My Own Worst Frenemy

by Kimberly Reid

  “I was in Spanish because I thought it would be an easy A, but the teacher caught on to me. My advisor told me to find another language, one I wasn’t already fluent in.”

  Or that could have been what was said in the registrar’s office. But he had Russian or Mandarin (Chinese) as options. He chose French, and he chose the seat next to me.

  “Étudiants d’attention. Nous avons un nouvel ami joignant notre classe—Marco.”

  His name sounds even better with a French accent. Marco. It sounds all powdery soft and sexy. From now on that’s how I’ll say his name, which I can get away with since we’re both taking French. Otherwise it would just sound stupid.

  “Merci, Madame Renault. C’est mon plaisir.”

  He speaks French! The way he just said It’s my pleasure kills me.

  “You speak French, too?”

  “I took a year of French already. Why do you think they let me into French II?”

  I don’t know—to make it impossible for me to ever focus on verb conjugation again? Maybe because God is making up for all those times I asked him to send me winning lottery numbers in a dream, or a new bike on my tenth birthday, and He ignored me both times. But it’s okay now. Having Marco sitting next to me in French class, speaking in that accent, makes up for everything.

  Fifi arrives two minutes after the bell and heads toward us like she’s about to tell Marco he’s in her seat. I work up the most evil eye I have ever given anyone, and shoot her a look that says, “Unless you want a beat down, you’ll take that seat in the back corner.” Lucky for her, old Fifi gets the message and changes course. That’s one benefit to the scholarship-girl stereotype Langdon kids have of me. They assume I’m dangerous.

  When Madame Renault asks if anyone would like to work with Marco to help him catch up with where we are in the French book, I knock my notebook onto the floor trying to raise my hand before anyone else can. Smooth. Can I look any more eager? But when Marco reaches down to pick up the notebook, gives me that smile, and says, “Merci,” being smooth isn’t all that important anymore. I just got myself a reason to talk to Marco about more than the lunch menu.

  After school, I’m standing on the edge of Langdon’s football field wondering why I never got into the sport before. It’s a gorgeous afternoon and buff guys are running around in uniforms that only accentuate their buffness. What’s not to like about this? Maybe it’s just more interesting when I’m watching my future boyfriend wrap up practice. Marco suggested I meet him after practice so I could give him a copy of my French notes, but I’m hoping to turn this opportunity into a full-blown study session at the coffeehouse, if I can come up with an invitation that sounds casual and not at all desperate.

  A man who I assume is one of the coaches starts talking to me.

  “That kid is pretty good. Never seen him before. Do you know who that is, number seventeen?”

  “Marco Ruiz,” I say, because the only player I’ve been watching is number seventeen. I don’t know if he’s any good in terms of football, but I know he’s good to look at.

  “Is he new? He can’t be a freshman. Not with that game.”

  “He’s a junior. He and I both just started Langdon Prep this year.”

  “Are you two part of that scholarship program?”

  Uh-oh. Here it comes. The pity/fear/disgust that Langdonites have for anyone whose parents make less than a combined income of a quarter million a year.

  “Well, thank you, scholarship program. That kid is good.”

  He’s the first person I’ve met around here who is happy to have us. Well, he’s happy to have Marco, and I’m going to take that to include me since Marco and I are practically a couple.

  “He is good,” I say, hoping he won’t ask me to explain why I think this since I don’t know a thing about football.

  “Friend of yours?”

  “Yes. I’m just waiting for him to finish practice.”

  “Name’s Mitchell,” he says. “That’s my son there, the quarterback who acts like he’s never seen the playbook.”

  “Justin Mitchell?” Mr. Mitchell seems like a nice enough guy. Too nice to have spawned Lissa.

  “That’s the one, though the way he’s been playing, I’m not sure I want to claim him.”

  The coach whistles to end practice, and Marco runs over to me. Runs, as in eager to see me. Justin is dragging behind him, as though he knows his father has been discussing his suckage on the field.

