So Not Happening (21 page)

W
hat time did you get in last night?

As I pour Cheerios into a bowl, I catch the warning in my mom's voice, like she's asking a question she already knows the answer to. “I don't know . . . around midnight.”

“You know your curfew is eleven on school nights.”

I pull out a chair and sit down. “Sorry. I guess I was so distraught over you giving away my cat that I lost track of time.”

Mom puts down her book,
Parenthood Is a Battleground.
“You're grounded.”

“What? I said I was sorry.”

“That's not good enough, Bella. We have boundaries here—rules.”

“Since when do you care about my curfew?” The words fly off my tongue like rocks from a slingshot.

Mom pins on her Sugar's nametag. “I know I've been an absent parent.”

Really? And which book did you read that in?

“And I know that I relied on the nanny to do what I should've done myself. And I realize that I spent too much time away from home, taking care of things that might've been important, but weren't as important as my family.”

I study my lap and wonder if we could perhaps channel her guilt into the return of my cat.

“But, Bella, if I say be home at eleven, then that's what I mean. I
am
your parent and you will obey me. Now the book I read last week. said to start out with small doses of punishment... ”Mom thinks on this “So I believe you can forget about going to the game tonight.”

“I have to be there for school—an assignment for the paper. I'm not going for the joy of stale popcorn.”

She considers this. “Fine. Then cancel whatever you have going on Saturday night. You can babysit Robbie while Jake and I are at a wrestling match in Tulsa.”

I swallow a bite of cereal and the ten jokes that immediately pop into my head. I cannot believe she is actually supporting this guy's wrestling dream. How can she not be suspicious of any grown man wanting to wear tights?

My phone rings on my way to school. Hunter.

“Hey.” My tone could freeze an Oklahoman pond.

“How's my girl?”

I laugh bitterly. “Your
girl
hasn't heard from you in days.”

“I'm sorry. I've been busy.”

“With who?”

“Aw, now that's not fair. You know I only have eyes for you.”

“Do I?” I swerve past the neighbor's old cow, who seems to spend most of her time in the middle of the dirt road. “You don't return my calls. You ignore my texts. Remember when we said that we'd go above and beyond to make this work? Remember when you said distance wouldn't matter?”

“Hey, back off. I said I had things to do. Do you even care?”

“Of course I—”

“Because every time you
do
call, it's all about you, you, you.
Your
world is ending,
your
cat got taken away.
Your
stepdad's a wrestler. I have problems too. But do you even think to ask me about them?”

“Move it!” I blast my horn. “Stupid pile of feathers.”

“Excuse me?”

“No, not you. There's a chicken in the road. Hunter, I'm sorry. I know you have a lot going on. And I apologize if I've been self-absorbed. Why don't you tell me what's been going on with you?”

“You don't really want to listen.”

“Yes, I do.” Was he always this difficult to have a conversation with?

“Well... there is this one thing that's been eating at me. Like I can't sleep and I think about it all the time. It's like I can't get out from under the dark cloud.”

“I so relate. Go on.”

“We're already working on the Autumn Ball with Hilliard, and they want a Victorian theme while we want to totally do the sixties. As president of the student social committee, do you realize what kind of pressure this puts me under? It affects every detail. If we go Victorian, the punch will need to be pink, but if we have a sixties theme ...”

I halfheartedly listen to my boyfriend drone on and on about cucumber sandwiches and the recently established napkin selection committee.

“So you can see it's not just you who's under a lot of stress.”

“No,” I say, turning into the school parking lot. “I guess my problems barely compare to yours.”

“Forget it. You're obviously not in the mood to have a conversation. I remember a time when you used to enjoy listening to me.”

Do I really find this part of his life interesting? I worry about my stepbrother smothering me with a pillow in the middle of the night. He worries about whether to leave the crusts on the sandwiches or not.

“Hunter, I'm sorry. I don't want to fight. I know you're stressed.”

“Bella . . . you know as activities coordinator, I have to escort a Hilliard girl to the dance. It's a tradition.”

“I know.” I swing open the door of the Bug and climb out, my skirt waving in the summer breeze. “I wish I could be there for it.”

“I don't know who to ask. It has to be someone who will know that it means nothing. Somebody who knows that I'm seeing you.”

My pulse quickens at the sight of Dante walking with Matt Sparks into the building. “What did you say? Oh yeah, um, why don't you just ask Mia? You guys will be hanging out anyway.”

“Are you sure? That would work out perfectly.”

“Yeah, you should call her about that. And tell her to call me. I haven't talked to her in days. Hey, Hunter, I gotta go. Call me later.” I drop my phone in my purse and power-walk up the steps and through the doors.

When I'm about three people away from Dante and Matt, I take out my phone again like I have a call. I stick it to my ear and act totally engrossed in a riveting conversation. I'll just imagine Hunter's discussing a balloon and streamer dilemma.

“Dude, I just don't know,” Matt says, his voice barely audible.

Dante looks around, and I avert my gaze, as if I'm oblivious to everything but the call.

“I need to know soon. People are counting on us.”

“Like what people?”

“Just people, okay? There's nothing more to tell you until—”

I can't hear them. I move closer, my ears straining to—

“Hey!” Suddenly I'm pulled out of the flow and into a classroom. “Luke! What are you doing?”

He grabs my phone, presses it to his ear. “Yeah, Bella's going to have to continue her pathetically fake call later.” And snaps it shut. “Could you get any more amateur?”

“Could you get any more obnoxious?” We're nose to nose.

“You could blow this whole story.”

“Oh, the story that wouldn't have happened if it weren't for
amateur
me?”

“You do nothing unless it's cleared through me. You got it, Bella?”

“I know what I'm doing. You're like a rabid bulldog.”

