Aces Up

by Lauren Barnholdt

  “No, you can’t come over,” Robyn yells. “It’s midnight and my dad’s car just got repossessed and I need to go. To. Sleep! I know, I know. … I love you, too, but it’s late at night!”

  My dad sighs and adds two huge spoonfuls of sugar to his tea. “She’s saying, ‘I love you,’” he says sadly. “And he wants to come over.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “Maybe next time.” I reach over and give him a pat on the hand.

  “I dunno,” my dad says dejectedly. “Things might go on like this for a while.” And I’m not sure if he’s talking about Robyn and Leonardo or everything else.

  ? ? ? ?

  The next morning. School. I’m waiting for Chris Harmon at his locker before first period, since I need to ask him about getting me a fake birth certificate. It’s 7:56, and the bell is going to ring in ten minutes. I rushed to get here early, watching my rearview mirror the whole time to make sure no one was tailing me, either a) wanting to repossess my car or b) making a second attempt to get me to join some shady poker society.

  Although I do feel a little better after spending more than an hour last night Googling “Aces Up.” There wasn’t that much info, but from what I could gather, Cole was telling the truth. They’re a secret poker club that has cells all over the country, and its members apparently get together and pool their money in an effort to win big. There was nothing about them killing people or luring innocents into hotel rooms. But still. You can never be too careful.

  You’d think getting to school early would give me plenty of time to ask Chris about a birth certificate. I mean, the conversation should go something like this:

  Me: Chris, do you make fake birth certificates?

  Chris: No.

  Me: Okay, thanks anyway. (Goes to freak out and break into hives.)

  or alternately:

  Me: Chris, do you make fake birth certificates?

  Chris: Yes, when do you need it by?

  Me: The sooner, the better.

  Chris: Okay, that will be x dollars and I’ll have it to you by x.

  Me: Thanks. (Does happy dance down the hall.)

  But conversations with Chris never really go this way. Not that I’ve had that many. Pretty much the only time we’ve interacted was when I got my fake ID from him. (Well, if you don’t count the times in seventh-grade study hall when he used to snap my training bra and laugh his head off like it was the most hilarious thing since Best Week Ever.)

  Anyway, during our fake-ID conversation, Chris had a hard time wrapping his head around the fact that I wanted an ID for a job. He kept asking me what bars I wanted to go to, and I kept telling him it was for a job, but he still didn’t get it. (“A job? You mean like a … stripper job?”) Finally, when I told him it was for the casino, he rolled his eyes and said, “Why didn’t you just tell me you wanted to gamble? Jesus, it’s not like I’m going to tell anyone.”

  I check my watch: 8:57. Come on, Chris, I think. Get your ass in here. And then I see Max Heller loping down the hall toward me. Oh. My. God.

  How could I have forgotten that Max’s locker is right next to Chris Harmon’s? Of all the mornings for me to be having an encounter with Max Heller, this has to be the worst. My hair is not combed, I am wearing light blue fleece pants and a white T-shirt, and I have forgotten to put on socks.

  I didn’t get much sleep last night (probably because of the strange encounter I had with a hot poker-playing thug and the realization that my parents are in BIG TROUBLE and my whole family might be one step away from homelessness), and as a result, my hair is a mess, my clothes are wrinkled, and I will probably have blisters due to improper footwear.

  I look around for a door I can slip through, or a hallway I can duck into, but it’s too late. Max is standing in front of me before I can get out of there.

  “Hey,” Max says.

  “Oh,” I say. “Hi. Um, I’m just waiting for Chris Harmon. I have to ask him something.” I shift my bag from one arm to the other and look down at the floor.

  “Cool,” he says, sounding slightly uncomfortable.

  “I have to ask him something about a birth certificate,” I say, deciding to be more specific.

  I do not want there to be any doubt in Max’s head about who I’m waiting for, i.e., I do not want him to think that I am waiting for him.

  This is because Max Heller and I have a bit of a … history, I guess you would call it. Max and I used to be BFFs. Last year, when I was a junior, we had this great friendship. We had fun with each other and told each other everything, and even though we spent almost all our time together, there was none of that weird “will they or won’t they get together” vibe that seems to permeate every teen drama on The CW.

