“The whole column’s about the Literacy Challenge,” I insist. “Besides, she’s the one who pitted the guys against the girls. She wanted to create sparks.”
Mr. Sparling ponders this for a moment before nodding. “True enough.”
“So you’ll run the column as it is?” I ask, convinced there’s a hitch.
“It’s a little long,” he says. “I told you to keep it to four hundred words.”
“But I had a lot to say this week, especially with reporting the school board results. Doesn’t that deserve a few extra words?”
“I guess so,” he says. “This time.” He picks up his red pencil and scratches something out before sliding it toward me. The word “Buzzkill” has been replaced by “Alvarez.”
“She knows we call her that,” I say.
“She also knows who’s behind the Newshound disguise.”
“I’m willing to take risks to speak for the people.”
He sighs. “Pick your battles, Lu.”
I push the copy back to him. “Okay. You win.”
“Your editor is not the enemy. But he does have to keep the publisher happy, or she’ll take away your platform.”
I check to see if he’s joking. “You mean Mrs. A could cancel the column?” The thought worries me more than I expect.
“She could, but she probably won’t,” he says. “Since ‘The Word’ first appeared in the Bulletin, we’ve quadrupled our initial print run, and we’re still running out of copies. I don’t think Principal Alvarez will want to mess with something that has actually gotten Dunfield students reading.”
He smiles, obviously pleased that this is working out so well.
As I stand to leave, Mr. Sparling stops me. “Today’s fund-raiser doesn’t start for an hour, right?”
I was going to catch up with Rachel and Izzy in the cafeteria, but if my editor wants me to stick around and debate the freedom of the press, who am I to say no? “Right,” I confirm.
“Good. Spend some time in the library. Your last homework assignment was a little slapdash.”
And just like that, my cool editor morphs back into my English teacher.
As I step out of the office, Mac Landis almost walks into me. “Oh, hi,” he says, obviously taken aback.
I make a show of looking in all directions before answering. “Are you speaking to me? Here in a hallway, where anyone could see you? What about your rep?”
He examines his Nikes. “You’re mad about the other night.”
“I’m not mad,” I say. “Okay I am mad—at myself for falling for your nice-guy act. I thought I was a better judge of character.”
His blue eyes bounce up. “You don’t know what it’s like to—”
“To be Mac Landis, basketball star? I can’t even imagine the pressure you’re under.”
Mr. Sparling’s voice drifts out of the office. “Mac, do you want help with that asssignment or not?”
Mac’s scowls. “Sparling’s been on my case for weeks, and my coach says I’m off the team if I don’t pass English.”
Obviously Mac isn’t Scoop. From the sounds of it he’s a lousy writer, and Scoop, for all his flaws, is not.
As I turn to go, Mac calls after me: “You won’t tell anyone, will you, Stargazer?”
“Don’t call me that,” I say. “And you should be a little nicer to people if you want them to do you favors.”
After the way he treated me, I see no need to put Mac’s mind at ease. But I won’t tell anyone his secret. If I can help it, I’ll never mention his name again.
I stand under the enormous PIMP MY CHAIR banner, waiting for Izzy and Rachel. I texted them to meet me here, knowing the event would be nearly over by the time we found each other in this crowd.
Nearly half the student body has assembled for the guys’ latest testosterone fest. The student parking lot has been converted into a racecourse shaped like a figure eight, complete with portable bleachers. There are banners advertising local businesses, and food and drink vendors are scattered everywhere. From the clips I’ve seen on the sports news, this looks pretty authentic.
Teams have been working for weeks to rig small engines to different kinds of chairs, and today they’ll be competing in time trials. The guys have raised money by selling tickets to the event itself, and each team also had to find sponsors to pledge donations based on the number and speed of laps the chairs complete.
It seems stupid to me, but it could be good for a laugh. I assume that’s what all the other girls milling around me think, too. Either that or they’re here to meet guys, which is more likely.
“There you are,” Rachel says as the girls come up behind me. “I was afraid you were going to miss the whole thing.”
