and continually replacing) that outfit in my locker.

When I exit the bathroom, everyone is filing out of the restaurant and piling into their cars. Duke and Laila are waiting for me. Even Laila knows I shouldn’t be wearing the jersey, because she curls her lip when she sees it. But Duke smiles and lifts me into a big hug. “You are so adorable.”

As we walk out of the restaurant, Poison is standing by his car, holding a to-go bag and staring at his tires.

“Man,” Laila says, “that sucks.”

I want to push her and tell her not to draw attention to herself, but that would only add to it.

Poison turns slowly, then looks her up and down. His gaze travels to Duke and then lingers on me. I lower my head and pull on Duke’s arm, wanting to walk faster, but Duke just stares at him and then says, “Can we do anything to help?” in the friendliest voice ever.

Poison wrenches open his door, throws his bag inside, and pulls out a cell phone from his pocket.

“I guess that’s a no then?” Duke says. Laila laughs.

As we drive away from Fat Jacks I turn around and smack Laila’s leg. “You are seriously demented. That guy is going to kill you. His name is Poison, Laila, remember? And did you see those tattoos on his arms?”

She leans back in her seat and laughs harder. “He’s a pathetic druggie. A hardcore loser.” Her laughter trails off, and she says in a voice I’m sure she intends to be light, but I can hear the pain behind, “Just like my dad.”

NORM•trap
:
n.
a device used to trap a Norm (okay, fine, I got trapped too)

Monday at school, Trevor, Rowan, Stephanie, and I sit in Trevor’s car. My notebook is propped on my knees, and all our ideas for “dare completion” are listed out.

“What happens if we fail?” I ask.

“They get bragging rights for the rest of their lives,” Stephanie says. Her sour expression—which I’ve decided is her face’s default setting—is present. “We are not failing.”

I doodle a couple of split lines on the corner of the page. “I say we add a rule to the dessert game that the dare must take place the night of the loss. None of this, ‘On Monday you have to steal the principal’s bobblehead toy off the dashboard of his car.’”

Rowan raises one eyebrow, and one corner of his mouth rises with it. Default setting = creep. “Are you scared?”

“What?” I blow air between my lips. “No,” I say, when really the thought of breaking into the principal’s car ranks right up there with suffering through one of my mom’s mind patterns.

“I still think me distracting the principal right when he comes back from lunch, and one of you climbing into the car before he has a chance to set his alarm is the best option,” Rowan says, pointing at my notebook. “Oh, and while you’re writing things down, Addison, write down the name Luis Vasquez. Look him up, Trevor. Last year he had a major back injury during a game. Does his name sound familiar? It should, because he was up for All-American, just like you.”

“This isn’t helping our current situation,” Stephanie says.

“I agree,” Trevor says. “I’m for the borrowing-the-principal’s-keys-out-of-his-office idea.”

“But then someone has to put them back,” Stephanie says. “And that’s assuming he doesn’t keep them on him.”

I glance at my cell. “Well, lunch is almost over, so we’d better figure it out soon.”

“Okay, let’s try the distraction technique,” Rowan says. “Who’s going in for the bobblehead?”

Stephanie’s head immediately whips toward me.

Not me. “Why me?”

“Because you’re the one who had the pathetic dessert.”

“She had no idea about the game, Stephanie,” Trevor points out.

Everyone stares at me, and I find myself saying, “No, it’s fine.” I close my notebook and tuck it into my bag. “I’ll go in. You just better keep him occupied, Rowan.” There is no way I’m getting kicked out of Norm school over a stupid dare.

“I will. I’m an expert at distraction.”

“I’ll help Addison,” Trevor says. “Stephanie, you be backup for Rowan.”

“Yeah, okay.” She blinks several times, then looks up. Just when I start to wonder what someone said to upset her, she pulls down her lower eyelid and sticks her finger in her eye.

I gasp, but no one else reacts.

“My contact is bugging me.” She pinches a thin, clear film out of her eye, and since nobody else finds this at all disturbing I try to control my facial expression.