  We were just friends.

  But then, on the last night of the summer, we were both at a party (Robyn’s friends were throwing it, and since I was her little sister, I got to tag along and I brought Max with me), and somehow Max and I ended up alone on the back porch, and I don’t even remember what we were talking about or how it happened, but suddenly there was this … electricity in the air, and we kept moving closer and closer to each other, and right at the very end of the night, I thought he was going to kiss me. But he didn’t, and I spent the whole ride home in Robyn’s car trying to convince myself I’d imagined it, and that Max and I really were just friends.

  But then Max texted me later that night at around two o’clock in the morning and was like, “That was a really fun night, I def should have kissed you,” and then I texted back, “Why didn’t you?” and he said, “Did you want me to?” and I said, “Yes,” and then he said, “Next time.” I couldn’t sleep all night, and I spent like five hours getting ready for the first day of school, the next day, and when I showed up, it was super-awkward and Max said hi to me but then kind of acted like I didn’t exist.

  Since then, um, we haven’t really spoken.

  “Cool,” Max says now. He shrugs, but he also looks slightly alarmed, like he’s afraid I’m here to confront him and go all psycho girl, ranting and raving about how he never called me or talked to me. (Full confession: I have been tempted to do that. I really have. But I do have some pride, so I’ve totally been able to resist. Well. There might have been a few times when Robyn had to spend hours talking me out of confronting him, and once when my phone had to be taken from me and locked in the trunk of her car. But that only happened once. Or twice.)

  Max starts opening his locker, and I turn and look down the hall. Damn. What am I supposed to do now? I can’t just leave, because then he’s going to know that I’m leaving because he’s here. And besides, I really need that birth certificate. But if I stay, I’m going to have to make conversation with him, and honestly, what would we talk about? Somehow “How have you been?” doesn’t seem like it would work. Neither does “What ever happened to that kiss you were going to give me?” or “Hey, remember when we were friends?” God. I really, really wish I’d brushed my hair.

  “So,” Max says, “are you, uh … are you doing that tutoring thing?” He still sounds a little worried.

  “What tutoring thing?” I ask, my head spinning from his closeness. Which kind of makes no sense, since until that night last summer, I never considered him anything more than a friend. But now apparently everything’s switched and I can’t help noticing how hot he is.

  “There’s this tutoring thing,” he says. He’s wearing a blue hoodie with a big yellow M on it. Looks like a school logo. Michigan, maybe? His short dark hair is a little wet. But not gel-like wet. More like he just got out of the shower. Thinking about Max in the shower makes me blush, and I’m reminded of the time last year when Robyn, Max, Leonardo, and I all went swimming in Leonardo’s pool. Max has a six-pack. I take a deep breath and force my thoughts away from a shirtless Max.

  But I still can’t help noticing how hot he is. Deep hazel eyes. One crooked bicuspid, which is totally sexy, like Matthew Fox from Lost. His forearms look tan and strong as he takes the books he needs for the morni
ng out of his locker. “Ms. Kellogg is asking for some volunteer tutors to help people who are having trouble.”

  “Are you going to tutor?” I ask politely.

  “No, um, I’m looking for a tutor,” he says.

  “You’re having trouble in calculus?” I ask, kind of shocked. Max is very smart.

  “Sort of,” he says. He looks at the ground, like he’s embarrassed. It’s weird that after we were so close he’d feel embarrassed telling me that he’s having trouble in calculus. It makes me sad, and for a second, I don’t say anything. “I, uh, just want to make sure I get at least a B, so I don’t screw up my transcript.” The bell rings, signaling the beginning of first period, and Max slams his locker door shut. “Uh, I don’t think Chris is coming,” he says.

  “Me neither,” I say dismally. Damn. What am I going to tell Adrienne now? She doesn’t seem like the type who’s easily put off by excuses.