I’m happy to see they’re both alone. Although it hasn’t been that long since Jason and Carson arrived on the scene, somehow I already miss my friends. It’s weird, because we’ve spent more time together than ever since the Literacy Challenge started.
“Anything good so far?” I ask.
Around us, the crowd cheers as a purple desk chair whizzes past and crashes into orange pylons. A guy in a purple jacket dusts himself off and raises a hand to signal he’s okay. Meanwhile, his “pit crew” carries the demolished chair off the track.
“A couple of spectacular wipeouts, but no major injuries,” Izzy says. “Carson’s up next.”
Three guys in silver jackets push an aluminum chair to the starting position. One of them is wearing a silver helmet, and he turns to wave in our general direction. Izzy stands on tiptoes to wave back excitedly.
“Ah,” I say, examining the broad streaks of silver that have appeared in Izzy’s hair. “That explains a lot.”
Carson straps himself into the chair as his team fires up the tiny engine. At the sound of the starter pistol, the chair takes off like a shot. Using the joysticks rigged to the arms of the chair, Carson maneuvers his machine around the first bank of pylons. He shoots down the straightaway, but on the second curve the chair swings out wide.
Izzy clutches my arm. “He’s going too fast!”
Regaining control of the chair, Carson makes the turn safely, and after that it’s smooth sailing for twelve laps until the engine sputters to a stop, out of gas. Amid the cheers, Carson pulls off his helmet and blows Izzy a kiss. She’s already running toward him, silvery ponytail swinging. It’s a total Top Gun moment.
The crowd’s cheer grows as Mac Landis settles into a leather chair at the starting line. His pit crew is prancing around him wearing skintight, black vinyl jumpsuits. It’s Mariah and the Understudies, and the word MacNificent is emblazoned across their chests in red letters.
Rachel laughs at my expression. “To think that could have been you,” she says.
Mariah kisses Mac with enough suction to take the chair along with it.
“That would never have been me,” I say. “I don’t do vinyl.”
“I don’t think they’re a couple,” Rachel says, reading my mind. “It’s just a show for the cameras.” She points to the crew from the local television station.
“I don’t care if they are a couple,” I say. “I’m just surprised Mariah is putting pit duty before dancing.”
Jason comes up behind us to watch the race with Rachel, and they become so absorbed that they don’t see me slip away. I have no interest in watching Mac’s ride. My time would be better spent trying to bump into Tyler “accidentally.” I expected him to call after the dance, but he hasn’t. In fact, I haven’t run into him once in a full week, and I don’t know what to make of it. Maybe Mr. Fantastic has reunited with Sue Storm.
I haven’t gone far when a large wing chair rolls directly into my path.
“Chairs have the right of way,” says the guy pushing it.
“Show me the bylaw,” I say. I’m not really in the mood to meet new guys, but if I were, this one would be worth meeting. Even with helmet head and engine grease smeared across his cheek, he’s cute. I’m not sure what to think about the grow
n-out blond highlights, but I definitely like his hazel eyes.
“I wouldn’t argue with Full Tilt Plaid if I were you.” He pats the back of a bulky and battered old chair that is covered in the ugliest green plaid imaginable. “This baby’s a certified antique.”
“Old and antique aren’t the same thing, you know. An antique has value.”
“This has value—to my old man. He bought it at a garage sale twenty years ago. First stick of furniture he ever owned.”
“And he’s letting you drive it around the school yard?”
“Mom let me take it since it’s for a good cause. Dad won’t be happy, though.” He points to a tear in the upholstery. “It was a wicked ride. Did you catch it?” He gives me a strange look, half hopeful, half sheepish.
“I got here late. But I heard there were some spectacular wipeouts.”
His heightened color confirms my suspicions. “Plaid got the worst of it. She ain’t built for speed.”
“She? That thing is not a ‘she.’”
Before he can respond, Coach Martin’s voice crackles over the loudspeaker. “All Mixed Heat participants to the starting line, please.”
