by Sheri Duff
CHAPTER SIX
Vianna and I pull into the Fieldhouse parking lot shortly after the sun rests behind the mountains. The bright orange moon lights up the eastern sky. It’s a blue moon, the second full moon this month. It looks like the sun is rising for the second time today. It’s huge.
Vianna holds her inline skates in her lap. “Why are we doing this again? I would’ve been happy at home watching movies.”
“Because she can’t do anything by herself.” I put the car in park and pull out my phone. “And this is the only way she’ll go with Tyler.”
I still don’t understand why there needs to be a Sweetheart Skate Event in August. The town of Pine Gulch must think that because it’s six months away from Valentine’s Day that they need a biannual event. It’s like the Christmas in July stuff. I never get presents in July but there are always these ads on television about it. It’s confusing and unnecessary. Just saying.
Text to Natalie: we r only coming cause u can’t do anything by yourself
I show Vianna the text. (Rule Number One: No talking behind each other's back.)
“I’ve heard of double dating, but you’re not my date. No offense.” Vianna turns away. Her forehead touches the window. “Do you think Hunter will show?”
Hunter is the school’s star soccer player-turned-kicker for the football team. Over the summer Vianna and Hunter spent every day on the phone talking and texting, but since school started they barely look at each other. I hope they get together even if it will make me the odd man out. It’s Vianna’s senior year and I think she should have a boyfriend that she can go to all the dances with.
Going by the way Vianna is dressed, she’s hoping he’ll be here. She’s wearing skinny jeans with a white lace shoulder top that will glow if they turn on the black lights. She had her hair cut yesterday after school into an edgy shag that the stylist straightened. If Hunter shows up, I will totally be left in the dust.
I pop the top to my tea and read the cap: “There are more than ninety thousand different kinds of insects in the United States.”
“Let’s hope there are more cute boys at the Fieldhouse than in Pine Gulch,” Vianna opens the car door.
“At least one named Hunter,” I say.
A beat-up black Ford Mustang slides by us, the tires barely missing my foot. “Jerk,” I holler. Another sucky night. I would rather eat dead, raw fish than deal with the boys in the black Ford: Colby and his friends Wes and AJ pile out.
“Hey, Massie, Vianna. Wait,” a girl’s voice echoes from inside the car.
Vianna and I whip our heads toward each other. “She wouldn’t,” I say. We slowly turn toward her.
“She would,” Vianna answers before Natalie sticks her head out of the Mustang. Her body follows, squeezing its way out of the backseat.
“I’m gonna slap her. I don’t care about rule number three,” I say. (Rule Number Three: Never fight over a boy. Boys will come and go. Friendships last forever, if you follow the rules.)
I’m not jealous. Colby’s plain nasty.
Natalie tugs Colby toward us. Wes and AJ follow.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Vianna moans. She hates Wes. In grade school, he flung spit wads at her on a daily basis. Vianna was ecstatic when they made the new district boundaries and he ended up at the other high school. She darts toward the entrance of the Fieldhouse.
I run in after Vianna and let the door shut in Colby’s face. Colby, the biggest jerk around, a womanizing scumbag who doesn’t deserve to inhale the air in an outhouse, stands on the other side of the glass door with his nostrils enlarged. As far as I’m concerned, he can stand there all night. I hope his head explodes. It wouldn’t take much. He’s so full of himself.
I swear Colby’s slept with the entire cheerleading squad at his school and mine. Okay, I shouldn’t say that: there remain a few who won’t let him in. The two LDS girls steer clear of him. And Lizzy and Amber, they refuse to let the scumbag close. But any girl willing, Colby will chase.
“Nice friends,” Colby shoves the door open.
“Better than having you for a date,” Vianna mumbles without looking at him.
“If she’s your date…” Colby looks at me with a wicked grin.
“Man whore.” I glare at him.
“She’s kidding, Colby,” Natalie interrupts, then gives me a dirty look.
“Not kidding. You deserve better than this creep.” I point my finger at Colby. “He’s disgusting.”
“Just because you bitches didn’t come with dates…” he says.
Natalie pulls Colby away. She knows better than to stick around with him talking shit about us. Wes and AJ disappear.
I rummage through my bag, searching for my recreation pass. The smell of popcorn, stale pizza, and moldy rental skates sticks to my hair. I want to go home.
A voice from the desk booms deep, twangy, and rude. “Hurry it up, girl, or move along and let the person behind ya go.”
I don’t look up. “Hold on to your panties,” I tell Mr. Rude. I really don’t need his crap right now. This is another reason for me to turn around and leave. But I won’t ditch Vianna, at least not until she’s happily skating with Hunter. He better show up. I want to go home.
Vianna nudges me. “Um. Massie, you might want to be nice.”
“Nice? He needs to be nice. I’m not his girl,” I say and keep digging.
“Really, the line’s piling up behind ya,” Mr. Rude insists with his deep voice.
Does he really think I care? It’s my turn, people can wait. I still don’t look up. He doesn’t deserve eye contact. He’s probably some scrawny little twit, all voice and no muscle.
