Adorkable

by Cookie O'Gorman

  A thousand gasps seemed to ripple through the stadium at once.

  I turned my head, heard Mrs. Kent scream as the others rushed by me to get to the stairs—but I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

  “Sally?”

  “Spitz, you okay?”

  Austin and Hooker were calling my name, but I couldn’t focus. All my attention was on the chilling scene below.

  Becks was on his back, clutching his right leg to his chest, face contorted in agony, as Clayton tried to get him to straighten out.

  “No, no, no...”

  Was that my voice?

  Tripping over my own feet, I was vaguely aware of the hands steadying me down the stairs.

  “He’ll be okay.” Hooker’s voice at my ear. “Don’t worry, Spitz. He’ll be fine.”

  I barely heard her as two medics jogged onto the field and went to work. Each one of Becks’s groans was amplified to a sonic boom in my ears, loud, deafening.

  This can’t be happening, I thought, finally making it to ground level. Becks couldn’t be hurt. He just couldn’t be. Soccer was his passion, what he was made to do. God wouldn’t take that away from him, not now, not ever. It would be too cruel.

  Please, don’t take this away from him, I prayed silently.

  Eyes stinging, I watched them carry Becks off the field on a stretcher. It was one of those things I’d have nightmares about long after this day.

  “Spitz.” I looked to the side and saw Hooker. Guess she’d been there the whole time. “He’ll be fine,” she said with certainty. But how could she know?

  “Sally, I’m going to take Mrs. Kent and the boys home,” Mom said, holding Mrs. Kent’s hand, the rest of the boys following close behind. They looked destroyed. “Can Hooker or Clayton take you home?”

  “No problem,” Hooker said and led me to the locker room.

  My heart sank further as I spotted my dad, blocking the door. Deputy Spitz must’ve gotten called in to work security for the game. He was in uniform and watched impassively as we approached.

  “Can we go in?” Hooker asked.

  Dad shook his head. “Family and team members only.”

  But Becks is my family, I wanted to scream, but my voice had gone mute the minute I saw Becks laid out on that stretcher.

  Hooker didn’t seem to have that problem.

  “You’re kidding me, right?” she said, eyes narrowed. “You can’t seriously be that heartless to your own daughter. Can’t you see she’s upset?”

  Upset didn’t even begin to cover it. Honestly, it was like I was suffocating, dying a little more with every second I was away from Becks. But I was glad Hooker was there. I’d need her strength if I was going to get through this next part.

  Swallowing hard, I did the one thing I’d promised myself I would never do. Something I’d sworn off over a decade ago.

  I asked my father for a favor.

  “Please,” I said, voice shaking, from despair or disgust I wasn’t sure. “Let me in. I…I need to see him, Dad. To make sure he’s okay, to see if Becks needs me. I need to know he’s alright, so just…please.”

  His eyes moved slowly over my face, his expression unreadable. I wasn’t sure what he saw, but I felt like I was going to dry heave right there on the concrete. I’d never asked him for anything after he’d cheated on Mom. Not once. There were no weekly visitations. There were no yearly birthday cards with cash in them. If I overlooked the fact that we lived in the same town, I could practically pretend he didn’t exist. I’d never cared that he wasn’t around, preferred it that way. But I needed to see Becks, needed it like air in my lungs.

  If my father was the key to getting to him, I’d do whatever it took.

  Dad met my eyes a moment later, and I knew even before he spoke what his answer would be.

  “Sorry, Sally girl,” he said with a shrug. “It’s the policy. There’s nothing I can do.”

  Hooker’s mouth hung open like she couldn’t believe it—but I could.

  I’d given up on him a long time ago. Somehow, though, he still managed to disappoint me.

  Hooker shook her head then said, “You really are a bastard, aren’t you?”

  “You watch your mouth.” Dad frowned, tugging up his belt and holding a hand out to me. “She’s just overreacting like her mother always did. She’ll get over it.”

  “No,” I said, and they turned to me. “It’s fine, Hooker, I’ll just wait.”