  We’re walking down the hall together now. Me and Max. Walking. Together. For the first time in months. Although we kind of had no choice. We’re in the same first-period math class, so unless one of us wanted to take the long way around and risk being late, we had to walk together. I mean, I guess one of us could have made some excuse, like we had to use the bathroom, or that we forgot something in—

  “Anyway,” Max says. “So, uh, would you ever … would you ever think about tutoring me?”

  “Tutoring you?” I repeat dumbly. Oh. My. God. Max Heller is asking me to TUTOR HIM. Is he a little crazy? Does he not remember what happened between us? Are Max Heller and I going to forget about our past and maybe become friends again? Until one day in a few weeks, when we’re looking over some equations, I’ll lean in, and Max will say, “I like the way you say ‘x.’ I’ve always thought it was really sexy, ever since junior year.” And then I’ll say, “You mean like this? ‘Exxxxxxx,’” and then Max will lean over and—

  Wait a minute. “Wait a minute,” I say. What about Parvati? “What about Parvati?” Parvati Carlson is Max’s girlfriend. She is also my math archenemy.

  “What about her?” Max asks, frowning, like Parvati is the last thing on his mind. Which makes no sense, since they’ve been dating for two months. Yup, Max got together with Parvati about two weeks after our near-miss kiss. Which is one reason I’ve never bothered to ask him about what happened between us. I mean, when a guy almost kisses you and then starts dating someone else, it’s kind of clear how he feels.

  I say calmly, “Why don’t you ask her to tutor you?”

  “Thought of that,” he says. “But we probably wouldn’t get much done.”

  Oh. Right. Of course he wouldn’t ask his girlfriend to tutor him. They’d probably get carried away and start making out. Or even having sex. My stomach flips as I think of something else. If he can’t have Parvati tutor him because they will immediately start having sex, does that mean he wants me to tutor him because he doesn’t want to have sex with me? Is that why he didn’t kiss me last summer? Because I am unkissable and unsexable?

  Well, he can forget it. I am nobody’s not-having-sex tutor. I am nobody’s you-won’t-tempt-me-so-it’s-okay-to-hang-out-with-you tutor. Max Heller can fail math for all I care. In fact, I hope he fails math and then flunks out of school. And ends up on the streets, and then someone will ask him where it all went wrong, and he’ll be like, “I expected Shannon Card to be my you-won’t-tempt-me-so-it’s-okay-to-hang-out-with-you tutor and she turned me down and now I’m ruined.”

  “So, what do you say?” Max Heller looks at me with his beautiful hazel eyes under his long eyelashes and smiles at me with his crooked bicuspid.

  I sigh. “Okay.”

  “Great,” he says. “There’s a meeting after school today. Anyone who’s interested is supposed to go.”

  “Well,” I say. “Uh, how long is the meeting?” I have to be to work at three, and I can’t afford to be late on my second day.

  “Probably only an hour or so,” he says. We’re at the classroom now, and he stops and leans against the wall outside. “Parvati says these things don’t usually last that long.”

  Ugh. How does Parvati know? This is the first time we’ve had an informational meeting about tutoring, and in my experience, informational meetings always run long and get very boring. At the informational meeting for Young Meditators, we meditated for half an hour after all the information was given. Total waste of time.

  “Um, well,” I say, “I might have to call my boss and ask her if it’s okay if I’m in a little late to work.”

  “You have a job?” He frowns.

  “Yes,” I say, and decide not to offer any more information. He’s not the only one who’s going around creating a whole new life for himself. I have a job that he knows nothing about. I wonder what he would think if he knew I’d been invited to join an underground poker society. Probably he’d be shocked. I’m not sure if I imagine it, but I think I see a look of sadness flash across Max’s face. We’re standing pretty close together now, and I can smell his mint shampoo and laundry soap. I shiver.

  “You cold?” Max asks. He frowns again.

  “Uh, no,” I say brilliantly. “Are you?”

  “No,” he says. “I’m actually a little hot.” Oh, God. I’m starting to feel light-headed.

  “Hello!” Parvati Carlson pops her head out of the math room. Max looks startled.

  “Oh,” he says. “Uh, hi.” She walks over and loops her arm through Max’s. At least he has the decency to look slightly uncomfortable.

