by Anne Eliot
He looks up at me then, and I can't look away. “I want to add one additional requirement onto this.”
“Anything. Please, just don't back out.” I scan deeper into his green-gold gaze wishing I could read his mind.
“If you're going to hang out with me and my friends, you have to be nice.”
“Nice?” I swallow.
“Nice like you're being now. Like you were yesterday—to everyone at the interview.”
I pull a face and prepare to blast him for calling me nice, but he holds up a finger to stop me from speaking as he continues, “If you aren't, no one will believe a second of this. I don't date bitchy girls. And there's my grandmother to consider. As much as I've heard you say I've got a reputation as a player, you are rumored to be a huge ‘capital-B’. I'd prefer that word not be part of how I bring you up to Gran—”
“God. Stop yourself.” I swallow. I don't want to admit how much his words hurt. “I'll be nice, but you have to be nice back. And—I—I—won't let you blab about this contract—”
“Honestly. Stop yourself this time.” He holds up his hand. “I'm famous for not talking about stuff. You've got no worries there. I'm not telling any of my friends about this—about you—about our contract.” He seems to assess me. “If it leaks because of me, you can keep the money. How's that?”
“Do you think I'm going to be the one that blows our cover?”
He shrugs. “Trust me, and I'll trust you. It's as easy as that.”
I have to work to get some steady sounding words to come out. Instead of layering on a snide comment, I look him in the eye and hit him with the absolute truth: “I'll trust you. But know that I hate, down to my core that I have to do that. I hate trusting anyone but myself.”
I look away, but I can feel him staring.
“Jess.” His voice is whisper low. “You have my word. I won't let anyone—anything hurt you. This will work out. It will.”
I risk a glance at him, feeling almost consumed by the concern I'd heard in his voice. For once I'm sure I've read him right. He cares. He means what he's just said. I can only nod and rub the creases in my jeans flat over my knees. My throat is dry, and my eyes are heavy with exhaustion and unshed tears. I'm suddenly hot, then too cold.
I glance up again to find him still staring. “What are you waiting for? Write that all down so we can sign it,” I manage, blinking.
He scrawls his name across the bottom of the paper and hands it over with a half-smile. “Your turn.”
I sign my name next to his and hand it back. It's all I can do not to scream: AWKWARD. If only I could—but my voice seems to no longer exist.
Gray heads out from behind the curtain, and I stay put so I can get myself together. When I follow him out, he's turning on Mr. Williams' old-school printer/copier machine.
“I'm sure good ol' Coach won't mind lending us his personal paper stash. Not for this,” he mutters. After a couple of false starts and stops, he figures out how to make it work, and hands me a copy.
“Well. That's it, girlfriend.” He grins, folding his copy of the contract and stuffing it into his back pocket.
“Mmmh.” I nod. I'm still completely unable to form a sentence. I turn to grab my messenger bag and carefully place my contract inside. I don't want to wrinkle it in case I decide to frame it and hang it next to my future college diploma.
When I turn back, Gray's got his phone out. It's lit up like he's checking texts. His eyes are gleaming. “Let's exchange numbers. I'll text you at 7PM sharp.” He tosses me another one of those perfect, heart-stopping, winks and raises his eyebrows up high. “I'd hate for your parents to miss my charming message.”
My face is so stiff from holding the same expression in place that my cheeks actually hurt. I wonder if I've cracked a molar.
God. Seriously? Gray Porter, my hired boyfriend wants my phone number so he can text me tonight. HA…
I shrug like this is no big thing and pull out my iPhone. “You first, boyfriend.” I shoot him a wink of my own, doubled with a huge glare.
I'll call this new look the ‘winking-scorn-glare.’
The result: Gray laughs like I'm hilarious.
Obviously, I need to practice this look in the mirror.
Or fire him immediately.
Chapter Ten
Jess
It's now exactly 7:01PM.
So far no text. None. I'm hoping Gray's chickened out.
My eyes have bored holes into everything in this kitchen besides the location of my iPhone. I've plugged it into the charger next to the table. The whole family has iPhones, and we are all pretty territorial over our charging areas. The antique cherry sideboard station is where my dad, a university geology professor at the Colorado School of Mines, usually plugs in when he gets home from work.
