by M. F. Lorson
“I refuse to leave this house until you explain why you look so foxy.”
Mom winked at me, “I do look pretty good. Don’t I?”
I looked down at the invisible watch on my wrist, “I’m waiting.”
Mom sighed, “This is going to sound odd but, I’m chaperoning your Homecoming dance.”
“Say what? You know I’m not going to HoCo right?”
“Yes Lane, I liked to think you would tell me if you were. Mrs. Alexander had to cancel last minute to take her horse to the vet and Principal Richards ask Peter to fill in.”
“Oh…” I said. The real reason behind Mom’s little black dress hit me like a mack truck.
“So when you say you’re ‘chaperoning’ you mean, you have a date with Mr. Hunt…you saucy cougar.”
Mom set her eyeliner down on the counter and turned to face me. “If you don’t want me to go, I won’t, but now that Peter isn’t your teacher, we thought—”
“You thought you could go on a date with my super hot, super young teacher, and not tell me about it?”
“I was going to tell you.”
“Mmhmm.”
“Lane…”
“This is just awkward because I don’t know where it’s going to be appropriate to start calling Mr. Hunt daddy. Like at school, or just at home?”
Mom grabbed a hand towel off the counter beside her and chucked it at my head.
“Watch the hair!” I cried. “I spent a lot of time making myself look natural. I can’t have you messing it up.”
Mom stepped over to me, smoothing the hair around my face. “You look lovely. The perfect mix of effort made and ‘what this old thing?’.”
“Thank you,” I responded. “That is exactly what I was going for.”
“Mission accomplished,” she declared. “Now, final look. Good? Bad? Revision needed,” she asked, smoothing her little black dress. I had to laugh. That was Mom for you, always thinking like a writer. Hopefully, tonight ended like the good parts of her books, lots and lots of sweet, sweet kissing. I gave her just the right amount of accolade before heading out the door.
It was not a night for helmet hair, so I made the short walk from my place to the local diner, pulling my fleece-lined denim jacket close to my body to stave off the cold. Walking had seemed like a good idea, until about a mile in when I would have paid good money to tear those eighty dollar boots off and throw them into the river. The suffering was worth it though. Tonight I wanted to be taller, if only slightly. It was hard for someone to make moon eyes at you when they were constantly looking down at you.
Mackey waved from their booth at the back of the restaurant as I pulled open the door to The Platform Diner. I could tell from the amount of winking and nudging going around the table that I wasn’t the only one who thought I looked good. Anderson hopped up immediately to make room for me beside Mackey inside the booth.
“So,” said Ryan, once I had settled, “Andie tells me you’re going to write about us.”
“That’s my assignment,” I answered, realizing for the first time that one of the profiles I had to write would be on Andie’s cousin. I thought about what she’d said about Ryan making the team being the difference between a good night at home and a disaster. I wondered if her family really cared that much about high school basketball.
Anderson smiled smugly. “And you know a lot about basketball, huh?” he asked. I felt my defenses rising. This was the Anderson Webb I expected. He had about as much respect for women as male congress members did.
“I would say my knowledge of basketball is about as thorough as your passing game,” I answered with just the right amount of sass. “Improvement needed but a good start.” Mackey spit his coke across the table. “I’m just kidding,” I said, grabbing a napkin from the center of the booth and swabbing up the spray of soda before it left a sticky mess we all had to sit in. “No. I do not know much about basketball, Anderson. But, I am a quick study. Plus, unless you guys are planning to turn your previous lackluster record into a winning season, my articles are gonna need to slant more toward the personal.”
“Mackey mentioned that,” said Ryan. “We don’t have to like, tell you our deepest fears or about the time our first pet died do we?”
I laughed, “That’s a little deeper than I had intended to go with these. I’m more interested in who you are as a person and how that impacts your game.” I answered. “Does that make sense?”
Ryan nodded affirmatively.
“And this isn’t some kind of nerd revenge thing either, right?” Anderson asked skeptically.
