by Marni Bates
I was so riveted to the action onscreen that I ignored what might’ve been a light rap on my door. My dad was in his office downstairs, probably dealing with an endless amount of paperwork, but both my parents knew better than to knock quietly. It takes a whole lot more than that to break my concentration, with or without Battlestar Galactica. That’s why they usually sent me a text when they wanted us to spend “quality time” together.
Or they would pound on my door until I responded.
My parents were great, but I didn’t get why they had to make a big production out of cooking dinner as a family since it was part of the daily routine. My dad and I always took over the kitchen, while my mom set the table and avoided anything that was even remotely dangerous. We had banned her from helping when she accidentally created an oil fireball and then tried to douse it with water.
But even though my body instinctively tensed as it tried to warn my brain that I was no longer alone in the room, I didn’t so much as glance over at the doorframe.
“RUN!”
“I had no idea you were a sports fan, Izzie.”
I toppled out of my chair. I twisted to see who was intruding on my personal space and then my shoes tangled together as I tried to lurch to my feet. The next thing I knew, I was looking at the world from an entirely different perspective. Mostly because my face was smooshed against the carpeting.
“I’m . . . uh . . . not sports. Sci-fi. Hi.”
Spencer’s laugh reminded me of his walk—easy and relaxed.
“You want a hand?” he offered, as if belatedly remembering that it was probably his fault I had tripped in the first place.
“I want you to go back in time and call first,” I groused as I debated taking the proffered help. His presence, in my bedroom, was a jolt to my system, but I couldn’t see how I could refuse without looking rattled.
But the feel of his warm, calloused grip tugging me to my feet made me feel a whole lot more off balance than when I’d landed on the floor.
“I didn’t have your number. So, let me guess . . . you decided to try out Mackenzie’s personal brand of yoga?”
I grinned back. It was impossible not to smile as I remembered Mackenzie’s expression when she’d gone down for the count the day before. It also made me feel a whole lot less ridiculous for taking a tumble in my own bedroom. That kind of thing just . . . happens.
But not everyone was able to brush it off as easily as Spencer King.
“You’re really good at that.”
“I’m really good at a number of things. Want to be more specific?”
I rolled my eyes. “Putting people at ease . . . usually by acting like a jerk.”
“I’m never a jerk. And if this is how you look when you’re relaxed”—Spencer’s laughter rang out in my room—“then you seriously need to loosen up. You’re practically bracing yourself for a body check.”
I gaped at him. “For a what?”
“Hockey term. Sorry.” His smile widened, and there was another flash of pure mischief in his eyes. “You’re kind of cute when you’re embarrassed.”
I froze. Maybe if I were some other girl—the type of girl who showed up to his Notable parties—I’d have known how to respond to a statement that was half-compliment, half . . . something else entirely, without inwardly panicking. I would have been able to say something flirty back.
You’re not bad looking yourself, hotshot.
That wasn’t something that would ever come out of my mouth. Not in this lifetime.
So instead of flirting, I . . . snorted. “Save the lines, Romeo. I never agreed to be more than your friend. Comprende, amigo?”
He nodded slowly, but his eyes were lit with something that looked suspiciously like excitement. My words of advice to Melanie came echoing back to me.
As long as you distract him with a bet or a dare—some kind of feat to prove his manliness—he’ll probably forget you even exist.
My genius plan didn’t work so well if the competitive boy in question thought that I was the challenge.
Especially when a small part of me—the stupid, optimistic part that went a little mushy when I noticed a couple who had probably been together for half a century—wasn’t entirely sure it might not be fun to be caught.
Even if it only ended in heartbreak later.
Chapter 6
How that special someone asks you to prom sets the tone for everything. Does he go for something cute? Sweet? Whimsical? Or did he shrug and say, “Hey, I don’t have anything better to do. Want to go?”
If you get that last kind of invite, feel free to wear the highest heels you can find, because you probably won’t be dancing in them. You and your date are going to be the sideline couple.
—from “Preparing for Prom,”
by Lisa Anne Montgomery
Published by The Smithsonian
“I thought school went pretty well today—all things considered.”
I stared at Spencer in disbelief. My brain did not want to compute all the possible interpretations of that sentence. Was he trying to needle me with his sarcasm? Did he actually think that was funny? Or was he so removed from the geek lifestyle that he had no idea just how royally he had screwed me over?
Every ounce of frustration that had built up from having spent an entire day with whispers dogging my footsteps blasted through my system and I felt my reserve . . . crack.
There was no holding me back.
“Yeah? Did you have a good day? Glad to hear it. I didn’t. Funny, but I don’t remember writing have the entire school speculate on sex life in my daily planner. Here, why don’t you double-check.” I grabbed my agenda and shoved it in his face.
“You have really tiny handwriting.”
“And you have a really messed-up idea of friendship. Did you honestly think I wanted our farce to go that far? Here’s a newsflash for you, hotshot: I didn’t.”
Spencer nodded, but one corner of his mouth was creeping upward. He was trying to smother his laughter. At me. I saw red—and it had nothing to do with my bedroom decor.