Plaid’s driver starts pushing. “You coming?” he asks.
“Me? Why would I come?”
“Because this is a two-person job,” he says. “Start pushing.”
I intend to scoff, but somehow I find my hands on the green upholstery, and we push the chair to the starting line, where dozens of people jockey for the best position. “You’re on your own from here, uh…”
“Russ,” he says, wiping his hand on his jeans before offering it to me. “Russ Davis. But you can’t take off now: it’s the Mixed Heat.”
“Which means?”
“One dude, one chick, one chair.” He motions for me to take a seat. “Let’s ride.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I say, backing away. “I’m not getting near that thing.”
“But I need a copilot and they don’t come more aerodynamic than you. Whaddaya weigh?”
“I am so not answering that!”
“I give you one-ten tops,” he says. “And you’re barely five-one.”
He advances on me, and I make a run for it.
“Get back here,” he says. “Small is beautiful!”
Russ catches up to me and tosses me over his shoulder. I try to scream as he carries me back, but my voice is swallowed by my own scarf.
In a moment we are ensconced on Full Tilt Plaid, and Russ’s pit crew appears out of the crowd. One of them hands Russ his helmet and plants a second helmet on my head. It’s so big it falls forward and blocks my view. Meanwhile, Russ’s other friend starts the engine.
“I don’t want to do this,” I say, and the words echo inside the helmet.
Russ lifts my visor and says, “Chill. You’re gonna love it.”
Some girls might like the idea of being squished between a cute guy and the arm of a chair, but given the way this plaid warrior performed earlier, it’s not for me. I don’t want to be known as the Luisa Perez who perished in a grisly chair crash.
“Positions,” Coach Martin announces over the mike.
Russ drops my visor and reaches across me to grab the controls and maneuver the chair between two others. Adjusting my helmet, I check out the line of chairs and see Izzy’s streaked ponytail poking under a silver helmet. She is perched on Carson’s lap and doesn’t appear to be a captive.
“This isn’t going to work,” Russ says.
Since I’m the one pinned into a plaid corner by his muscular arm, I have to agree. If the chair tries to throw me, there’s nowhere to go but up.
Russ pats his lap, and I barely hesitate before climbing aboard. It’s my chance to run for it, but for some reason I don’t take it.
“Hold on,” Russ says.
The plaid upholstery is too worn and shiny to get a proper grip, so I reach down and clutch his pant legs. This is more intimate than I expected to get with anyone today, let alone a guy I just met.
The starting pistol fires, and we lurch forward. Although we probably aren’t going all that fast, it sure feels like it. Full Tilt Plaid takes the first curve at such speed that a screech rips out of my mouth: “We’re going to die!”
“Trust me!” Russ yells back.
I bet guys always say that before a fatal accident. “Pull over! I want off! Now!”
Our chair pitches violently to one side as another vehicle smashes into us. I turn to get a look at the perpetrator: It’s MacNificent Landis with Mariah astride.
When we straighten out, Mac’s leather chair hits us again. It’s clearly intentional. I lift my visor and shout, “Back off!”
Mariah flips me the bird and Mac cackles wildly before coming at us again.
I squeeze Russ’s leg. “What are you waiting for? Hit it!”
Mariah is still cursing behind us when we cross the finish line after four laps. It’s all I can do to not seize the controls and run over her myself.
Full Tilt Plaid takes third place, and Russ offers me the ribbon.
“Give it to your dad,” I say, holding on to the chair to stay upright. My legs are weak, either from excitement or an overdose of testosterone. “She belongs to him.”
Russ plucks something from the chair and hides it in his fist while he grabs my wrist with his other hand. “Thanks. We make a good team.”
He leans down and kisses me on the cheek while placing something in my hand.
It’s a plaid-covered button.
Rachel’s message appears on the tiny screen of my cell phone:
Mean Girls on MTV 2nite. U watching?
Can’t, I type back. Grace hogging TV. Again.