“Seriously dude,” growled Mackey. “You promised you weren’t going to—”
“It’s alright,” I said, preparing to answer Anderson. If I really wanted to get anything worth writing about out of the starting five I wasn’t going to do it by having Mackey insist they handle me with kid gloves. “No, this isn’t a trap. Though I’m curious to know what you are so afraid of having published?” Judging by the sheepish look on Anderson’s face there was a lot he didn’t want to be published.
I reached into my purse to grab my notebook and pen when our waitress stopped at the table, her arms full to the brim with delicious greasy fried foods.
“You weren’t here when we ordered so I guessed what you would want. I hope you don’t mind,” said Mackey. The waitress set a massive platter of totchos in front of me. For someone who had never shared a meal with me, Mackey was a pretty good guesser. Then again who didn’t like nachos made with a base layer of tater tots? I looked down at the messy plate in front of me. This wasn’t date food, that was for sure. No one looked dainty pulling cheesy tots covered in sour cream out from under a slather of chili and green onions. But it was delicious, and I was not so independent as to be offended that he thought about what I might want before I arrived.
“Looks awesome,” I said, grabbing a fork from the napkin place setting in front of me. We’ll get to the questions at some point I thought, digging a tot out from its cheesy, chili-covered home.
The funny thing was, we didn’t get to the questions. Instead, the four of us had a blast chowing down and cracking jokes about the rest of the starting five who apparently couldn’t bear to abandon romantic pursuit at the Homecoming Dance in order to honor their Friday night at The Platform tradition.
“You do this every weekend?” I asked. Surprised to discover the team hung out together so much off the court.
“For the most part,” answered Anderson. “But everyone misses on occasion.”
“Some more than others,” said Mackey rolling his eyes.
Anderson laughed, “It’s okay, Mackey, your boyfriend will be back before you know it. High School girlfriends never last.” My first thought was, not the way you treat them but I held my tongue. So far the evening had been pleasant. Anderson had been decent enough. All I had to do was ignore everything I’d ever heard about him at school, and I might even like the guy at some point.
“Boyfriend?” I inquired.
Anderson cracked up, “Don’t worry, Lane. Mackey is all about the ladies. He just has his tighty-whities in a knot because Preston keeps bailing on us to hang out with his girlfriend, Beth.”
“I do not wear tighty-whities,” declared Mackey wadding up his napkin and throwing it at
Anderson. “But I am offended that a girl he has been seeing for a year takes precedence over our long-standing team tradition.”
“Why don’t you just invite her along?” I asked, curious how I had scored an invitation if there was some kind of a “no girls” policy.
“We have!” said Mackey and Anderson in unison.
“But half the time Beth has an excuse,” said Mackey.
“And not the kind of excuse that warrants skipping Platform,” said Anderson, implying there was only one kind of excuse they would accept.
I looked over at Ryan. Did he feel like the third wheel in these two’s love fest as well? It occurred to me that Ryan had a long uphill battle when it
came to fitting in on this team. They were obviously trying to include him, but he would never have the years of history that these guys had.
When the bill came, we all gave our cash to Anderson who put it on his Dad’s credit card.
“Courtesy of Charles Webb,” said Anderson. “He may never be around in human form but when it comes to plastic affection, my father is president of the PBA.”
“PBA?” I asked.
“Plastic Bribery Association!” Anderson said with a smirk. “He pays for my love. Although I can’t blame him, it has proven to be an effective strategy. I call at least once a week to keep the money train going.” I smiled weakly, thinking of my own Dad. I definitely didn’t have a credit card with his name on it tucked in my pocket. And I’m not sure that would get me to call him regularly even if I did, but I knew what it was like to be an afterthought.
Later that night as I walked back home I thought about the evening's conversation. I hadn’t taken a single note or asked any questions, but I’d learned plenty about Anderson just by watching him interact with his teammates.