“What’s so funny?” I snapped. “Fill me in. I could use a good joke.”
“Sorry, it’s just that you’ve called me ‘hotshot’ twice now. It . . . distracts me.” He shook his head and his expression sobered. “I’m sorry if I overstepped. I saw you talking to Steffani and thought you could use some backup. The rest was pure impulse. That’s it, I swear.”
I looked at him skeptically. “You swear?”
“Yeah, I do. And my word is solid, ask anyone.” He seemed to remember that I couldn’t exactly call up his hockey buddies for verification, and tugged on the collar of his shirt as he tossed out an alternative. “Ask Logan or Mackenzie if you want.”
“I’ll pass, thanks.”
“Because you trust me?”
I considered that longer than I probably should have. It was one of those questions that people ask when they expect the other person will tell them exactly what they want to hear. Kind of like when a friend asks if their new haircut makes them look like a ferret. What they want is a short, concise answer that leaves their worldview intact.
But did I actually trust the King of the Notables to be upfront with me?
Surprisingly . . . yes. I had heard girls crying in the bathroom because he had ended their relationships before they could even change their Facebook status to “it’s complicated,” but never that he had lied to them.
In fact, I distinctly remembered a rumor that Spencer laid out his rules of engagement before anything happened. That he never hooked up with anyone who had been drinking at his parties. That he never made promises he didn’t keep.
And yet he still left a trail of pissed-off girls in his wake.
“I believe you were trying to help,” I said at last. “But you didn’t have to take it that far. You could have walked over without pretending there was something going on between us.”
Spencer rubbed his temple, and it was only then that I n
oticed a red bruise that was only deepening in color on his jaw. “I thought you needed backup,” he repeated. “Do you mind if I sit down? I got kind of banged up in hockey practice today.”
“What happened? Did you get, uh . . . body checked?”
Spencer’s eyes seemed to brighten with amusement as he looked at me, and I could feel my cheeks begin to flush. I quickly scooped up a pile of textbooks that were sprawled out across my bed and moved them to their rightful place on my desk as Spencer sat on the side of the bed and idly rubbed his knee. He winced briefly, but instantly tried to mask the pain.
“There was a skirmish on the ice. Patrick got in a lucky swing. Or two.” Spencer folded his arms and you didn’t have to be a body-language expert to tell that he was still pissed off that he had been caught with his guard down.
“Do you need frozen peas or something?” I jolted to my feet. “I could—”
“Don’t worry about it. Although I should probably warn you, I think your dad wanted me to declare my intentions on the porch before speaking to you.”
I rolled my eyes. “My parents can be a bit on the overprotective side.” Understatement of the year. “But I’m surprised you didn’t make up some story for my dad. You’ve already got the entire school whispering about us.”
“Those girls were going to talk about us no matter what I said,” Spencer informed me with perfect calm, as if being the focal point of the school’s gossip didn’t faze him at all. “All I did was make sure they know I’m the one doing the chasing.”
I crossed my arms. “How is that supposed to be comforting?”
“Because if they thought you were pursuing me, they’d ridicule you nonstop,” he said bluntly. A chill began to creep down my neck as I soaked in the truth of his words. “It’s a shitty double standard, but I didn’t want you to be diced to pieces for doing me a solid.”
Is that going to be so much worse than what I faced every day already?
If my high school experience was a rollercoaster, it would probably be called “Crap Mountain” and involve a lot of gut-wrenchingly sharp twists and turns. It was a shitty experience, but at least it was a familiar ride. Even if the suckitude increased proportionally to the amount of time I spent at Smith High School, I could still make it out with my sanity more or less intact. But all of those calculations had been made before Spencer triggered a Mount Vesuvius–level explosion on my social life.
“I changed my mind.” My chest clenched tighter until I felt like I couldn’t breathe. “I can’t do this.”
Spencer nodded absentmindedly. He seemed preoccupied surveying my room; from the Einstein poster, to the autographed promo shot of the band ReadySet, to the rich red color of my bedroom walls. My parents had been skeptical of the color choice when I had first broached the idea, but when I promised to do all of the work myself, they had eventually caved.
I still had a worn tank top in the bottom dresser drawer that was speckled and splotched with crimson paint.
“Earth to Spencer!” I snapped. “I. Can’t. Do. This.”
“Yeah, I heard you the first time. I’m just not sure what there is to say. We’ve passed the point of return. Even if we said that I was joking earlier, I doubt anyone would believe it.”
I sank down numbly on the bed next to Spencer, too overwhelmed with the dire reality of the situation to pay attention to the fact that our limbs were mere inches away from touching.
“What have I gotten myself into?” I murmured. “I must have lost my fracking mind when I suggested this.”
“To be fair,” Spencer said reasonably, “your reputation will probably get a boost now that people think we’ve gotten”—he seemed to rethink his choice of words when I glared at him—“closer.”
“That’s not the kind of reputation I wanted!”
He gently nudged my shoulder. “Lighten up, Belle. It’s only high school.”