  “Son, that was excellent scrimmaging,” Mr. Mitchell says to Marco, not his actual son. “You’ve got hustle, something Justin here has been lacking lately.”

  Well, I wouldn’t have much hustle either if I’d smoked a joint before practice. One look at Justin and I can tell that was his problem, or at least one of them. He’s stoned. Surely his father sees it, or the coach.

  “Lay off, Dad. Why are you even here?”

  “I’m here to check out my investment. I’m the biggest booster this team has. I’d like to see where my money is going, and I’m glad to say that some of it went to that new scholarship program. You don’t step up, Justin, and this young man might be our next quarterback.”

  “Him? He’s a junior.”

  “A junior with an arm. Precision, too. Marco, is it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Between calling Mr. Mitchell “sir,” shaking his hand, and having a lot of hustle on the field, I think Justin’s father is more crazy for Marco than I am.

  “I like your style, Marco. I could use someone like you at my company. Are you looking for a job, by any chance?”

  Oh, I am. Pick me. I’m so broke I’m willing to take a job without even knowing what it is. But then I remember it’s Marco’s style he likes, not mine.

  “Yes, sir, I am. What’s the job?”

  “I own a moving company,” he says, producing a business card out of thin air, as far as I can tell. “Mitchell Moving and Storage, the . . .”

  “. . . the largest minority-owned moving company in the state, started from the ground up when he was just eighteen years old with a beat-up old van and fifty dollars in his pocket,” Justin says, completing his father’s sentence. “Yeah, we’ve all heard it before.”

  Actually, no, we haven’t all heard it before. I’m beginning to think Justin is Lissa with a Y chromosome.

  “My son has no appreciation for hard work. Can’t get him to work a week at the business he’ll one day take over.”

  “What kind of work do you have available?” I say, trying to move the conversation away from awkward dysfunctional family moment to something more important, like me and my bank account.

  “I need movers. Are you Marco’s agent?” He smiles at this, and I realize Mr. Mitchell takes Marco and me for a couple. I like this guy even more.

  “No, but I could also use a job.”

  “There’s some heavy lifting involved so I like two guys on the team. But my teams work in threes. Two men and a project manager.”

  “I can do that, the project managing part,” I say. “What is it, exactly?”

  “I think you might have a little hustle in you, too. Call that number on the card, talk to Paulette to set up an interview. She’ll want to meet both of you so she can figure out the second guy to team you with. She’ll explain everything, including the project-managing part.”

  “So we have jobs?” I say, excited a job has just fallen into my lap.

  “Paulette will put you on this weekend. No weekday work for students, but she’ll keep you busy on Saturdays and Sundays.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Mitchell. You won’t be disappointed.” Marco and Mr. Mitchell shake on the deal.

  “You two will be my first employees from Langdon Prep. Seems like this school has been trying to build leaders of the future out of people who don’t see fit to do any hard work today.” He’s looking straight at Justin’s bloodshot eyes when he says this. “I’ll see you at dinner. Don’t be late.”

  “Whatever,” Justin says, giving a dirty look
to his father’s back and to Marco’s face. “My old man’s crazy. I’m sure you’ll be great at moving mattresses, but don’t think you’re ever playing quarterback as long as I’m at Langdon.”

  When he walks past us, he rams his shoulder into Marco’s arm.

  “Excellent. We have jobs,” Marco says, as though he didn’t notice any of that family drama or Justin’s threat. “I totally needed one. My pops had his hours cut last week. Now I can help out a little.”

  “What about him hitting you just now?”

  “That’s just football stuff. Nothing to worry about. Coach won’t put a junior in to start.”

  If Marco isn’t worried, I suppose I shouldn’t be, but I don’t think Justin’s threat was empty. He and his father have some serious issues. Even if you’re Justin and it can’t be helped, it must be tough to have a father so disappointed in you. Maybe I’m the only one who sees it, but Justin’s eyes were filled with something more than dilated blood vessels. There’s some rage in that rich boy.