  Important things to know about Parvati:

  1. She always matches. As in, her clothes, her accessories, her shoes … You would never catch her carrying a black purse with a navy blue outfit. Today she’s wearing a green polo shirt, a green and pink striped flippy skirt, a green headband, and white sneakers.

  2. She has a weird way of making you feel bad about yourself: bragging about her accomplishments and, at the same time, pretending to be totally embarrassed by them.

  3. No matter what kind of news you have, or how long you’ve been talking to her, she always turns the conversation back around to herself.

  “Are you ready for the test?” Parvati asks. She smiles sweetly. Parvati is also a big fan of double meanings. Like she’ll pretend to be your friend, but you have to really look deep into what she’s saying to figure it out. For example, “Are you ready for the test?” sounds completely innocent, right? But it’s not. She really means that she wants me to fail miserably.

  “I hope so,” I say. This isn’t true. I actually think I’m going to nail the thing (my brilliant math aptitude plus my hours of studying and ability to focus under immense pressure), but I can’t let her know that.

  Whoever gets the highest grade in calc this year receives a five-thousand-dollar scholarship to the school of their choice, courtesy of Arthur Peabody, some rich guy who used to go here. Parvati and I are pretty much neck and neck for the scholarship, so we do this thing where I downplay how well I’m doing and Parvati tries to get in my head by bragging about how well she’s doing. It’s all completely infantile, but somehow necessary. (The weird thing is I don’t even like math. I want to major in English and creative writing. But my best subject is math. So the Peabody Scholarship is my chance to score a little extra money for Wellesley, where I’ll be free to write short stories to my heart’s content and leave my graphing calculator at home in my sock drawer, if I so choose.)

  “Okay, so, like …,” Parvati says. She studies her perfectly manicured fingernails. She leans in close. “I think I’m going to do really, really well on it.”

  “Good for you,” I say. Parvati does not need a scholarship. Parvati has two horses, private tennis lessons, three small dogs and wears a new pair of shoes every day. However, her family is totally into her getting the scholarship, because they want the “prestige.” Her word, not mine.

  “Also,” she says, “Ms. Kellogg? She pulled me aside this morning and was like, ‘Parvati, you have to join the tutoring program, b
ecause you’re one of the best students we have.’” She smooths the bottom of her hair and then slides her other hand up and down the strap of her green messenger bag. “She’s giving me two people.” Parvati says “two people” like she’s completely embarrassed that Ms. Kellogg asked her to tutor to begin with, and even more shocked that she was asked to tutor two students.

  “That’s awesome,” I say. Because that’s the thing about Parvati. You can’t really be mean to her when she’s doing her whole “aw, shucks” routine. Otherwise you’re the one who ends up looking like a jerk.

  “Did Max talk to you about doing it?” she asks. She smiles up at him, her face glowing. Ugh.

  “Uh, yeah,” Max says. “I just asked her, and she, uh, she said yes.” At least he’s stuttering. I can’t help but feel happy that he’s uncomfortable.

  “That is so cool,” she says. “I’ve been bugging him to do it. You’re the only one I would trust, Shannon.” She smiles like she’s being nice, but it’s obvious what she means: she doesn’t want him spending time with any of the hot girls in the class, like Abby Marsh, who wears boy-shorts underwear as gym clothes. She obviously doesn’t know about our near-miss kiss. “So you’ll be at the meeting?”

  “Yes,” I say. “As long as my boss says I can be a little late to work.”

  She nods, like it makes perfect sense that I would now need a job. “How’s your dad’s job search going?”

  “Good,” I lie. I have no idea how she knows my dad lost his job. Maybe Max told her? We were still friends when it happened. I look at him, but his face is blank.

  “It’s just so horrible, all this financial stuff,” Parvati says. “I’m so stressed out about it. I can hardly eat, like, my size fours are just falling off me.” Parvati comes from old money; she’s the kind of rich that ensures that even if her family took a big hit, she would still be more than fine. I resist the urge to stab her with my pencil.

  “So, ah, I guess I’ll call my boss now,” I say in an effort to refocus my thoughts. “You know, to make sure it’s okay that I go to the meeting.”