I must not have done a good job because she says, “What’s your problem? You don’t know anyone who wears contacts?”

No, actually. A Norm lesson about subpar vision is skirting just outside my memory. I need to get a memory program fast, because I seem to have forgotten all our lessons.

“You have it back in?” Rowan asks, and Stephanie nods. “All right, break.” He ducks out of the car like he thinks he’s a spy. Stephanie follows.

“He needs some theme music,” I say, hoping Trevor doesn’t ask about my reaction to Stephanie’s contacts.

“Mr. Buford has some he can borrow.”

I laugh and move toward the door, my feet crunching papers as I do. “Your car is a mess.”

“You’re disgusted.”

“No, I’m not,” I say too fast.

He laughs. “Your face says otherwise.”

“
Disgust
is the wrong word. It’s not like it’s littered with half-eaten food or dirty socks.” I reach down to pick up one of the many crumpled papers. “It’s just …” I start to unfurl the paper.

“Negative,” he says.

“Negative? Did you seriously just use that word?” The paper is crumpled up into a pretty tight ball, and I can’t open it as fast as I want to.

His eyes twinkle with a smile, but he grabs my wrist. “Addison, drop the garbage.”

I laugh. “If we weren’t in such a hurry, I’d fight to see what caused Mr. Laidback to use the word
negative
as a command.” I drop the paper with the others, and he releases his hold.

A few moments later, Trevor and I crouch behind the tailgate of a truck, waiting for the principal to pull into his spot. “Are they lists of people you want to kill?” The fact that he wouldn’t let me look makes me want to know that much more. I’m really good at keeping a secret, but when I know someone is keeping one from me, it drives me insane.

He smiles, and I decide he has one of the nicest smiles I’ve ever seen. “Yes, pages of them.”

“Okay, love letters?”

“Absolutely not.” He stands and stretches his legs, then squats down again.

I bite the inside of my cheek, thinking. What would a quiet, easygoing guy like Trevor not want me to see? “You write. You’re a writer.”

He raises his eyebrows in the do-you-seriously-think-that’s-a-possibility? look.

“Maybe your stint in the library inspired you to pen your memoirs.”

“You’re making a bigger deal of this than it is.”

“Negative,” I say, stealing his word. “You are. Anytime you make something a secret, it becomes a big deal.”

He smirks. “Are you going to keep guessing until I tell you?”

I nod once. “Yes.”

“So if I tell you, you’ll drop it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Here’s the huge secret: I draw a little and fail at it a lot.”

I thought finding out what the paper really was would make me want to see it less, not more. “You draw? What do you draw?”

He gives me the didn’t-you-say-you-would-drop-it? look, then peers around the tailgate. “You ready? He’s here.”

I turn and see a black SUV pull into the principal’s spot, Rowan already standing on the sidewalk ready to distract him when he exits the car. “Let’s go.”

“Principal Lemoore,” Rowan says, when the principal steps out of the car and shuts the door behind him. I approach the back passenger-side door, slowly opening it. Trevor stands behind me, waits until I’m all the way in, and closes it. I crawl along the floor but pause when I see the principal’s back in the driver’s-side window. Couldn’t Rowan have led him farther away? I hold my breath, tempted to wait, but I know I need to get it and get out before he sets the alarm. I start to crawl over the shorter middle seat and into the front. That’s when I notice a briefcase sitting on that middle seat.
Crap
.

I duck behind the driver’s seat just as I hear Rowan say, “Wait, what are you doing?” The front door opens. The principal grumbles and grabs his briefcase, then shuts the door again.

Another door opens and closes, and Trevor whispers, “I’ll get it, Addison. You just go out the back.”

Gladly
. I head for the door. “Do you have it?”

“Yes.” At the same moment he utters the word, the horn sounds twice.

I drop back down, curling into a ball. “Tell me that was you accidentally bumping the horn.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Great.”

