Adorkable

by Cookie O'Gorman

  That was all the warning I got. A second later, Becks was next to me, arm wrapped around my waist like it was the most natural thing, like it belonged there.

  “You shaved,” I said in wonder, running my eyes over his face.

  He rolled his shoulders, and I felt the movement. “‘Course, I did,” he said, grinning down at me. “The next game’s not for another few days.”

  I was still staring like an idiot, inspecting his smooth, hairless jaw line as if it was the eighth wonder of the world. I hadn’t seen it this way, this close in forever: Clean, strong, angular. Hands down it was the best jaw I’d ever laid eyes on.

  “Hey, Sal,” he said, catching my attention. “I missed you at your locker, so I brought your books. I was thinking maybe I could walk you to first?”

  I swallowed. “Sure, Becks.”

  His eyes slid to Ash. “Stryker.”

  “Becks,” Ash said back. To me, he said, “I’ll see you around, Spitz.”

  “Bye,” I said.

  Becks rounded on me as soon as Ash turned the corner. “So, what’s the deal with you and Ass Striker?”

  “What?” I said, taken aback. The nickname wasn’t a surprise. Becks had made that one up years ago, practically the instant he met Ash. What surprised me was his tone. Becks never sounded that serious about anything—except maybe soccer.

  He must’ve realized it because his next words were teasing. “It’s the second time I’ve caught you with him,” he said. “You two-timing me, Sal? Got another F.B.F. on the side?”

  “Becks,” I warned.

  “And why’s he always giving you the hairy eyeball? If the guy looked at me like that, I’d kick his ass.”

  I smiled. “If Ash looked at you like that, he’d be gay.”

  “Whatever,” Becks said, but he looked tense. “Just please tell me it’s not him. It isn’t, right?”

  “What’s not him?”

  “Your crush.”

  “My what?”

  Becks took a deep breath. It looked like he was counting to ten. “The guy you want to make jealous.”

  Oh, I thought. That. I really needed to start keeping track of all my lies.

  “No,” I replied, “it’s not him.”

  “You’re sure?” he said, squinting. “Because as much as I want to help you, Sal, I’m not too keen on the idea of you being Mrs. Ass Striker.”

  “Why not?” I asked as we stopped at Ms. Vega’s classroom.

  “I’m just not,” he said, handing me my books. “He’s not right for you, Sal.”

  “Oh really? And who is?”

  My breath quickened as he brought a hand to my cheek, bending down to place a kiss in the same spot he had before, the skin below my left ear. The shiver came just as it had the first time.

  “I don’t know,” he answered quietly. “But Lillian’s watching, so we’d better make this look good.”

  Without turning, I knew that he was right. I could feel her eyes on my back as we stood there in the doorway.

  I gave in to the impulse and placed a gentle kiss on Becks’s jaw. It was the only thing I could reach since he’d stood back up, and besides, I’d wanted to do it since the moment I saw him. He stiffened at the contact.

  “Thanks,” I said, “I owe you one.”

  Becks slowly shook his head. “No, you don’t. We had a deal remember?”

  “That we do.”

  Looking over my shoulder, I caught Hooker’s eye. I waved, and she gave a nod before turning to face front, her lips curved as Becks and I said our goodbyes. She looked awfully pleased about something. I wondered if she could read lips or if she had a superpower I didn’t know about, like super-sonic hearing. As I walked into class and buried my head in German translations, I had the strangest feeling—like I should be worried, more worried than I already was. The flash I’d seen in those eyes meant trouble.

  The first attack came half-way through the period.

  “Sally, they need you in the office.”

  At the sound of Ms. Vega’s voice, I looked up and saw Holden Wasserman, one of only two other members of the German Club besides myself, standing at the front of the room, staring at me expectantly. I’d been concentrating so hard, trying to ignore Hooker’s expression; I hadn’t even heard anyone come in.

  “Okay,” I said.

  Holden held the door as I followed him out. Just as it swung shut, I glanced back, catching sight of Hooker’s smirk. The entire way I couldn’t shake the feeling I was walking into a trap.

  “So, what’s this about?” I asked as we reached the office.