  “But—”

  I shook my head. “No,” I repeated. No, I wouldn’t get over it. And no, I wouldn’t ask again. “I’ll wait.”

  I sent Hooker home with Will about an hour later when the game ended. I could tell my pacing was getting to her, but I couldn’t help myself. I pretended like my dad wasn’t there, and he did the same. We didn’t speak again. The fans ambled past, some throwing me pitying looks. One even told me Boulder had come back strong in the second half, but because of Becks we’d still outscored them by a goal, and wasn’t I happy my boyfriend had at least taken them to the first round of sectionals undefeated?

  That person was lucky I was so focused on Becks. Otherwise, I’d have coldcocked him and directed my next round of paces over his stupid, too-happy face.

  What was taking so long? Was Becks really that hurt? I didn’t know what I’d do if he was.

  I watched as player after player exited the dressing room until the last one left.

  Still no Becks. No Clayton either, I noticed.

  God, what were they doing to him in there?

  “Waiting on your boyfriend?” I stopped as Ash joined me. “He and his dad left about thirty minutes ago.”

  “What?” I said, confused.

  “Becks,” he said, hefting a large duffle bag onto his shoulder. “He left. Weren’t you waiting for him?”

  That made absolutely no sense. “But I’ve been standing here the whole time,” I said. “I didn’t see him leave.”

  “They went out the side door around back.” Ash pointed to my face. “There’s no need for that. It was just a sprain, wouldn’t have even happened if you hadn’t distracted him. He’ll be alright.”

  “What?” I reached up. He was right; my cheeks were damp. I must’ve been crying the whole time, but I hadn’t felt a thing. “Did you say a sprain? That’s it?”

  Ash nodded, and I sighed in relief. A sprain was nothing. Becks had had so many of those he’d probably be back on the field in a week. Then something else struck me.

  “Wait, what do you mean I distracted him?” Becks was going to be fine. He was okay, so what was Ash talking about? “How could I do that? We were in the top row; he could barely even see me.”

  “Trust me, he saw,” Ash said. “He saw you and that blond guy getting friendly, and it messed with his head. I was standing right there when a player from the other team blindsided him. He wasn’t even paying attention.”

  “You mean, Austin?” I scoffed. “He’s just a friend.”

  “Yeah, didn’t look that way.”

  I stared but got distracted when Clayton stepped out of the dressing room. He didn’t look any better than I felt. Guess he’d been worried about his baby brother, too.

  “Well, Sally,” he said, stopping in front of me. “I think our boy’s going to make it through just fine, but you think you could tone down the flirting? Becks’ll be useless to us if you distract him like that in the finals.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  “Told you,” Ash said.

  My mouth opened and closed a few times, no sound coming out.

  “You ready to go?” Clayton asked. “Your Mom called to make sure you had a ride home.”

  Drawing in some air, trying to sound firm and not snippy, I said, “Sure, Clayton, I’m ready. And by the way you’re both wrong.” I looked at them coolly. “Becks doesn’t get distracted, especially not by something like that.”

  Ash and Clayton exchanged a look, and though they didn’t say it, I knew they were making fun of me. I stalk
ed to Clayton’s truck in a huff and refused to speak to him the entire ride—which seemed fine by him. We both had a lot to think over.

  Later on, I dialed Becks to give him a piece of my mind. I’d been waiting and waiting for him to call, but he never did. One sprained ankle didn’t mean he couldn’t pick up the phone.

  He answered on the fourth ring. “Hey, Sal.”

  Hey, Sal? I’d reached my limit. “Hey, Sal,” I repeated, “that’s all you have to say? No, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t call. I feel just horrible about it. I’m a complete jerk off for making you worry.’“

  “You were worried?” He sounded far too pleased.

  “Only a little,” I lied.

  “You know, I can tell when you’re lying, Sal.”

  Blast.

  “Well, I shouldn’t have been,” I said. “You seem completely fine. Fine enough to tease me, fine enough not to call. I guess I shouldn’t have waited outside that locker room with my crappy father for hours. Guess I shouldn’t have been worried at all.”

