Pretend You Love Me (20 page)

I was feeling good when I got to school on Monday. Nothing like a job well done. Four hundred bucks in my bank account. A
double circuit at the VFW this morning. I was pumped. First thing I saw when I turned the corner heading for Geometry class
was Xanadu.

Oh yeah.

And Bailey. Crap.

He leaned down to kiss her.

My muscles cramped. Luckily, the girls’ room was three steps away. I barreled inside and leaned against the door. Exhale,
flex, hold, hold. Control, action, focus.

She wasn’t mine. Not now. Not yet. But someday. Some way. I’d make her love me, the way I loved her.

I’d practically beat the bell tearing out of Miz S’s class. I just couldn’t take it—his turning around and smiling at her
every ten seconds; her poking him, passing him notes. I needed sky. Needed out. We were running track this week in gym, thank
God. I could sprint laps. Run it off. For an hour, just run.

Perfume swirled up my nose.

I raised my head off my knees.

“What happened to you? You took off before I could even say hello.” She curled cross-legged on the mat in front of me. Her
smile faded. “Mike. What is it? Are you okay?” She reached out and touched my knee.

“Just… zoning.” It was too windy and cold today for track. Gym
was held indoors. Rope climbing, a totally wasted exercise—exorcise. My muscles didn’t even ache afterward.

She smiled slightly, a sort of half smile, soft smile, which made my bones go rubbery. “I really need to talk to you,” she
said in a lowered voice. “Alone. In private.”

“Okay.” I perked up. “We can’t go to the roof though. It’s too windy.”

“Not now. I have Journalism this hour. Did Jamie tell you we have to write a newspaper article for our test? Like, a feature
with interviews and sidebars and everything.” She crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. “I was thinking maybe later.
After school?”

I opened my mouth, then shut it.

“You have to work.”

“I could get off.” Which would be hard. Everett needed me to help stock for Coalton Days.

“That’s okay,” Xanadu said. “It isn’t important. I just wanted to spend time with you.”

My heart soared. “I don’t have to go in.”

“Yes, you do.” She tilted her head. “I know you.”

She did. She knew me. I wanted to cover her hand on my knee, take it, press it against my pounding heart, pass the tremors
onto her. For some reason though, I was paralyzed. I couldn’t take action. Don’t let go, I prayed. Please, don’t let go.

“Maybe we could ditch one day this week and hang out at your house?” Xanadu arched her eyebrows.

I choked. “I don’t think so.”

Her eyes darkened.

“Not at my house.”

She stood. “Okay. Whatever.”

I scrambled to my feet. “We can ditch though. Anytime.”

Gazing off toward the dangling ropes, she folded her arms around
herself and said, “I need to talk about this and I can’t with Bailey, you know? He wouldn’t understand. I mean, he might,
but I’m afraid to tell him.”

She was afraid of him. I knew it. She’d be so much safer with me. “We could take off tomorrow,” I said. “Go someplace besides
my house though.”

She peered into my eyes, into my soul. She was wondering, I know, why I didn’t want to take her there. She ran her index finger
down the length of my arm and raised goose bumps on my skin. “One of these days you’re going to tell me your secrets,” she
murmured.

I almost came.

“Xanadu!”

Both our heads whipped around.

“Where have you been?” Bailey swaggered up to us. “I need my notebook for third period. Hey, Mike.” His eyes swept my body,
taking in my muscle tee and boxers.

“Bailey,” I said flatly.

Xanadu said, “It’s in my locker.”

“I know,” Bailey replied. “I, uh, forgot your combination again.” He forced a weak smile.

Xanadu widened her eyes at me.

Really, I thought. All brawn. Not much of that either. Not compared to me.

She held my eyes for an extended moment, sending me a meaningful message. I felt confused, conflicted. One minute I was her
world, the next Bailey moved in. I know she was giving me signals, but I didn’t know how to interpret them. She wasn’t like
any other girl I’d known—or wanted this way. She was a mystery, a contradiction. She took off for the main hall with Bailey
in tow. Last thing I saw was him looping an arm around her shoulders and her snaking one around his waist. I closed my eyes
and hit my head against the brick wall.

The Merc was a madhouse. What was going on? Darryl had gone off in the truck, so I was forced after practice to walk the half
mile to work in a blinding dust storm. I was gritting dirt between my teeth as I hung up my sweatshirt on the hook in back.
June saw me and rushed over. “Dad needs you up front to help cashier,” he wheezed. He added under his breath, “Hate Coalton
Days.”

They were still a month away, but Everett always got the first jump on the businesses in town with the Merc’s spring sale.
I lifted my apron strap over my head and tied it twice around the middle.

June slithered away, muttering unintelligible sounds. On the way to the register I passed Tiny juggling an armload of merchandise.
She dumped it on the counter. A box of Snausages tipped over and I snagged it before it hit the floor. “Are we out of baskets?”
I asked, searching the cart caddy at the entrance. There were still three available.

“No,” Tiny said, sounding disgusted. “I was just coming in for doggie treats, and then I seen these wind chimes and thought
they’d sound pretty outside the salon. Queenie needs a new collar and leash, so I had to get that too. And a windbreaker,
which I could’ve used on the way over. I had to get me a six-pack of pansies, course.” She rubbernecked around me. “You’re
sending me to the poorhouse, Everett.”