  Chapter 7

  “I seriously need a trip to the mall after school,” Bethanie says, slamming her lunch tray onto the table. Honey-balsamic glaze from today’s chicken entrée goes flying, just missing my shirt.

  “Tough day?”

  “That’s an understatement. Come with?”

  “I’ll pass. Retail therapy doesn’t do it for me, not that I could afford it. I prefer a Baskin Robbins fix. You could definitely talk me into getting ice cream.”

  “We can get ice cream. My treat.”

  She gets distracted when Ms. Hemphill walks by our table, as do half the people in the cafeteria. Every school has that one teacher who makes you wonder why she’s a teacher: they’re too hot, too cool, too stylish. At Langdon, that teacher is Ms. Hemphill and she’s too everything. She even drives a brand-new Mercedes, which means she also has too much money to be a teacher. The boys lust after her, I’m pretty sure the other teachers hate her, and girls like Bethanie want to grow up and be her.

  “She always wears the cutest stuff—trendy but classic at the same time. You know what I mean?” Bethanie says.

  “No, I really don’t. Wouldn’t you rather go shopping with one of your friends, someone who actually likes shopping?”

  She gets quiet for a second, then says, “I don’t know that many people. Besides, I thought we were friends.”

  Wow, she must not have a whole lot of friend-making experience if she thought that’s what we are. At this point, what we have is more like an alliance—two countries surrounded by a bunch of other countries that don’t want us as neighbors. But it does give me a little more insight into who she might really be.

  “So when you said you hate being the new girl, you meant totally new, like new to Denver?”

  “I never said that,” she says, sounding more defensive than my comment called for. “I never said we just moved here. Where’d you get that idea?”

  “Whoa, I was just trying to get to know you better. That’s what new friends do. I just figured if you didn’t know that many people, it was because you haven’t had a chance to meet any.”

  “Sorry. I guess I’m just peeved that I have to buy a new phone.”

  “I saw you on your phone just this morning. And you sent me a text about some cute guy in first period.” Bethanie has a brand new BlackBerry that makes my free-with-contract-renewal phone look like two paper cups and a string. Did she steal that, too? “What happened between first bell and lunch?”

  “Ms. Reeves is what happened. She confiscated it and refuses to give it back.”

  “She did the same thing yesterday with Lissa’s face cream.”

  “She’s doing it to everyone. Only a few days into the school year and she must have a serious stash already.”

  “Were you using the phone in class? She told Lissa she had the right to take her cream because she was showing it off and being disruptive to class.”

  “Not even. I was standing outside her classroom door and only pulled it out to check the time. She walks by and just snags it right out of my hand.”

  “You were in the hall when she took it?”

  “Yeah, and class hadn’t even started. She called it a preemptive move because she knew I’d try to use it in class.”

  “I wonder what she’s doing with all that loot.”

  “She says I can get it back at the end of the quarter. Can you imagine—no phone for three months?”

  “You should fight it. Maybe take a look at the Langdon handbook and see if she violated the confiscation rule.”

  “It isn’t worth the hassle. It’s easier to get another phone.”

  I guess that’s true if you’ve got money to blow. Or you’re not averse to “borrowing” a phone from the AT&T store.

  “Well, I can’t go with you anyway. I have a job interview after school.”

  “Where?”

  “Mitchell Moving and Storage. Lissa’s dad owns the company and he offered Marco and I a job yesterday.”

  “Why do you have to work for Justin and Lissa’s father? They’re like the king and queen of Langdon. Surely there’s some less conspicuous kids’ parents you could work for.”

  “I have cash-flow issues. Doesn’t matter to me if I’m slinging burgers or working for madame president.”

  “I never thought of it like that. You are kind of working for her, aren’t you? That’s just weird.”