  Becks paused then said, “Your dad was there?”

  “Yeah, he wouldn’t let me in the locker room to see you.”

  “That was a real jerk move.”

  “I know,” I said, “seems to be a lot of that going around lately.”

  He sighed. “You’re mad.”

  “And you’re a genius,” I retorted, flipping on the TV. Maybe some mindless entertainment would divert my attention. Why hadn’t he called?

  “I’m sorry,” he said finally.

  “For what?”

  “For being a jerk.”

  “And?”

  “And for not calling, I just figured someone would’ve told you.”

  “Well, they didn’t.”

  “Sorry,” he said again.

  “Stop saying that,” I said, feeling a bit of my anger subside. “How are you anyway? I heard it was just a sprain.”

  “Well, my foot hurts like a mother and Clayton’s none too happy about my lack of concentration. Other than that I’m just terrific.”

  I pressed back into the pillows. “Yeah, what happened out there? I missed it. Are you going to sit out any games?”

  There was rustling at the other end of the line, and I imagined Becks getting more comfortable as well.

  Skipping the first question, Becks said, “Yeah, only the next one. I should be better if we make it to the third round.”

  “When,” I said, “when you make it.”

  “When,” he agreed. There was silence for a beat and then, “So, who’s the Ken lookalike? He the one you have your eye on?”

  It took me a second to understand.

  Hesitantly, I asked, “Are you talking about Austin Harris?”

  “If Austin Harris was that guy putting the moves on you, then yes.”

  “He was not putting the moves on me.”

  “He was kissing you,” Becks said flatly.

  “Yeah, on the hand,” I said back. Could Clayton and Ash have been right? Was Becks actually distracted by me talking to some other guy? Was he jealous? I knew the answer and mentally laughed at myself. Yeah, right. Like that would ever happen.

  “So, is it him? Is Austin Harris the guy that sets your heart pounding? The one you’re trying to impress with a fake boyfriend?”

  His tone was light, his words teasing, but he seemed to be waiting for an answer.

  “No,” I said, “it’s not Austin.”

  “Oh,” Becks said, and, in my mind, I saw him grin.

  “The guy I like is much hotter.” I heard Becks stutter and nearly cracked up. “Almost too hot for his own good.”

  “Nobody’s that hot” Becks mumbled.

  If you only knew, I thought. “But Austin was impressed,” I added.

  “With what?”

  “You.”

  “Who wouldn’t be?”

  I laughed at his cocky tone, looked up at the TV and laughed some more. “You aren’t going to believe this,” I said.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You’re on TV, channel six.”

  “What?” he said then groaned. “Oh God, this is so embarrassing.”

  “No, it’s not, Becks. You’re a movie star.”

  Becks cursed, but I paid no mind. I was listening to the interview. The main subject seemed to be where Becks would play college ball. I was waiting for the answer to that one myself.

  Erica Pinkerton, former Miss North Carolina, current anchorwoman at large, smiled. “Welcome, Becks Kent to our program. It’s great to have you.”

  “Great to be here,” the TV Becks said.

  “Awww,” I crooned, “aren’t you just the cutest thing?”

  Becks grumbled something unintelligible, but the newscaster seemed to agree.

  “You’re sweet,” she said, smile widening, “and talented. You’ve already led your team to one undefeated season, and the Chariot Trojans seem on track for another. That’s never been done, Becks. How do you feel going into the qualifying rounds? Confident? Nervous?”

  “A little of both actually,” he laughed. “We are confident, but we’re just going to have to wait and see how everything plays out. Our team’s well-conditioned. We’ve got a deep bench and solid coaching. I’m hoping we’ll make it to the end.”

  “And so is the rest of Chariot.” She winked to camera then turned back to Becks. “So Becks, where’s it going to be? We’ve heard reports all over town. All the top schools have offered. Naturally, most of us want you to stay right here in North Carolina, but for a successful athlete like you, the choices are limitless.”

  She held the microphone out to him and licked her lips, making sure to brush him with her arm. Very subtle.