I finally feel the zipper of my wallet. It’s stuffed into the bottom of my purse.
The voice says, “Quit lollygaggin’.”
“Lolly what?” I pull my ID card out. “There, I found it.” I slap the card on the counter, make eye contact, and gulp.
It’s him, Mr. Do You Wanna Dance?
I’m going to die. Massie, stay calm and act irritated. And don’t squeak!
“Can’t use this,” he says, smirking as he slides it back to me. The tips of our fingers touch, and there’s a literal spark.
“Ouch!” I pull back. “Why not?” I attempt to glare at him but fail miserably.
He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, his large, muscular arms. Those emerald eyes rip through my soul. He points to a sign on the counter. His smirk changes to a grin. I choke. I can’t pull my eyes away from him to read the stupid sign.
That is a dimple on his chin.
Stomach feels queasy. Knees going week.
He continues pointing to the sign. I force my head to turn. I can’t even focus on the stupid words. It’s like they’re teeny tiny and I’m super old and need reading glasses. He reads the sign for me, his voice super Southern and sexy, the way it was the night of the wedding. “Sweetheart Skate Night. Cost, five dollars for adults, three dollars for students. Seniors fifty-five and older free. Recreation passes will not be allowed for this event.”
“Fine.” I look at his name tag. “Jack.” My voice is a bit higher-pitched than I’d like. I move aside only because I can no longer look at the gorgeous muscular god without turning a thousand shades of red and passing out. I need to pull myself together. I usually don’t act this way around boys. I can hold my own. I mean, I used to be able to hold my own. What is it with him?
Vianna hands Mr. Rude I-Might-Die-If-I-Look-At-Him-One-More-Time three dollars. She giggles. I glare at her.
I pull out a five and slap it on the counter. “Punching any cars lately?”
His smirk fades fast. Shit, now I’ve probably made him mad. I’m so stupid.
“Excuse my friend. She obviously can’t see how cute you are.” Vianna grabs my arm and pulls me away from the front desk.
Just in time, my knees start to shake. I’m afraid I might fall. I obviously pissed him off. He did start it, but I don’t want to sabotage anything either.
Vianna stops when we reach a place where he can no longer see us. “We found him. He’s totally cute and totally your type. What are you doing?”
She nailed it. I see it too. I saw it the day of the wedding. The deep brown curls, the smooth stubble on his face. The color of his eyes that hurts to look into, they suck me in. More than Blake’s ever could. But therein lies the problem. He resembles Blake too much. Except for his size. I can tell that he’s probably a stupid football player, which makes it worse.
I’m trying to rid myself of that jock type. Or at least boys with a perfect build but who don’t know the difference between a metaphor and a meteorite. They pick girls who will “help” them with their homework and keep them on the team. I won’t fall into that trap again. My goal is to specifically stay away from football players, for two reasons. I can think of a million reasons but two suffice.
One, my dad likes football. I’m trying to like any other sport but football. For example, I don’t like baseball but it irritates my dad, which I do enjoy. It’s like paying him back for cheating on my mother. I won’t date soccer players, though. They’re too skinny, almost as bad as skater boys. Although I’d actually consider dating them if it irritated my father enough.
Two, football players are too emotional. More so than players in any other sport, in my opinion. They’re either super roid-like and pissed off all the time, or they cry when they don’t get their way.
Okay, not all of them, but there are lots. It’s annoying. Like the time when Nate Jacobson wasn’t chosen for the freshman first-string quarterback. He cried when he walked off the field. Get over it, work harder, and quit being a damn baby. He was too big to be a quarterback anyway. He would have made a great lineman. Instead he quit football and hung out at Sonic every weekend. I don’t think he’s going graduate either. Or like the time I saw that stupid Colby cry when his school lost to ours in the big game last year. Don’t get me wrong, I like boys who can show emotions. I wish they did it off the field too.
The sad truth is I gravitate toward guys like Jack. I can’t seem to resist them…especially since football is my favorite sport in the whole world. Football players are close to perfect if they are not on roids. They have the perfect build (like the boy with the nametag Jack), strong and confident (not like boy with the nametag Jack—he likes to beat on poor, helpless SUVs in parking lots), can do their own homework (probably like the boy with the nametag Jack—I noticed an AP Biology textbook open next to him), and they’re nice (probably not like the boy with the nametag Jack).
Why am I doing this to myself?
Vianna snaps her fingers in front of my face, “Hello? Are you still here? Or are you over there with Mr. Linebacker?”
Yep, he probably plays football.
I make myself focus. “You’re the one who thinks he’s… What’s the word you used? ‘Cute.’ You go get him, Vianna.”
I act uninterested but I can tell by the tone in her voice that she doesn’t buy it. “I like skinny boys,” she says. It’s true. Had she really thought he was cute, she wouldn’t have talked to him. “Any especially that one.”
She points to Hunter.
“Go.” I push her away from me.