For example, I couldn’t help but notice how Anderson flew out of his seat the moment I walked in the door. He made sure that I sat next to Mackey, even though it meant he had to move to the outside edge of the booth and I had to squeeze awkwardly between them. I had no intention of hooking up with Mackey, and I was pretty sure he wasn’t interested in me either but it was nice that Anderson had given up his seat so we could sit together.
And there was the fact that Ryan had been included in their Friday night tradition at all. If he were really the jerk that everyone made him out to be, you would think he would exclude the new guy at least until he had earned their trust and respect. Instead, he was hosting a guys night just to make sure Ryan and Mackey didn’t feel like losers for not having dates to the dance.
Anderson Webb ruled the halls of Rosemark High School with a cruel fist. He was the school villain, an absolute chauvinist, and really not a good tipper, but he was a leader when it came to his teammates.
I loathed it when other people were right, but Mackey had hit the nail on the head when he said Anderson was more than his jerky public persona. I was going to have to be nice in my article after all.
Chapter Ten
It turns out it was easier to tell Andie her article wouldn’t be published than I thought. All weekend I worried about how I would tell her. Should I be honest? Should I make something up? Could I possibly get away with throwing Elliott under the bus without him knowing? None of my options were very appealing. The last time the two of us talked she was filled with optimism. It was me who told her she didn’t need my help — me who told her to go hard or go home. Now I was going to tell her she wasn’t good enough after all. I felt like one of the judges on the Great British Bake Off, ‘and now I have the terrible job of’ only instead of sending home a baker I was insulting someone I was starting to consider an ally. I steeled myself for anger, defensive behavior, maybe even a few tears. And then I gave it to her plain and straight. I was a terrible liar, anyway.
“Andie, we need to talk,” I started.
“Uh oh,” said Andie. “Conversations that start with ‘we need to talk’ never end with, ‘I had a lovely time; let’s do it again soon.’”
I furrowed my brows. Of course, she would make it hard by being funny. If only she put that wit to work in her articles. Instead, everything she wrote read like the ingredients on the back of your cereal box.
I took a deep breath, then spewed out the words as fast as possible. “Your article won’t be in the paper today, sorry.” I cringed, prepared for the worst, possibly even bodily harm. After all, how well did we really know each other?
Instead, Andie’s face flooded with relief. “You can relax, Lane. I’m glad it isn’t being published.” I released the tension in my shoulders. “It’s bad. I know that.”
It was bad. But I bit my tongue, knowing full well that was not the response she was looking for.
“Be honest. You think I’m a terrible writer.”
I did not want to be honest in this situation. I wanted to be nice. Why was it the two rarely went hand in hand?
“It wasn’t great,” I said.
“Not great is an overstatement.”
“Okay, it sucked,” I admitted. “It sucked hardcore. But that doesn’t mean you’re a terrible writer.” I quickly added. “There has to be a reason you’re bombing these assignments.”
“Like being a bad writer.” She scowled, “That could be the reason yeah?”
I frowned, “No, that is not the reason. You need...you need to find your own story!” I suggested. The solution to Andie’s problem was finally presenting itself to me.
“All my story ideas sucked remember? That’s how you got stuck working with me in the first place.”
I flinched, I didn’t want Andie to feel like I had been suckered into helping her. It was true in the beginning, but that wasn’t how it felt anymore.
“That was before. You can’t just give up because nothing brilliant came to you the first week of school,” I said. “The Gazette is the Rosemark High School paper, and you’re new to Rosemark. Maybe, it’s time for you to re-brainstorm. You’ve seen how things go around here. What aren’t people talking about that they should be?”
Andie shrugged, “I don’t know. This might just not be my thing.” I wound up and punched her in the shoulder, hard.
“Ouch!” she cried, her eyes going wide. “What the heck was that for?”
“That was a sucker punch,” I said. “Because you’re being a big sucker right now.” The two of us stood in silence, Andie with her mouth hanging open, rubbing her sore arm, me just waiting for her to say something, even “let's not be friends, you psychopath!” And then it started. First, she giggled, then I giggled, then we were full on snorting in the hallway.