  “Your brother’s on line one,” he said and stepped up to the counter, gesturing to the office phone. “He says it’s urgent.”

  “Brother?” I didn’t have a brother. Holding up my hands, I said, “I think there’s been a mistake.”

  “He specifically asked for you, says it’s a family emergency.” Holden held the receiver out to me. “Sure hope it’s not your dad. That’d be tragic for everyone.”

  Considering the phone call was either a prank or meant for someone else, I wasn’t too worried about dear old Dad. Perfect, I thought, a case of mistaken identity. I just hoped this guy, whoever he was, found his real sister soon.

  Taking the cordless, I said, “Hello?”

  “Hey,” a male voice answered, “is this Sally Spitz?”

  I frowned. If he was looking for his sister, how’d he get my name? “Yes, it is. But I think you’ve got the wrong person.”

  “Not if this is the Sally Spitz,” he said, sounding far too cheery for someone in an emergency situation. “This is John Poole. I’ve been hearing a lot of great things about you.”

  “I’m sorry, who?” I recognized the name but couldn’t place it.

  “I go to UNC with Will. Lillian paid me twenty bucks to call and say I was your brother. She said you probably wouldn’t talk to me otherwise.”

  “She did, did she?” As the memory hit, I was thinking of the effort this must’ve taken. Pulling me out of first period, paying this poor guy to lie, Hooker’s methods were positively Machiavellian.

  “Yes, she did,” he said. “She also said you hate being called Spitz and blind dates. I figure I’ve only got about thirty seconds before you hang up, so here it goes. I’m a twenty-year-old Gemini with a love of all things baseball. My GPA’s 3.8. I have a pit bull at home named Bruiser, and I’ve got no problem dating a high school girl, so long as she’s not a fan of the Mets and isn’t one of those European types who doesn’t shave their underarms. Want to go out sometime?”

  I stifled a laugh. Was this guy for real? He seemed nice and all, but this was just too awkward. When I got off this phone, Hooker was going to owe me a lifetime supply of Goobers.

  “Did Hooker also mention I have a boyfriend?” I asked.

  He cleared his throat. “Guess she forgot that one. I suppose it’s a no then?”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry, John. It was good talking to you. You seem great, but now I have to go strangle Hooker.”

  He laughed. “Good talking to you, too, Sally. Don’t be too hard on her, okay? She really thought we’d hit it off.”

  Oh, I bet she did.

  Class had already cleared out when I got back to German, but Hooker was there, watching for me.

  “Sooo?” she said as I grabbed my books.

  “So what?” I muttered.

  “So, have you had any good convos lately, met anyone interesting? Oh, don’t make me beg, Spitz. Were you into John or what? Was he totally lame? I told him not to be.”

  Listening to her confirmed what I already knew and lessened my annoyance a good deal. A lot of planning had gone into that phone call. Hooker looked so excited, like she expected a gold star or a pat on the back. She seemed so proud of herself; it was almost a shame to burst her bubble.

  “John was…the least lame guy you’ve tried to set me up with,” I admitted. “He was actually nice, but—”

  “But what?” Hooker paused in her victory
dance, arms dropping to her sides. “If he’s not lame, and if you think he’s ‘nice,’ what’s the problem?”

  “Hooker, I have a boyfriend.”

  “Oh yes, I forgot,” she said. “Becks, your good buddy turned boyfriend, how’s that working out?”

  I didn’t appreciate the sarcasm.

  “It’s working out fine, thanks.”

  “You know, John was the best I had,” Hooker commented. “He’s good looking, smart, nice voice. I thought you’d be a good match.”

  “And I thank you for thinking of me, but—”

  “No.” Hooker held up a hand. “I don’t think you understand, Spitz.” She looked me dead in the eye. “I know you’re not really with Becks.”

  I fought to keep my expression neutral, wasn’t sure I succeeded.

  “If you were, you’d have told me sooner. Plus, you wouldn’t be such a nervous wreck around him.”

  Shows what she knew.

  Hooker raised an eyebrow. “So are you ready to fess up? Come clean, and I’ll let you off the hook. We won’t ever mention this again.”