Tonight, I'd distracted him from his usual pattern: walk in, drop laptop bag in front hall, wander into kitchen to deposit mail, plug in phone, and look for Mom (or tortilla chips). I was lurking at the sideboard. Took the mail out of his hands, and attacked him with a few cheerful and earnest sedimentary rock questions.
BINGO.
He'd been unable to resist. Within seconds I had him in his office and at his computer, looking up websites to show me what he said were, “some great photos”. I thought the photos were just okay, but my dad is so cute when he's excited about geology, I'd never tell him.
Over dinner, thanks to all of our research, we shared our findings. We had a very nice, extended review of the area's ‘Fountain Formation’. It's these cool red sandstone rocks that are the remainder of an ancient river that was once the size of the Nile. This formation covers huge parts of Colorado with red, diagonally angled rocks. It even makes up Red Rocks Amphitheater. Dad never tires of this topic. Rocks are his life. The Fountain Formation is like his personal church. And Red Rocks is the coolest place in the world to see a concert.
I lingered over Mom's dinner, one she'd made special to celebrate my new job. Now both parents and my sister are sitting around, waiting patiently for me to finish cutting two pints of strawberries for shortcake. I'd used the words “please” and “family-time” in the same sentence to stick them to their seats and wait for me while I make dessert.
While I wait for Gray to text me in front of them all.
7:03
Dad's glasses slide down his long, straight nose. His head is propped on a hand that's buried in his wavy, gray hair. Because of geology-bonding session, the poor guy hasn't even changed yet. I can tell he's getting antsy. He looks overheated in his usual rumpled, tweedy-wool professor blazer. Mom hates Dad's blazers because he wears them every season. They're supposed to only be for winter.
Mom's a freelance nutritionist for large hospitals—a class act, and very into fashion. Because she travels a lot she's taken to only wearing black, white and gray. She looks like she's always stepping off some plane from Paris. Always. Her dark-brown hair is never messy. She wears it shoulder length, but it is endlessly pulled back into a fancy clip. Her other trademark accessories: round gold earrings, one matching gold choker, and one wide gold bangle. Her only color splash includes some type of seasonal scarf in an appropriate fabric to set it all off.
7:04
Now Dad's checking his email. A sure signal he's ready to head to his den, or worse, set his phone on the charger.
Mom's begun tapping her foot. I can tell she's working really hard to sit still. Most probably she's working even harder to not snap at me to hurry.
Kika's oblivious. Smiling, her spacey, dreamy smile and watching the strawberries hit the bowl. Thinking about whipped cream, I'm sure.
“Hang in there, guys. I'm almost done.” When I'm sure no one's looking at me, I glance at the clock again.
Still 7:04! Really?! Longest minute of my life.
“No hurry. This is fun, isn't it honey,” Mom says to my dad—her voice is tense.
I catch her gaze, and she shoots me another stiff smile.
Dad, no dummy when Mom'
s voice has that ring in it, has put down his phone and is sending my mom a pained look of his own.
“I'm not leaving until you deliver the gooey goods,” Kika says, not once wavering her gaze from the bowl. “Don't forget, double whipped cream on my plate.” Kika's long blonde hair is coming out of her two, loose pony-tails. She wears them the same way every day. Pulled toward the front to hang over her shoulders. Like a frame for the picture on her most favorite wardrobe item: the graphic T. Today, it's baby pink with a picture of an owl on the front.
At 7:05, I breathe a sigh of relief and stop slicing the strawberries.
Gray must have gone back to work. I can't help but feel a little disappointed.
“Jess, you need some help? I can't sit here all night. I've got some papers to look at,” Dad pleads.
I realize I've been standing frozen like a zombie. They must think I've lost it. I shoot him a grateful smile (one that's real). “Yeah. Sure. I think the day has finally sunk in for me. I'm tired. Thanks.”