  Right then I’m thinking that Bethanie and I are probably never destined for friendship. I have friends at home. I don’t need her, although it’s nice to have an ally in enemy territory. But how great is an ally who’s all the time trying to figure out how to defect to the other side? And who thinks the world is coming to an end because you’d stoop so low as to work for the king and queen of the other side.

  “I don’t see why you have a problem with me working when you’re in the same situation I am. Isn’t that why you’re here on a scholarship—because you don’t have Lissa and Justin’s money?”

  “Work where you want to work. None of my business,” she says, poking at her chicken with her fork.

  “Are you going to eat that?” I ask because there’s no sense wasting good food.

  “You know what? Let’s go off-campus for lunch.”

  “Only seniors can do that.”

  “I’ll buy, you pick the place,” she says, which, of course, are the magic words. Why should seniors get all the perks? Isn’t it enough that they only have a year left of high school?

  While we walk the quarter mile to Bethanie’s favorite parking spot, I can’t decide if I’m terrified or thrilled to be breaking the rules. I always hear that cops’ kids are like preachers’ kids—always looking to rebel—but that’s never been me. Until last summer anyway, and even then I wasn’t looking for trouble. Leaving campus for lunch feels like I’m inviting it.

  “You still have your uncle’s car? You must be his favorite niece.”

  “Want to drive it?”

  I tell her no, but I absolutely want to drive this car.

  “You know you want to.”

  “I probably shouldn’t,” I say, but she’s already thrown me the keys and gone around to the passenger side.

  It doesn’t take a lot of coaxing before I’m in the driver’s seat and cruising down the street like I own it and the car. I even glance up into the rearview mirror to see if I look any different from behind the wheel of a car that could cover a year’s room, board, and tuition at my Ivy League school of choice. That’s when I go up the curb, into someone’s yard and come to a stop in the middle of a flower bed, after I take out a birdbath. I always wondered about those news reports of people driving into houses and buildings and wondered how that could possibly happen. Now I know.

  “Are you okay?” I ask Bethanie.

  “Yeah, how about you?”

  “No, I think I’m dead.”

  “I’m pretty sure you aren’t dead.”

  “I will be if my mother finds out about this. I only have a
learner’s permit and I don’t even have it on me. Plus I’m off-campus. I’m so very dead.”

  Just then we see the owner of the birdbath coming out of his house.

  “Quick, jump over me,” Bethanie says.

  “What?”

  “You jump over, I’ll slide under. Then it’ll look like I was driving.”

  I do what she says and not too soon because the man is already halfway down his driveway.

  “Are you kids okay?”

  “Yes, sir,” Bethanie answers for both of us.

  “Good, because I’m calling the cops. You kids took this curve entirely too fast.”

  I get out of the car and look at the damage. The birdbath is in a couple of pieces and the car has flattened all the flowers. Plus there are two very long tire marks where grass used to be. I am in so much trouble, especially after the summer I just had. Lana’s going to kill me, then ask God to raise me from the dead just so she can kill me again.

  “Sir, I am so sorry for this damage. Calling the police and having them make a report would just be such a hassle—” Bethanie says before the man interrupts her.

  “A hassle for you, especially when your parents find out you’ve damaged their car.”

  “It’s her uncle’s car,” I offer because I feel like I should contribute something.

  Bethanie cuts her eyes at me like she’d prefer I’d shut up.

  “Tell you what. Let’s just not involve the police or exchange names or anything like that.” She points to the birdbath and says, “It’s a thing. Things can be replaced.”

  “That thing was custom designed and cost me five hundred dollars. Plus you’ve ruined about a thousand dollars worth of prize rosebushes.”

  “So two thousand dollars would more than take care of it, right?”

  “You have two thousand dollars lying around?” the man says, looking at Bethanie like she’s crazy, same way I am.

  “Let me just check,” she says, reaching into the car to open the glove compartment. I don’t know what she’s going to pull out of there—a gun, Monopoly money, a tire pressure gauge—but not two thousand dollars. Except she does.