He smiled sheepishly from behind the cash register. I think he had a thing for Tiny. He was such a crusty old coot. I couldn’t
see how any woman would be interested in Everett. But then, I wasn’t any woman.

A line was already forming behind Tiny. Someone called to Everett how much were the bedding plants and I relieved him at the
register. I rang Tiny up. She handed me two twenties, which reeked of permanent solution, and from the change I gave her,
she separated out a five-dollar bill. “For you,” she said. “I hope you get to go.” She folded the money and dropped it into
a can on the counter.

For me? I craned my neck around the cash register. It was a coffee can with a plastic lid, a slot cut out on top. I picked
it up and turned it around. A picture of me was glued to the front. It was my school picture from ninth grade. What the hell…?

The can was covered in construction paper and decorated with glitter. Above my picture was printed, in red magic marker, “Mike’s
Catch-Her-Star Can-paign.”

“What the hell…?” I repeated aloud, grabbing the can.

“There it is.” Mayor Ledbetter rolled his cart up to the counter. “This is a stellar idea, Mike. Ha, ha. Get it?” He dropped
a couple of quarters into the slot. They didn’t hit bottom and clink. How many dollars were in there? “Nice to get the whole
town involved.”

“Whose idea was it?” I snapped.

Mayor Ledbetter arched his eyebrows. “I thought it was yours.”

“Mine?” My voice rose. “I wouldn’t do this.”

Junior appeared behind me with a bag of wild bird seed flopped across his shoulder. “Save this for Renata,” he growled. “She’s
stopping by later. I didn’t know your batting average was .647 last year.”

“Good write-up in the paper,” Mayor Ledbetter said.

“Huh? What paper?” What was this about?

Behind the mayor, Armie dropped a pile of jeans on the counter. He flipped open his wallet and withdrew a ten. “Stick that
in there, will ya?” He indicated the can.

Mayor Ledbetter folded the bill and wiggled it in. Armie balled a fist and bounced it off his opposite shoulder. “You go,
girl.”

“What write-up?” I was stuck on the mayor. “What paper?”

“The
Gazette
.” He waved toward the newspaper rack near the cart caddy.

“I’ll be right back.” I shoved the can at him and charged across the Merc.

Only one copy of the
Tri-County Gazette
remained in the coin box.
Through the glass window I could see my picture on page one. I dug out a dime and inserted it into the slot.

“First time I saw her play, I thought to myself, Man, oh man, Emmanuel, this girl has got the goods. She was six and I was…
well, let’s just say awe-inspired.”

Was this about me? No one interviewed me or anything.

Manny Archuleta, in a phone interview from Wichita—where he’s helping his mother recover from hip replacement surgery—is speaking
about our own superstar. “She was a natural, even as a kid,” Manny tells this reporter. “You knew she had the game in her
blood. She had a feel for it, an instinct. She’s the best player I’ve ever coached, or had the pleasure to watch develop.
She’s taught me more about the game than I’ve ever taught her.”

The game, of course, is girls’ fastpitch softball. And the player Coach Archuleta is bragging about is Mike Szabo.

I didn’t know Coach Archuleta felt that way about me. Who was “this reporter”?

There was no byline.

The Coalton Cougars have been on a roll since Szabo’s rookie year. For the past three seasons they’ve placed first or second
in the region and continued on to the quarterfinals. Their success is due in no small measure to the infield play and leadership
of Mike (Mary-Elizabeth) Szabo.

I cringed.

“Mike!” Everett’s voice registered dimly.

If you’ve never attended a Cougars game (and you’d be in the minority in this town), you haven’t had the pleasure of seeing
Mike play. She’s the spots and stripes of the Coalton Cougars.

Spots and stripes? Cougars didn’t have stripes. Who wrote this? I read faster to get to the end.

Crouched behind home plate, she calls out signals and cheers on base runners. At bat, Szabo is a cat poised to spring on her
prey. And she springs to the tune of an astounding .647 batting average.

My breath caught. Who was keeping stats? Besides me. And I only kept them in my head. The article was good. Not because it
was all about me. Well, maybe, partly. I’d been written up in the paper before, but not like this.

What you may not know are all the records Mike currently holds. Keep in mind, she’s still a junior.

“Mike!” Everett called. “What are you doing?”

I wandered back to the register, still reading.

Someone was tracking me. The way Dad used to. He knew all my stats. He kept a book, meticulous records. I flipped to page
three, where the article continued. My stats ran on for another half column. A name in the last paragraph caught my eye.

“Mike has an extraordinary opportunity to apply her talents and gifts by attending the Carrie Reigners Softball Camp in Michigan
this summer. Only the best are asked to apply. Mike is one of approximately
two hundred girls on the A-list. We can’t let her waste this opportunity because of financial need.” Dr. Kinneson went on
to say…

Damn her!

What was she telling people? That I’m poor? Thanks a lot.

There was a sidebar near the end:

Mike’s Catch-Her-Star Can-paign begins this weekend at the Mercantile’s spring sale. Drop your spare change into the cans…

That’s all I saw. Slapping the paper together, I shrilled, “Who did this!” Everyone in the Merc stopped talking and swiveled
their heads. I gulped and tried to calm myself.

Coach Kinneson. Had to be. I didn’t think she knew how to keep stats. How’d she get those pictures? The other ones, on page
three and four. Me in Pee Wees. In Junior League. The team photos. My individual photo, crouched with my glove chest high,
spread for a catch.