Rowan’s face appears at the window. “Uh. He just set the alarm. Sorry, guys. Operation ‘key retrieval’ in motion.” Rowan disappears.

I crane my head back to look at the silver door handle. “So we open the door and set off the alarm. He won’t know it was us.” I suddenly feel very trapped and have an overwhelming desire to get out of the car.

“If we didn’t have to borrow his bobblehead, I’d say, yeah, let’s bail. But we should give Rowan a few minutes and see if he comes through.”

I roll onto my side and realize I can see Trevor under the seat. I focus on him and only him and try to forget where we are and what kind of trouble we can get into because of it. “Is this guy a bobblehead collector or something? I don’t believe he’d notice it missing.”

He laughs. “Yeah, he’s a freak. You should see his office.”

“Considering where we are, I think that’s a huge possibility.”

Trevor’s jaw tightens. It’s interesting to watch someone when he doesn’t realize you can see him. Trevor’s unguarded expression looks more concerned than his normal one.

The fact that he might be as worried as I am eases my nerves. It’s like there’s a certain amount of stress appointed to every situation and I’m used to being responsible for holding it all by myself. It’s nice to share it with someone. “You okay?”

He looks over and smiles, the worried look immediately gone. “Oh, hey.”

“So let me see this toy that’s causing so much trouble.”

He rolls onto his side, facing me. I can tell he’s pretty cramped in the space when he brings his hand up and it’s smashed against his chest. The bobblehead jiggles slightly. It’s a football player, but I have no idea which team it’s supposed to represent. “Here’s the offender,” he says.

“A football player.”

“Yeah.”

“Is everyone in the world obsessed with football?”

“It’s pretty big around here.”

It seems to be the theme of my life lately, and I don’t even like the sport. “What’s up with Rowan always coming up with players and their injuries?”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m surprised he didn’t say it the other night. He has this theory that someone is purposefully injuring the competition.”

My throat feels dry, and I try to swallow down some moisture. “Why does he think that?”

“Well, because of the nature of my hit. It was after the whistle. I wasn’t expecting it, and neither was my line—which is odd, because I’m always on guard for a few seconds after each play. But that time I felt completely relaxed. And then I was hit. Hard. The ligaments in my shoulder were torn pretty bad. Which makes him think that someone tried to permanently injure me.”

“But you don’t think that?”

“No. Football is all about smashing into other people as hard as you can. Of course players are going to get hurt. And how could someone know how badly I would get hurt anyway?”

I clear my throat. “And these other players who have been hurt too … The ones Rowan’s been telling you about. Did they all get hurt while playing that same school as well?”

“I don’t know. I try not to take Rowan too seriously. It’s been my downfall many times.” He pauses. “But he’s a lot of fun. He lives off adrenaline. You’ll never be bored with him around.”

I’m not sure if that statement was made specifically for me or if he was speaking in generalities, but it’s time to make my feelings for Rowan clear. “Adrenaline is overrated.” Okay, so that isn’t the clear-cut ‘I hate Rowan’ statement I was looking for when I opened my mouth. But I feel bad; I don’t want to be rude about his best friend.

He readjusts his position on the floor, but it doesn’t seem to make him any more comfortable. “I never did give you that zombie quiz on Friday.”

“That’s because you were too busy driving strangers to my house.”

He groans. “I thought you might’ve been mad about that. Sorry.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve known me for such a long time. You should be able to read my looks by now. Glaring at you in the rearview mirror, like this, means: ‘You will die if you take people to my house. Come up with an alternate solution.’” I give him an example of the look.

“Good to know. I’ll start a list.”

My cell phone chimes, and I pull it out of my pocket. The text message from Laila reads,
I just let the air out of the tires of one of my dad’s loser friends’ car at Fat Jacks. It felt so good.

I close my eyes, trying not to let this news affect me now, from hundreds of miles away. Because my immediate response is to ask her if she’s crazy.
What’re you doing off-campus for lunch? Shouldn’t you be sitting on the stage tormenting people who walk by?