  Yeah, and go back to blind dates every other night? No deal, meine Freudin.

  I met her gaze and replied steadily, “In the immortal words of Darth Vader, I find your lack of faith disturbing. There’s nothing to confess. I’m with Becks. End of story.”

  She sighed. “Alright, but it’ll get worse before it gets better. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  And it did get worse.

  At lunch, Hooker launched her second attempt.

  It came in the form of Buddy McCorkle, a sophomore with a Mighty Mouse tee and the languid look of a stoner. He also had a thing about hands.

  “Wow, your hands are so strong. They’re like man hands,” were the first words he said to me. Hooker made sure I couldn’t escape, interrupting any time I tried to stop the conversation, blocking my exit with her body. Becks had a different lunch period, and she made the most of it. Ten minutes into lunch, Buddy had already measured, squeezed and even sniffed each of my fingers, remarking on the length and roundness of each.

  But Buddy and his finger fetish was golden in comparison to Terrell Feinberg’s fascination with himself. The guy was gorgeous, silky brown hair, perfect teeth, rocking bod, and he knew it, too. Terrell didn’t stop talking about himself, never asked me a single question, for an entire twenty minutes. Hooker was on guard duty again, so I had to sit and endure Terrell’s thought-provoking argument over American versus European hair care products. His vote was for the latter. I knew his last name meant “fine city” in German, but, in any language, Terrell Feinberg should’ve translated: “big head.”

  Both guys backed off when I said Becks and I were a couple, but I was starting to feel put out. Why hadn’t they known about us already? When I took a good look at them, I got it: a college guy, a stoner, and a guy who couldn’t see past his own reflection.

  Well played, Hooker. Well played.

  In the halls, Becks walked me to each of my classes holding my hand—my hand!—but it didn’t take long to see Hooker, as predicted, wasn’t impressed. She watched us, tracked our movements like a bird of prey. Sometimes I’d see her head pop out of a classroom just to roll her eyes at me. Other times Becks and I would be passing, and she’d shake her head or sigh long and loud, making sure we heard.

  I was waiting at Becks’s locker, trying to think what else I could do, when Hooker stepped out from behind the line of lockers a few doors down. I scowled as she shrugged, but her entire stance said, “I warned you, didn’t I?”

  Becks sounded amused as he joined me. “What was that look about?”

  “Nothing much,” I said. “Hooker just threw three guys at me in an effort to disprove our fake relationship.”

  “Anyone interesting?” Becks asked.

  “Very funny,” I mumbled, wracking my brain.

  Remembering Hooker, I snatched up Becks’s hand. I wasn’t close enough to tell, but it looked like she scoffed. Becks had been right. It was going to take more than handholding. The challenging tilt to Hooker’s head made that perfectly clear. If Becks and I didn’t convince her by the end of today, I was out of luck. It was time to up the ante.

  “Becks,” I said, turning to face him. Madness drove my mind to the one place I’d never allowed it to go, couldn’t allow it to go. “Could you come here? I think this calls for drastic measures.”

  “Sure thing, Sal.” He pushed off the lockers and came to stand in front of me. “What’d you have in mind?”

  Courage or stupidity, I was going for broke. That is if my fiercely beating heart could hold on just a little longer. Were there always this many people in the hall between classes? I couldn’t believe I was actually doing this.

  Meeting his gaze, I forced out the words, “Ready to make it official?”

  Becks grinned, and the sight of that familiar expression, the look in those eyes I’d loved forever, was enough to strengthen my resolve.

  Reaching up, I gave myself no time to reconsider.

  My lips were on his the next instant, meeting, feeling, rejoicing in this moment I’d never thought but always hoped would happen. I knew Becks was surprised, could feel it in the stiffness in his shoulders, the tight set to his mouth. But it didn’t matter. I was kissing Becks, my best friend, my Han Solo, my one. This was the best moment of my life. I was certain it couldn’t get any better.

  But then Becks started kissing me back.

  His arms wrapped around my waist, his lips guiding mine, as he went from passive passenger along for the ride to full-on conductor. I gasped as he bent me back over his arm, and felt him grin through the kiss. My toes just skimming the floor, supported almost entirely by Becks’s strength, I was happy to let him lead. Becks wasn’t just a great kisser. He was a master. Far as first kisses go, it was a showstopper.