“I bet you are, champ. Finals are tough. Have a seat.” He's smiling at me now with the same extra proud look he and Mom suffocated me with ever since I told them I got the internship. Now that I've got my contract with Gray in place, I feel like such a good girl to make them all so pleased with me. Heck, I'm pleased with myself.
I slide into my chair, grateful to be sitting.
Bzz. Bzz. Boing-donka-donk.
The entire family jumps at the same time. If I hadn't been vomiting in my own mouth, I might have laughed. My dad drops the knife and is eyeing the kitchen fire alarm with a bewildered expression.
Less than one second later, it happens again.
Bzz. Bzz. Boing-donka-donk.
“What is that?” Mom's jetted out of her chair and is looking around the room like a hawk, trying to gauge the source of the annoying sound.
“Sorry. It's my cell,” I croak.
“Well, I've never heard that noisy sound come out of your phone before,” Mom accuses. “What's wrong with it?
I'm about to make a major dive for the phone but Kika beats me to it. I try to cover the fact that I just bolted out of my chair by bolting back into it.
Kika's staring at my iPhone screen as she walks it to the table. I'm hoping whatever's visible on the phone's monitor is not going to blow my cover.
The sound comes through again.
Bzz. Bzz. Boing-donka-donk.
My mom winces. “Can you change it? Now?”
“Yeah. Sure. I don't know where that came from,” I lie, knowing full well I chose that tone for its incredible sound and combined buzzing effect.
Dad's head disappears behind the kitchen island and he's groaning, “Oh, the old gray knees are not made for this.” He pops back into view, holding the lost knife. “Strawberry shortcake in two.”
Bzz. Bzz. Boing-donka-donk.
“Whoever's texting you, sure has a lot to say.” Kika smiles.
I want to crawl across the table to get the phone out of her hands, but I wait patiently for her to bring it over. When she does, Kika and I stare at the screen together: Yo QT. r u there?
I dart Kika a glance. “What does that mean? He called me a Q-tip?”
Kika laughs and sits next to me. “Read it out loud. It will make more sense.”
“Yo-Q-T ru there. Q…T…?”
“Q T means cutie. CU-TIE. Jess, you're so out of touch.” Kika's smile turns beaming. “This has to be a guy! A guy that thinks you're cute! OMG Who is he? Talk. Now. Talk!”
I want to kiss my sister for ramping in on my behalf. And for making me blush.
“You've never had text messages before,” Mom says, her voice guarded and worried. Her eyes are already sparkling as the information gets her Mom-Wheels turning.
“I text Jess all the time,” Kika protests.
“I mean—texts from a guy,” Mom says. “Is it? A guy?” she probes.
“Am I paying extra for text messaging on all of our cell phones? Am I?” Dad pipes in, not at all getting it that this text message signifies a major turning point in my life. “Text messaging is just another excuse for teenage boys to score without actually having to ever speak to a girl.”
“Dad! You're so old. What does ‘score’ even mean?” Kika rolls her eyes.
“It's true, Honey. No one says that anymore.” Mom's smiling at me now.
We all laugh. Mom turns to Dad. “Text messaging is normal teen activity. We have unlimited text. If we didn't, we'd be broke just from Kika's texting habit alone. Jess sweetie, you don't need to limit yourself. Text all you want.”
I choke back another laugh and hide it in a, “Cool. Thanks. Good to know.”
I'm so happy right now all I can do is grin. With a few letters of simple text chatter, Gray Porter just launched me into the realm of what my mom calls normal teen activity! And I haven't paid him one cent—yet! Oh, but I will.
This pretend boyfriend thing is going to be more awesome than I'd thought!
Mom leans in so she can see the message. I hold still so she can soak in the letters Q and T.
“So, who is this boy?” She asks with eyebrows still raised.
“It's the guy who got the paid internship,” I remind them. “We exchanged numbers after the interview. No biggie.” I bite my lip, and avoid their gazes for a second so they can' miss that this IS, indeed, A BIGGIE.
“He's calling you a cutie and you only just met?”
“Am I not cute, Dad?” I divert.
Dad's frowning as he scoops the strawberries he's just sugared onto the pre-formed shortcake pies. “You know what I mean. Do you have anything to tell us? Does Q plus T mean it's serious?”