“Are you bitching about me to your little friends?” Grace asks, grabbing the phone out of my hands as she comes into the kitchen.
“I wouldn’t bore them to death by talking about you.”
“On my dullest day I’m more interesting than you are.”
“Maybe to the Donner crew, but not to normal people.”
She crushes her empty soda can with one hand. “Are you saying I’m stupid?”
With Grace, all roads lead to one destination. “No, I’m saying they’re easily amused.”
“Because they’re stupid?”
“I’m not calling anyone stupid, Grace.”
“If you’re calling both Paz and me stupid, you must think Keira is stupid, too. You’re a snob.”
“My niece is brilliant,” I say, seizing on the easier issue. “Anyone can see that.”
This mollifies her. “She knows more words than any kid in this building.”
“Yeah, she dropped the F-bomb the other day. Who taught her that?”
“I’ve heard you use it a few times.”
The trill of my telephone, still in Grace’s hands, catapults me out of my seat. Russ Davis asked if he could call tonight, and I’ve been waiting eagerly. Last month I wouldn’t have seen myself with a guy who uses words like “wicked” and “dude,” but times have changed. Actually, I still don’t get the blond highlights, but a columnist must keep an open mind.
“Give me that!” I say.
Detecting the urgency in my voice, Grace instantly holds the phone out of my reach.
We struggle briefly, but I’m no match for her. With the phone over her head, she presses TALK and yells up at it. “Gracie’s Escorts. How may I help you?”
“Hello?” It’s Russ’s voice and he sounds confused. “Hello?”
I jump at the phone but miss by a few inches. “Russ?”
“If you need a date for the evening, you’ve called the right place,” Grace shouts. “We have all kinds of girls.”
“I must have the wrong number,” he says.
Grace backs away, fending me off with one hand as she lowers the phone to her mouth. She doesn’t intend to give up the game so quickly. “I’m sure you have the right number. It’s Russ, isn’t it?” I can’t hear his answer, but Grace says, “Of course I know your name. I
make it my business to know my clients’ names. But don’t worry, discretion is a priority here at Gracie’s Escorts. My lips are sealed.”
Grace stops grinning long enough to pretend to zip her lips for my benefit.
I make another lunge, and she stops me with a flat hand to the sternum.
“Luisa?” she asks Russ. “We have a couple of Luisa’s on call. What’s your type? Short, dark, and mouthy?”
This isn’t a battle I can fight on Grace’s terms. She is bigger, stronger, and meaner. Fortunately I know her Achilles heel.
Ducking into the living room, I pick Keira up off the couch and carry her into the bedroom. My nerve almost fails, but I remind myself that Grace has tried to ruin my chances with every guy who’s ever shown the slightest interest in me. It’s time I started fighting back, and if it means fighting dirty, so be it.
“Let’s play hide-and-seek, sweetie,” I whisper to my niece. “You get under the bed, and I’ll tell Mommy to look for you. Stay very, very quiet, okay?”
With Keira hidden, I walk to the hall door and open it. “Grace,” I call. “Keira’s out in the hall again. You left the door unchained.”
There’s a thud as my phone hits the linoleum and Grace races down the hall.
I pick up the phone and close the door. “Hi, Russ. Sorry about the comic interlude. My sister is an idiot.”
“It’s okay, so is mine.”
He doesn’t say anything else, so I ask, “How’s it going?”
“Good.”
“Did you get your antique home in one piece?”
“Nah. Tossed it into the Dumpster behind the school. Took six of us.”
“May Plaid rest in peace.”
There’s another long silence, and I wait for him to fill it. Since he called me, I figure he’ll take the lead.
He doesn’t, and when the silence becomes uncomfortable, I jump back in. “So, did you tell your dad about the race?”
“Yeah. He laughed.”
“At which part?”
“All of it.”
In the long pause that follows, I hear the television in the background on his end.
I have to speed this up. It won’t take Grace long to run down to the lobby and back up. I decide to drop a huge ask-me-out hint. “So, listen—”
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