  What I’d remember most, though, wasn’t how Vice Principal Matlock blew his whistle and broke us apart, giving Becks and I both after-school detention—to be served separately, of course. It wasn’t even when Hooker came up after Becks had left, laid a hand on my shoulder, and said, “Guess you weren’t kidding. I’ll give it to you, Spitz. That kiss curled even my toes.”

  Even if he still just saw me as Sal, his friend who was a great girl but not girlfriend material, the thing I’d take with me, the feeling I’d bottle up and keep in my pocket if I could, was this: Becks kissed me like he meant it.

  CHAPTER 8

  Hugs.

  Hands.

  Kisses in what I now thought of as “Becks’s spot.”

  The next few days were a whirlwind. By Friday, I was just trying to keep it together. The idea that Becks had an un-official “spot” on my body was enough to make my head spin. His five o’clock shadow was back, and there was a game tonight, so Becks was flying high. But me? Every time he touched me—Lord, every time he looked at me—I felt thrown. The way he’d been looking at me lately should’ve been criminal. It was much too easy for Becks to fake how he felt. Intimate glances, soft caresses, secret smiles, if his soccer career tanked, there’d always be acting.

  The more time I spent with my new F.B.F., the harder it was for me to tell fact from fiction.

  Like right now.

  He was walking with me to German, my hand tucked in his as if we’d walked this way for years. Schmuck that I was, I couldn’t help thinking our hands fit just right.

  Nowadays everyone, even Hooker, recognized us as a couple. I was still Spitz the dorky girl who cursed in German when she got really upset or angry. And he was still Becks the soccer phenom who pretended not to see girls throwing him inviting glances they thought I didn’t see (which I did). But even those skeezy skeezes thought Becks and I were the real thing. They just didn’t like it. It was like it was okay to flirt with him because, in their eyes, I was replaceable. Any day now Becks would realize his mistake and drop me. They thought they could break us up with a short skirt, a coy glance, a well-executed hair flip. It was frustrating.<
br />
  First, could I get a little sisterly solidarity, please? And second, what the heck was wrong with everyone? The whole point of this plan had been to convince people, but I hadn’t expected it to go this well. Didn’t anyone get it? None of it was real. Becks was only going through the motions of being a boyfriend; it was all just a game.

  More importantly: Didn’t I get it?

  As he faced me, lifted my hand and delivered a heart-stopping kiss to my knuckles, the answer was as embarrassing as it was telling.

  God, I was such an idiot.

  “I’ll see you at assembly,” he said, eyes growing concerned. “Don’t worry, okay? He says anything offensive, cop or not, I’ll give him five across the face.”

  The tingles shooting up my arm momentarily stole my hearing, so what he said didn’t sink in until I walked into class (early for once), took a seat and found Hooker, the same concern written on her face.

  “It’ll be over before you know it,” she said. “You two might not even have to speak. He’ll be too busy getting his ass kissed by everyone else.”

  Before I could ask what she meant, a voice sounded over the intercom.

  “Seniors please report to the auditorium for today’s Crack Down on Crime assembly. We’ll be calling juniors in the next few minutes, and then sophomores and freshmen subsequently.”

  I shut my eyes.

  “What,” Hooker said, “don’t tell me you forgot? Spitz, you dread this day.”

  She was right. I usually planned ahead, arranged to be “sick” on CDOC day. My untimely forgetfulness showed how distracting Becks and the F.B.F. plan truly were. I considered telling Ms. Vega I was ill—my rolling stomach was a recent development, but it was real enough. She’d probably let me duck out of assembly, go to the nurse.

  But then I would have let him scare me off.

  That was something I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let happen. Taking a mental health day was one thing, but hiding in the nurse’s station while he preened in front of my peers was plain out yellow-bellied.

  There was only one thing to do.

  “Scheisse,” I cursed.

  “Scheisse,” Hooker agreed. “Your Dad’s a total scheisse head full of scheisse. He’s just one big piece of scheisse with a badge.”