Tempestuous (12 page)

“Okay, um, I’m sorry,” I said, no longer able to act disinterested. “Please tell me you are not into women’s underwear.” Silence. “Caleb?”

“We were supposed to play a gig,” Chad said, answering for him. “This guy is a living legend.”

“What guy?” I was so confused.

“Your right-hand man here. Or,” the pretty boy scrutinized our wrists more closely, “I guess he’d be your ‘left-hand’ man.”

I turned to Caleb. “What’s he talking about?”

“Exactly what he said. We were supposed to play a gig tonight.”

“You’re in a band. Isn’t that precious?” I said, envisioning amateur hour in his parents’ garage. “What do you call yourselves?”

“The Drunk Butlers,” Chad interrupted. “I’m on drums. Caleb’s our ‘Bono,’ if you will.”

“If Bono played guitar like The Edge
,
” Caleb said.

“The Drunk Butlers?”

Caleb nodded, stonefaced.

“
The
Drunk Butlers?”

“Maybe you’ve heard us,” Chad said. “We’ve been getting air time for the past few weeks on KLMN and a few of the college indie stations. We were supposed to play tonight at the El Beau Theater.”

“Oh my God! I thought you looked familiar!” Brooke had apparently been eavesdropping and now chimed in. “My cousin Hannah has a picture of you guys taped up in her locker. She’s freakin’ obsessed with ‘Past Is Prologue.’ Awesome song, by the way.”

“Thanks,” said Caleb, eking out a smile. I ignored Chad and Brooke both, and stared dumbfounded at Caleb.

“Now I’ve heard everything,” I said.

“What can I say? I’m full of surprises.”

Forty-five minutes later the guys were still milking the thwarted rock star routine for all it was worth; Caleb, acting more animated than I’d seen him all night, practiced frets on an imaginary guitar neck with his free hand while Chad indulged in impromptu bursts of drumming using a set of chopsticks from Wok ’Dis Way. I caught myself glancing alternately between them, as if watching a too-evenly matched game of televised tennis, and realized we had sunk to a new nadir of boredom at “base camp.” At this rate, it was going to be a long night, unless…. The words “tennis,” “match,” and “love” kick-started the synapses firing in my brain and I sprang, if not literally, at least mentally, into action.

“Chad,” I said, “I’m worried about Ariel. I mean she’s out there all alone—”

“Thanks to you and your special brand of vigilante justice,” Caleb said under his breath. I found that with time, I was getting better at ignoring him.

“She’s so small and defenseless and you’re obviously—”

“Miranda, do you really need to lay it on so thick?” said Caleb. “If you want him to go help Ariel, why don’t you just try asking him?”

“That’s what I’m
doing
if you’d stop interrupting me!”

“I mean without all the eyelash batting. Not everything has to be a game of Mistress Manipulation.”

“Whatever,” I said, then looked at Chad expectantly. “You’ll go look for her, right?”

“Sure.” He blushed, per usual. “I still don’t get what she’s doing way down at the spa place, but I can go check on her.”

After Chad headed down the hall, Caleb and I tried joining another game of “ice hockey” in progress, but since we couldn’t figure out a feasible way to move in tandem without potentially breaking our necks, Caleb suggested we try something more cerebral, like a game of chess. I admitted I didn’t know how to play.

“You’re kidding me,” he said, looking at me as if I didn’t know how to tie my own shoelace. “Well, you know what that means. Class is now in session.”

Without caring whether or not I was up for being his pupil, he grabbed the travel chess case he’d gifted Ariel and proceeded to set it up at the table farthest away from the ice hockey game. I watched closely as Caleb arranged the pieces on the board with his free hand, naming each one, from the pawn all the way up to the king.

“Can we call this thing something other than ‘bishop?’” I wondered, pointing to one of the pieces with a domed top. “That’s my diabolical ex-boyfriend’s last name.” Caleb rolled his eyes at me.

“Get over it. We’re not going to start assigning pet names to the game pieces just to humor your whole he-done-me-wrong routine.”

“All right! Jeez. I didn’t realize you’d get all pedantic about it.”

“There are other fish in the sea, you know.”

“Nice. Which book of clichés did you plagiarize that from?”

Caleb ignored me and started explaining the intricate rules of the game, including pointing out the properties of the different chess pieces.

“You’d assume it’s the king—because that’s who you have to defeat to win—but the queen is actually the most powerful piece in the entire game.” He turned the white queen in his hand as he spoke, his eyes locked on mine as if to impress his point. “She’s the only one that can move to any number of unoccupied squares in any direction: vertically, horizontally, or diagonally.”