I sit at a table behind the rink and let my skates fall to the floor. I’m not going to use them anyway.
A voice I don’t recognize asks, “Is this seat taken?
I look up and see Alicia’s dad. He’s in red workout pants and a matching zip-up hoodie. I don’t say anything. I really don’t want him sitting down and hanging out with me. Is he crazy?
“Don’t worry, I’m not staying. I thought I would say hi.”
“I’m not worried,” I say. I feel bad. My face must have given away my thoughts. Even though I don’t want the old man sitting next to me, I shouldn’t be rude.
“My daughter makes me come here to work out. She wants me to strengthen my heart. I go eat pizza first, and then I walk around a little bit,” he says.
Again, I say nothing.
Alicia’s dad laughs, “I know.” He pats his oversized belly, then says, “Less pizza, more walking.”
“Not judging,” I say.
“Your dad doesn’t like my outfit,” he says.
“That’s because it’s red.”
“The world doesn’t revolve around football.” Alicia’s dad stands. Before he leaves, he pats my shoulder. “Have a good night, hijita.”
Now I have a title.
I toss my skates over my back. They smack my shoulder blade and it hurts. Hunter and Vianna are skating to some stupid love song. Something about being a love suicide. Who writes crap like that anyway?
I start walking out.
I can feel the pounding of someone behind me.
He’s out of breath. “Hey, you should put those skates on and come out with me,” his voice gasps behind me. I can feel his breath next to my ear.
It’s the wrong voice. I don’t have to turn to see that it’s Blake. I know that I should go on my way but I don’t. I stand there, facing the door.
I really don’t want to be alone.
Blake walks in front of me. “I don’t know how many times or how many different ways I have to say I’m sorry. But I’ll do it. However or whatever you need me to do, I’ll do it. Talk to me, Massie.” He puts his hands together like he’s praying.
I swear if he gets on his knees I’ll smack him with my skates.
Then there’s a part of me that wants to fold into his arms, but I can’t. I remember the tears I shed. I remember the tears my mom shed. Blake is no different from my father—once a cheater, always a cheater. I walk past him toward the door.
“You might regret this one day, Massie.”
“Or not,” I say without looking back. I walk past the front desk. Mr. Linebacker with the nametag Jack is no longer there. Good thing. I don’t want him to think I’m leaving because I’m a dateless loser, which I am.
I text Natalie and find out that she left because she caught Colby with his tongue down some freshman’s throat. I try to get her to go out with me.
8:30 text to Natalie: meet me at Pollywog’s?
Pollywog’s is the local coffee shop. This is also where Natalie works.
8:45 text to Natalie: we can go to my house
8:52 text to Natalie: I can hang with you
She finally texts back as I walk out the door.
8:58 Natalie text to me: no you stay I’m fine
8:59 text to Natalie: u r killing me I don’t wanna stay
When I get to my car, Colby is leaning against his Mustang, which is now next to mine. “Need a ride?”
I consider kicking him in the nads but he’s too strong and he hasn’t done anything to warrant the attack. Colby’s the poster child for why football players shouldn’t take steroids. He’s the Hulk without morals. Colby swears he doesn’t use, but high schools don’t test for muscle enhancers. College will wake him from his super villain world. The first time he tests, he’s done. Without the roids he’s useless.
I dig into my purse. Shit, I can’t find my keys.
“We should go out sometime.” His hazel eyes hide beneath his bent-out-of-shape baseball cap. His blond curls shoot out the sides.
“Get in your car and go home.” I keep digging in my purse. I look down but I keep an eye on the pig beside me. It’s not good enough to hear him squeal, I need to know his every move.
“You know you want me,” he says.
The rattle of keys behind me makes me turn. Mr. Linebacker with the nametag Jack stands behind me. He’s glaring at Colby but talking to me. “Missing something?” Jack dangles the keys in the air.
“I’d stay away from her, dude. She’s a tease,” Colby says.
Jack stiffens and his hands close into fists. “I suggest you shut your mouth before I slap the fire out of you.”
“You can have her.” Colby slithers into his Mustang. He roars the engine before burning rubber on the way out of the parki
ng lot.
Jack towers over me. My keys seem tiny in his hands. I feel a little stupid. I could have been jacked, no pun intended. I always know my surroundings. I always have my keys before I leave a building, and I never text in dark parking lots. My mom has drilled this into me a hundred million times.
“Thanks again,” I say.
Mr. Linebacker with the nametag Jack doesn’t respond. Instead, he hits the button on the remote and my car unlocks. He opens my door and waves his hand for me to climb in. Once I’m in and my seat belt’s fastened, he hands me my keys.
“Don’t get into any more pissing matches with skunks, ya hear?” he adds before he shuts the door to my car.
Great! Gorgeous. Smart (I’m almost sure of it). Strong, confident, and—maybe nice.
He still could be a crazy football player. He did punch that SUV.
He stands, waiting for me to leave. Now I look like a helpless moron. I shove the key in the ignition, start my Camaro, and put it in gear.