“Please!” I feign my best gasp. “I don't even know him. He's sort of…nice. We had some conversations between interviews. I suppose he could be considered almost a…yeah…a friend.” At least I don't have to keep trying to bring up a blush to scorching cheeks.
“A friend!” Kika's bubbling up into one of her middle-school giggle fits. “Who thinks she's cute!”
Mom's gaze has turned speculative. This is just the expression I've been expecting. “What's his name?”
“Mom. You don't need to know everyone's name,” I stall. My stomach clenches as I try to remember the order of what I'm supposed to say next.
Bzz. Bzz. Boing-donka-donk.
Thank you fake boyfriend. It's time to stop now.
I pull the phone away from everyone's view. “Sorry. I'll fix that ringtone.” I tap into my settings. “Maybe I shouldn't have given him my number,” I mutter, genuinely frustrated that Gray Porter rattles me even from a distance. I'm grateful for the excuse to concentrate on my phone and not meet anyone's eyes while I regroup.
As much as I've practiced all possible scenarios of this moment in my mirror—and as much as I'm elated my plan appears to be working—I'm suddenly scared to death.
I hate how far I'm about to go on lying to my parents. And what about Kika? She's on my team. She's the one person I've never lied to about anything. Ever.
My heart hurts just thinking about deceiving that kid.
“Text him back, Jess. Who cares about your ring tone? He's probably waiting for you to say something back!” Kika says.
I shoot her a glance. She's still beaming at me so brightly it strengthens my resolve.
For the first time in three years, Kika doesn't appear to be worried about me. She actually looks proud—admiring—excited. I like how beautiful, how normal, that looks on her face.
“What should I type?” I ask, working to smile back and keep my voice as breathless as hers. “I'm not good at texting.”
“Lost cause.” Kika giggles again. “Read what he said.” Kika pulls on my arm.
I've already established it's safe so I read it: “Why U so quiet? C U at school 2morrow. Got2 wrk. On a double. I'm as tired as U looked 2day. Go 2-zzzzzzzz, Jess Jordan.”
“He goes to your school?” Dad asks.
Kika sighs and claps her hands. “Ohmygod. Text
him back. Text him back.” She's bouncing out of her seat.
“I will later. I can't do it with all of you staring.”
“But texting is supposed to be immediately responded to,” Kika protests. “I'll make you a list of easy text replies okay? You can study it.”
“I like that he noticed you need to sleep.” Mom smiles knowingly. “Maybe you should text him back something quick. You don't want him to think you don't like him, do you?”
I shudder. This family bonding thing has just gone way too far.
“I'm so not having this conversation with any of you. Mom, don't even try. I don't know if I like him. And—and—you guys are making me nervous. It's just a couple of texts, not a marriage proposal.”
Dad's hovering over all of us, blinking at me with four strawberry shortcakes precariously balanced in his hands. “I don't know if I like this at all. Are you going to be constantly staring at your phone now like your sister does?”Dad asks.
Kika dives into her shortcake and chomps half of it in one bite. “I'm not staring at my phone now, am I? Gee, Dad.” She's talking with her mouth full, but still manages to look cute.
I can't possibly eat, so I scroll up to view the first message that we all missed: As promised. Hi GF. Sorry I'm late but ur boy is on duty. U There?
I gasp and pull the phone into my chest. No need to read that out loud! My cheeks start burning a new round of fire.
“See? You're already hugging your phone and acting weird,” Dad says, also speaking with his mouth full. Not at all his best look. He shakes his head, and gives me a sad look. “I'm going to miss you, honey.”
Before looking up, I make certain the entire conversation is cleared. Deleted. Gone.
I think Mom's been watching me closely the whole time because she, like me, has not touched one bite of her dessert. “Come on, we're waiting for some details.”
I wonder if this is what Gray sees in my expression when he calls me relentless.
Who knew Mom and I had that in common?
Thankful I can still feel my cheeks flaming, I go for my flustered and embarrassed version of this scenario. It seems the easiest because, I happen to be both right now.