“You need to slow this down and follow my lead.”

“You need to . . . jump off a cliff” I huff past him, but he catches my arm, blocking my exit. My cheek is inches from his.

I feel his chest rumble with laughter. “Is that really the best you could do?”

“I know. It was weak.” I bite my lip on a smile. “I'm just not on my game today. I'll try to have some better insults by second hour.”

Something besides contempt glows in his eyes. It holds me in place, and I can't seem to look away.

“Big news,” he says, and I struggle to focus. “Reggie Lee got escorted out of early morning football practice—by the police.”

“What?”

Luke nods. “They found drugs in his locker at the field. He's been suspended.”

Pieces of conversation from that day at the Dumpster float back to me. IT has to be connected.

“Bella . . . I have something else I want to tell you.” He leans closer.

“Yes?” I breathe.

“I need you to...” He pauses, the eyes behind his tortoise frames still fused to mine.

Like there's a magnet pulling me in, I lean closer.

“I need you to be a water girl for the football team.”

I blink. Spell broken. “What?”

“Keep it down.” He takes a comfortable step away from me. “I thought about it last night. We have to get you on the inside with the football players. Your friend Lindy is a water girl, so have her pull some strings and see if you can't help pass out water or towels or whatever it is you might do.”

“That is a dumb idea.”

“It beats chasing after some guys into a dark forest.”

“Have you ever seen a football player up close? They're . . . “ I search my brain for a visual. “Hot and sweaty and they spit a lot.”

“I thought you girls liked hot and sweaty.”

“From a distance!”
Duh.

“If you want this story, you have to be willing to do a little undercover reporting—my way.”

I blow out a frustrated breath. “I'm about ready to tell you where you can stick
your way.”

“It's my paper.”

“Seriously, are you five?”

Instead of giving a snappy retort, he laughs again and guides me back into the crowded hallway. These flashes of a kinder, gentler Luke are totally throwing me off. Maybe he really isn't a tool of Satan.

Could it be I won his respect last night?

“Talk to Lindy. I'll see you at the game.” And with his hands in his pockets, he saunters down the science hall, confident I'll do his bidding.

“You want to do what?” Lindy fills the water bottles at halftime. I can barely hear her over the marching band's version of “Hang On, Sloopy.”

“I said I want to do this.” I gesture to the stacks of towels and the coolers. “I want to be a water girl. You know, help the team. And why are you wearing a ball cap tonight? Didn't we agree in New York no more hats and no more ponytails?”

“I'm working, Bella.” She heaves a tray of water bottles onto a bench and begins to fill another set.

“Looking hot is a twenty-four-hour job.”

She looks up from the cooler. “Wow, that would make a great tattoo. Right on your—”

“I'm serious. You said you wanted help looking more feminine. I don't think I'll find a Tigers t-shirt, a pair of basketball shorts, and a dirty hat in my latest issue of
Teen Vogue.”

“And look where your doll clothes have gotten me—nowhere. Do you know what he said to me at the party when we were dancing?”

“That you're the sun he wants to orbit for all his days?”

She wipes her own sweat with a towel. “He asked me when this phase of mine would be over. He said it's like hanging out with Malibu Barbie.” She laughs ruefully.

“She did always have good shoes.” I plod on as Lindy rolls her big eyes. “Don't give up yet. Okay, so maybe we change our strategy. If I'm here on the sidelines with you, then I can help out your cause even more.”

She focuses on the remaining minutes of the scoreboard, only halfway listening to me. “How?”

“I can see Matt up close, you know. See what really makes him tick. Notice how he interacts with you in this setting.”

“Andwhat do you get out of it?”

“I... um . . . get to write an article for the paper. Yeah, I want to write an article on the team's season. You know, their bid for state and all.” I would throw in some football jargon here, but I don't know any. I am so gonna have to start watching
SportsCenter
like my stepdad. “See how they score with their fumbles and do that thing with the flags.”

“You have no idea what you're talking about, do you?”

“That's why I need you! You can teach me what I need to know about the game, and I'll help you down here with the water . . . and with Matt. Perfect!” I hug her close. “Thanks, Lindy!” And though I can't see her face, I know she's rolling her eyes again.

She steps back and shoves a set of towels in my arms. “Here. You can start tonight.”

“What?” I gesture to my skirt and patent leather flats. “But I'm not dressed for it. How about next week?”

The football boys trot onto the field and head our way. It would be nice to have a bird's-eye view of their interaction with the coaches. I think at least one of them could be involved in this Brotherhood business. See, this is what happens when you stick a bunch of guys in too-tight pants. It cuts off the oxygen to their brains, and next thing you know they're calling themselves a brotherhood, slapping each other on the butt, and meeting secretly in the woods.

About five minutes into the third quarter, I get into the groove of running water bottles to the guys. I have to dodge lots of towels and spitting, but so far my shoes are still intact. My dignity, not so much. If any of them find it odd that I'm passing out refreshments, no one says anything. They're so focused and intent on the game, I think Jessica Simpson could be handing out Gatorade, and they wouldn't so much as turn in her direction.

The Tigers barely hold it together during the fourth quarter, and we're pushed into overtime. With seconds to go, Dante passes to number twenty-four, who promptly dives for the ball. He lands in a heap of arms and legs. But arises, mere feet from the goal, with nothing in his hands but regret.

And the Truman Tigers lose the first game of the season.

“Here's a towel. Good game. That was some fine ... um, football stuff.” I hand Dante some water. I start to spout off more positivity, but Lindy shakes her head in warning. Okay, shutting up now.

I hand out the last of my water bottles and bend down to pick up the empty ones thrown on the ground. I suppose now would not be a good time to remind the team that I am
not
their maid?