“Right on,” I said. “Chicks rock.”

“
Sometimes
,” he seemed to grudgingly concede.

“Oh, give me a break. Don’t try to pretend your whole ‘I’m with the band’ schtick isn’t just an elaborate ruse to score with the ladies. How’s that working for you, anyway? Does the thong-throwing cougar light your fire, or are you just waiting for your diehard teeny-bopper groupies to come of age?”

“You play me false,” he said. “I don’t write songs to stoke my love life. Though if it’s a happy byproduct of my endeavors, then so be it.”

“As if I care about your love life,” I said—though, truthfully, I was a little curious. “Let’s focus on the game.”

He ran me through a couple of classic opening strategies with names like the Sicilian Defense and the Latvian Gambit, and then we began. I quickly determined that it was like no other game I’d ever played. Checkers was mere tic-tac-toe compared to the seemingly endless combination of mental moves and manipulations that could lead either to conquest or capture. I thrilled to the inherent challenge of it. If I really wanted to learn, I’d have to be patient and practice just as if I were learning to play a musical instrument or a foreign language.

“The key to winning is patience,” Caleb said, as if reading my thoughts. I had just lost another bishop to one of his pawns. “You always have to think a few steps ahead and stay focused on your goal.”

I was so intent on the game at hand, that when Ariel and Chad appeared at the entrance to the food court I realized I’d forgotten to be annoyed with Caleb and, instead, found myself awed by his skill. But now, my protégé was waving excitedly, as though she’d just brought home Olympic gold.

“Miranda, we did it! This is the most fun I’ve had since Epcot World,” she said. “I never thought giving a makeover could be so personally fulfilling.”

“Details. Tell me everything!”

“Well, I started by giving Britney some new ‘highlights,’” Ariel said. “She asked for honey blonde. I went for something more puce.”

“Ew.”

“Whitney asked for a Brazilian blowout, and boy, did I give her one. Her hair is now a total frizz bomb!”

“I always thought she’d make a good Bride of Frankenstein. So, what else, what else?”

“Well, I convinced them I had an expensive new anti-cellulite cream. They begged me to slather it on, having no idea it was … drumroll, please….” Chad readily obliged while she paused dramatically. “… henna tattoo dye!”

“You didn’t!” I said with a squeal.

“Oh, but I did!” Ariel squealed back, as we both jumped up and down.

“Oh my god, Ariel,” I said. “Well done, young grasshopper. Seems I totally underestimated your abilities.”

“Your suggestion of putting cucumbers on their eyelids was brilliant. They couldn’t see a thing.”

“I showed up just as Ariel was exiting,” said Chad. “I had no idea what was happening, but she hightailed it outta there, so I just tried to keep up.”

“Thanks for having my back,” Ariel said, beaming at him adoringly.

“No problem,” Chad answered, his face still flush. “High-maintenance chicks never were my thing.”

“Okay, well, we can reasonably assume that the Itneys will be busy for at least the next hour or so trying to repair the damage—”

A loud crash interrupted my thought and we all turned to see Dex sprawled on the floor next to an overturned table. He was quickly surrounded by several concerned teammates.

“I think I broke it,” he said, groaning. Riley and Brooke put his arms over their shoulders and moved him, limping, over to a bench. Chad leaned down to take a look and ran a hand over Dex’s ankle.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “More likely just a bad sprain of the anterior talofibular.” He responded to our collective looks of surprise with a nonchalant shrug. “I’m planning to study sports medicine in college. This is basic first aid stuff. Speaking of, do you guys have a first aid kit down here? We should put some ice on this and wrap it up.”

“Yeah, there’s one next to Randall’s desk,” Ariel said. “I’ll get it.”

We made Dex as comfortable as possible with some of the blankets and pillows Troy and Derek had picked up on their supply run. When Ariel returned from Randall’s office, she had a grim look on her face and held the yellowish plastic box open for our inspection.

“This thing probably hasn’t been used in over a decade,” she said. “There are some rusty safety pins and a few Band-Aids. That’s it.”

“Typical Randall,” I said. “But don’t worry, Dex. A few of us will head over to Worthington’s and see if they’ll kindly grant us a first aid kit.”

“Maybe we could get them to throw in a pair of crutches, too.” Ariel said.

“Do we have anything we could barter?” I added as an afterthought, though I doubted it would be necessary.