“I feel like we just handled that like men,” joked Andie. “I irritated you, you hit me, and then we got over it.”
I laughed, grateful that I wasn’t sitting in the principal's office explaining why I physically abused a fellow student. “Maybe they are onto something.”
“Maybe,” she answered. “And maybe you’re right. It would be wrong to throw in the towel so quickly.”
I smirked, “Or, perhaps you don’t need your own story ideas. What if what you really need is a new assignment? Look how well you used that sports metaphor!”
Andie laughed, “Just wait till track season. We can switch assignments then if you still want to. I don’t have any family members on that team.”
“Deal!” I answered. I would get through the basketball season, but I was not following pole vaulters around asking about their hopes and aspirations. Ain’t nobody interested in track and field!
With my conversation with Andie out of the way, the rest of the day flew by without consequence. Next thing I knew it was five to three and the office assistants were making their rounds, a thick stack of Gazettes balanced in their arms. It was my favorite part of every two-week period. By the time I exited Geometry the Gazette was all over campus. I loved seeing people leaning up against their lockers, reading the articles we’d all busted our butts on.
I’d done my best to profile Anderson in a way that didn’t overly glorify him. After all, this kid played an essential role on the team, but it was still a terrible team. It wasn’t like scouts were filling the stands, anxious to get a piece of Anderson Webb. I’d even used a few casual quotes from the diner, that was the human aspect, and the part that a guy like Anderson needed most. I hoped I was setting up buzz for the season because quite frankly, I’d only been to one basketball game last year (thanks to Jillie’s hardcore crush on the senior shooting guard) and the stands hadn’t exactly been packed with adoring fans.
I felt a big clap on the shoulder from behind.
“You killed it, Cub! The article is awesome. You made that douchebag almost human.”
I laughed, “Yeah well that was the idea. Thou
gh it wasn’t easy.” I admitted.
“Welcome to my life, Cub, welcome to my life. Speaking of,” said Mackey, positively shining with exuberance “I’m looking forward to my own article.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, something like Loveable Giant Carries Team of Miscreants on Shoulders of Steel.”
“Wow! Just wow!” I teased, “You think a lot of yourself.”
Mackey shrugged, “We can work on the headline.”
“We?”
“This is a team effort now, Cub.”
I grinned as he slid his arm around my shoulder. “Just think of all the things we can cover this season? Heck, with your ability to make people sound more appealing than they really are, I have a real shot at a prom date this year.” I looked all twelve inches up at him.
“Do I look like I teach little blind children to spell in my spare time?”
Mackey scrunched up his face in confusion. “No?”
“I’m not a miracle worker, Mackey,” I said, slipping out from under his grasp before he could pummel me. I was halfway down the hallway before his huge laugh told me he’d finally gotten the joke. I wore a perma-smile the whole way home, thinking about his expression, and maybe just a little about how right it felt with his arm around my shoulder.
I was high on publication as I bound into the house and tossed Mom a copy of the paper.
“For you, my dear. To add to the creepy scrapbook, I assume you are still keeping? You know, for when I am famous, and you sell all my old articles in exchange for mad shoe buying cash.”
Mom snagged the paper mid-air, looking up just in time to keep it from colliding with her ever-growing pile of manuscripts. She’d started working from home when I was little and just never stopped. That pile represented all the books she couldn’t finish. Behind her, neatly shelved in alphabetical order were her success stories. The titles her publisher didn’t tell her to scrap immediately. She added this week’s copy of the Gazette to the shelf behind her. Right next to the copies from last year, and the year before that.
“I ran into Jillie’s Mom today,” said Mom. I felt the smile on my face begin to sag as she pulled her reading glasses off to rest on her chest. She still wore the long embroidery thread wrapped chain I’d made her at scout camp. It kept her from losing her glasses, but it likely also the reason Mr. Hunt was her first date in years.