“Easy for you to say. People aren’t exactly insulting you on a daily basis. Why would they? You’re Spencer King.” I let the sarcasm roll heavy off my tongue but was surprised to feel him stiffen beside me before he cranked up the intensity of those piercing green eyes.
“Is Alex still bothering you?”
I instantly regretted saying anything. The last thing I needed was another rumble in the cafeteria. I’d much rather let the subject drop entirely.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said evasively.
Spencer nudged my shoulder again, but this time there was nothing gentle about it. “I thought we were going to be friends. That’s the deal we both agreed to yesterday.”
Yes, it was. But I’d already begun regretting the offer. Maybe Spencer needed a girl in his life who didn’t have an endgame, but the last thing I needed was an arrogant, annoying, absolutely impossible—
“Well, as your friend, I want to help. And I know how we can make everyone shut up.”
I eyed him nervously. Spencer’s smirk was nowhere to be seen, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have something entirely inappropriate in mind. With a guy like Spencer, you could never be too sure what he had in mind.
“C’mon, Belle. Live a little. What’s the worst that could happen?”
I hoped I wasn’t about to find out firsthand.
Chapter 7
Prom is one stupid dance that looks exactly like every other event our school throws. So why exactly is there so much pressure for the guys to do the asking? This isn’t Elizabethan England, people. This isn’t even Downton Abbey.
If you like someone, ask them!
And lower your expectations, because real life isn’t a Disney movie.
—Anonymous letter to the editor
Published by The Smithsonian
“So, this plan of yours . . . does it have to start right now?”
Spencer glanced from me to the swirled silver bedspread he was sitting on and leaned back until most of his weight was resting on his forearms.
Maybe I had spent too much time watching Battlestar Galactica, because now I couldn’t help noticing his arms looked all . . . sinewy and strong. And he was stretched across my bed, with a smile lifting his lips, looking like an invitation to sin.
My pulse kicked into high gear.
“Is there something else you’d rather do with me?” he asked evenly, and I lurched over to my desk and grabbed a chair.
“Yes, actually.” I straddled the back of it, because that looked tough in the movies even though it wasn’t comfortable in real life. Still, I rested my arms on the back of the chair and looked him dead in the eyes. “I want to know why you always crank the sex to eleven.”
He grinned. “Sex? I don’t remember offering. Looks like someone’s got her mind in the gutter.”
“And someone promised to tell me the truth whenever I asked for it,” I said staunchly. “So, I’m going to ask you one last time: Why do you snow every girl within a three-mile radius?”
Any trace of a smile was wiped off his face. “I’m friendly. That’s it.”
I waved my hand to indicate the way he had taken over my bed. “So . . . this is just your way of being friendly?” I couldn’t stop myself from laughing. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”
“Here’s something for you to consider, Doc; just because people don’t square up to your expectations, doesn’t mean they’re lying. I’m a friendly guy. And I’d rather be the life of the party than spend my time analyzing all the opportunities I’m missing.”
That pulled me up short.
“You think I’m—”
“Hiding,” Spencer finished for me. “I think that’s easier for you than risking rejection.”
Well . . . wow. Considering that I was the one who planned on being a psychologist, I should have evaluated that possibility ages ago. Then again, it’s a whole lot easier to judge somebody else than it is to get an accurate read on yourself.
“I think you’re playing a role,” I told him, unable to keep the words bottled up. “I might fear the spotlight, but you’ve found a way to
disappear in plain sight. All you have to do is act like the guy most likely to throw an epic bachelor party in Las Vegas.”
He didn’t flinch at the accusation. In fact, his mouth twisted sardonically. “That’s exactly who I am, Isobel.”
“I don’t buy it.”
He sat upright with a laugh. “You want to study me? Fine. You can even jot down notes as you go along. But don’t try to save me, Belle. I’m not broken.”
I flushed. “I’m not—”
“You wouldn’t be the first to try.” He stood and then winced before his hand flew up to his side as if to protect him from a blow that had already landed. “And you’re a great girl. Really. I’m sorry this whole situation became more than you bargained for, but you’re not going to change me. Isn’t the first rule of treatment that you can only help someone who wants to be helped? Well, I’m not interested.”
I raised my hands in the classic don’t shoot position. “I’m not trying to fix you, hotshot!”
“Good.” His stance loosened and he looked very much himself again. In control of the situation. “Then are you ready to go or what? I believe we’ve got a reputation to salvage.”
I was following him out my bedroom door before it even occurred to me to object. “You’re a lot smarter than you let on.”
“Yeah?” There was a gleam in Spencer’s eyes as he turned to look at me. “You’re a lot more fun than you let on. Even when you’re grilling me.”
I had no idea how to respond to that twisted compliment, so I just nodded. Then I texted my dad that I might be late for dinner and booked it out of there before he could psychoanalyze Spencer himself. It was weird having a secret from my parents. I’ve never told them every little detail about my life, but going anywhere with Spencer King felt like, well . . . a Notable occasion.
And I was doing my best to leave them in the dark.
Then again, they didn’t know Alex Thompson had ridiculed me in the cafeteria either. There are some things my parents were probably better off not knowing.