“Wow. You’re actually considering going on a humanitarian mission rather than one of revenge?” said Caleb, one eyebrow raised in disbelief. “That’s new.”

“Believe it or not, most of my ‘missions,’ as you call them,
are
for selfless reasons. But since you don’t know me
at all
, you wouldn’t understand.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” said Caleb. “I’d bet serious money you have an ulterior motive for this.”

“Well, lucky for me I couldn’t care less what you think and as for ‘serious money,’ if you had any, I doubt you’d be wasting your time working at a magic store. Ariel, can you and Troy pull together some portable snacks?”

“Why would they want our crappy food when they’ve got access to Teasers’ steaks and fully loaded baked potatoes?” Ariel asked.

“Junk food is its own currency in the realm of teenage guys. Just grab a couple dozen bags of Funyuns from Sub Zero. I can’t do anything while I’m manacled to this … this vile miscreant.”

“You’re the one who handcuffed us together, princess.”

“You’re the one who said
they weren’t real
.”

“Guys, guys,” said Ariel. “Enough, already. We’re supposed to be helping Dex, remember? Let’s go. But if my salon clientele are back down there, I’m going to need a human shield.”

The “delegation”—Chad, Ariel, Caleb, and I—headed down the hall toward Worthington’s while I silently lambasted my unwilling sidekick. I couldn’t believe I’d considered for even a minute that the two of us might be able to see past our differences long enough to stop feuding. He clearly pegged me for a narcissistic brat, but I was through trying to defend myself. Perhaps I’d been a stuck-up princess before my downfall, but even at my very worst, my motives weren’t diabolical, just selfish and thoughtless. Maybe it was sort of a cosmic joke that I was shackled to someone so misanthropic and judgmental he could only see the worst in me. If so, I wasn’t laughing. My only option as I saw it was to continue along as though I didn’t have this Shrek-wannabe at my side.

“Hold up.” Caleb brought us all to a sudden stop, as if to remind me just how impossible ignoring him would be. With his free hand, he pointed toward Worthington’s. There, a ginger-haired Eastern Prep kid, Harrison Temple, who went by the apt sobriquet “Prince Harry,” sat in a beach chair thumbing through a comic book. A BB gun rested on his knees. Two other kids I didn’t recognize were armed and stationed at either end of the giant drugstore’s entrance. They both wore letterman jackets.

“Jeez,” Chad said. “They really are guarding the perimeter.”

“I’m sure they’re just getting their kicks pretending to play G.I. Joe,” I said. “It’s not like they’d actually be stupid enough to use them.”

“You’re probably right, but better safe than sorry,” Caleb said. “Let’s be cautious. I don’t want to spend any part of this already lame-ass night using tweezers to remove a BB pellet from one of your rear ends.” As we approached, Prince Harry tossed the comic aside, stood up, and slung the BB gun over his shoulder. I was surprised he didn’t have camo greasepaint on his face and a military beret.

“Hey, bro,” Caleb said, “We’ve got a man down on our end. We’re looking for a first aid kit.”

“Hang on a sec,” he said, unclipping a walkie talkie from his waistband. “It’s Miranda Prospero,” he glanced up and down my Hot-Dog Kabob threads. “And co. They want a first aid kit.” He paused, then asked “What do you need it for?”

“What does it matter? We just need it,” Caleb answered. “C’mon, man. Be cool. We have a guy with a sprained ankle.”

“Leave this to me,” I said under my breath to Caleb. I turned to Prince Harry. “Harrison, right? We hung out at Rachel Alonso’s house that time last winter.” If I remembered correctly Prince Harry ended the evening by driving his dad’s Jaguar into a tree, but I decided not to mention that.

“Yeah, so?”

“So, I’m asking you if we can have the first aid kit—and maybe some pain reliever—as a personal favor. We even brought some snacks as a friendly gesture.” I smiled in what I hoped was an ingratiating manner and ushered Ariel forward with the box of junk food we’d brought with us. She held up a bag of Funyuns and shook it temptingly.

“Duh. Worthington’s has a whole aisle of crap like this. Why would we need your stupid little peace offering? Still, I guess we
could
give you a first aid kit—” Harrison turned and eyed the store behind him.

“… But then we’d have to kill you,” said a familiar voice. Brian Bishop had just materialized from behind a display rack of greeting cards and was now standing next to Harrison. Not only were his attempts at humor bad, they were cliché beyond belief.