  “Well, I don’t know,” Becks said, gifting her with one of his killer grins. “There are a lot of great schools out there.”

  “You’re a real sweetheart,” Pinkerton said. “Any of those schools would be lucky to have you, of course. But what our viewers want to know is how will you choose? With so many offers on the table, what’s it going to take to set that school apart, make it the one?”

  Again she brushed him with her arm, and again I gritted my teeth. The woman had to be at least forty. The cougar was out of her cage and preying on my Becks. It was just wrong.

  “We’ll just have to wait and see,” Becks said cryptically.

  “Ah, come on, Becks.” The woman would not be denied. “The two favorites seem to be Penn State and Ohio. Couldn’t you at least tell us the one you’re leaning toward?”

  The thought of Becks going so far away made me feel sick—and then mad about feeling that way. Even if Becks decided on Penn—a great distance from Duke no matter how you spun it—as his friend, as his best friend, I should support him, right? Right?

  The Becks on TV shook his head. “They both have great teams and coaching. Every school I’ve heard from does. All I can say is this: I’m looking for something extraordinary. That one special spark that no other school has. That’ll be what makes my decision.”

  “Well, there you go, ladies and gentlemen.” Pinkerton took the ball and ran, seeing he wouldn’t give her anymore details. “It’s going to take that special spark to get Becks Kent through the door. We’ll have the answer to which school has it in a couple of weeks.”

  As they went to commercial, I turned off the screen.

  Trying to sound carefree, feeling anything but, I repeated Pinkerton’s words. “So Becks,” I said to the silence on the other end, “where’s it going to be?”

  “We talked about this, Sal.” I couldn’t see it, but I knew he was shaking his head.

  “But Becks—”

  “You’ll find out when everyone else does.”

  “But I’m your best friend,” I protested.

  “Yeah,” Becks said, “and you promised you wouldn’t nag me about this.”

  “I just don’t see why I have to wait,” I said. “At least tell me this. Have you made your decision?”

  “I have an idea,”
Becks said, which told me nothing. “Have you gotten your letter from Duke, yet?”

  “Way to change the subject, and no. I haven’t heard.”

  “You’ll get in.”

  I forced a laugh. “Don’t be so sure.” It would take a miracle. Mom was a middle-income single-parent, and I’d need a scholarship to fit the bill. I’d worked on my writing samples for months in advance, editing, perfecting, until everything was spit-shined. Problem was I wasn’t the only Salutatorian applying to major in creative writing with nothing but a few clubs, good grades and a dream to her name.

  “You will,” Becks said. “I know you will. You’ll get in and write a freaking bestseller your first time out.”

  I played along. “And you’ll be on a soccer pitch somewhere, winning your third World Cup.”

  “And we’ll still be friends,” Becks added. “Through everything, no matter where we are, no matter what happens, we’ll always be friends, right Sal?”

  I thought of how I’d kissed him, how he’d kissed me back. I thought of how he’d held my hand, been there whenever I needed him, the poem I’d never known he’d written until just a few days ago.

  “Right?” Becks insisted.

  “Right,” I choked. “Becks, I’ve gotta go, okay?”

  “Okay. Night, Sal.”

  “Night.”

  I hung up, utterly defeated. It’d been less than three weeks, but I couldn’t keep doing this. The F.B.F. plan was good in theory, but in practice it was more trouble than I could handle. The havoc it was wreaking on my heart was too much. Something had to be done and fast. Becks would understand. He’d probably be relieved, might even thank me for it.

  Tomorrow, I decided. Slytherin or not, I would do it tomorrow. What I needed to figure out was how best to do the deed.

  CHAPTER 11

  Becks wasn’t happy.

  “What the hell, Sal?”

  Correction, Becks was pissed.

  As I approached, he stayed locked in his position against my locker, stiff-legged, an unfamiliar scowl on his face. I only ever saw it those rare times when he failed a test (hardly ever) or lost a game. The expression had been safely tucked away for over a year, but it was clearly on display today.

  I decided to play dumb.