How to Hook a Hottie

by Tina Ferraro

  Good thing I liked a challenge.

  Two

  With tips like “Focus on him, not on yourself” and “Keep the conversation a two-way street” floating through my head, I maneuvered my way down the bleacher steps and toward the snack bar after Lexie's practice ended. Dal, Chelsea, and a white-blond junior named Mark Bergstrom were hustling cold drinks and hot dogs to calorie-depleted skaters, and I called out a generic goodbye.

  Chelsea caught my eye and mouthed “Seven.”

  I nodded, then spotted Lexie leaning against the wall of the foyer, her skates dangling from one hand, her practice clothes in a loose ball in the other. I'd told her a dozen times she should get one of those carryalls like the other girls had, but all that had netted me was more of her superior nose wrinkles.

  Such a charming kid.

  And she was still a kid, even though she tried to act like she was ready to pledge a sorority. All I had to do was make a roll of Life Savers appear in my hand and her face lit up.

  I half wondered if her rush to grow up had to do with being an only child, or if she'd simply been born on a fast track.

  But then, who was I to talk? I spent more hours catching up on back issues of Business Week than I did reading teen mags or my yearbook.

  •

  Amanda Hoppenfeffer, known to me as Mrs. H., was standing in the circular driveway when we pulled up. A sprawling two-story colonial with more bathrooms than my house had bedrooms lay behind her, a giant Douglas fir stretching its bushy arms up from the backyard. Mrs. H.'s auburn hair was swept back into a casual bun, and her arms were weighed down by plastic grocery sacks.

  Seeing her bags reminded me that my sister had called my cell to ask me to pick up a block of cheddar. I loved my Honda, but it had turned me into a delivery service.

  “Oh, Kate!” Mrs. H. called.

  Lexie barreled out of the backseat without a word to me, which was no problem—I'd heard enough of that kid's voice to last a lifetime. Mrs. H. took some labored steps toward her daughter, then passed her completely in her journey to my passenger window.

  Feeling a twinge of sympathy for Lexie, I powered down the window. I really wasn't in the mood for one of her sermons on the safest driving routes or how she didn't want Lexie to get overheated, so I hoped this would be fast.

  “Kate,” she began, an icy blast blowing through the open window. “I heard the oddest thing today.”

  Omigod. This wasn't about Lexie. This was about me. And Brandon. The gossip mill here in Rolling Hills was freaking ridiculous!

  “Apparently this year's qualifying competitions aren't going to be in Seattle after all, but in New York City.”

  I bit back a laugh. “Really,” I said, for once more than happy to talk about her snotty daughter. “Why's that?”

  “You got me. But with airfare, hotel, costumes, and all the other fees, it's going to run thousands of dollars instead of hundreds.”

  I just nodded. I figured she wanted sympathy, but sorry, none available. My idea of a big splurge was a Big Mac. Hers was to see Big Ben.

  “Did you hear anything about it at the rink today? Other mothers complaining?”

  I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, pretending to be thinking back. Did she honestly think I hung with the mothers? I was tempted to tell her how I'd truthfully earned most of today's pay—trying to figure out how to dump one of the school's hottest seniors and how to hook the guy of the snack bar girl's dreams. Except I liked her money too much.

  “Sorry, Mrs. H. I didn't hear a thing. But Lexie might know something,” I said, encouraging the lady to do what she should have been doing anyway: talk to her kid.

  Mrs. H. nodded her dismissal and I took my cue. I didn't need to be reminded that I was officially off the clock.

  •

  The supermarket was out of my way, but it wasn't like I had a choice. With my mother working on her PhD in Germany, each remaining member of the family had specific jobs: Dad made the money and paid the bills, my sister Suzannah did the cooking, and I handled the errands.

  I figured I was getting off pretty easy, so if it meant shifting and sighing in cashier lines now and then—well, no real complaints. Besides, the errands were the reason I'd gotten my Honda last February. My mother had ordered it online and made sure it arrived on the morning of my seventeenth birthday.

  My friends had oohed and aahed—at least, the ones with good taste had—but anyone who knew what was going on inside the walls of our house knew the real truth behind the car. It had been a “hush” gift, a way for Pamela DelVecchio to wipe her long-distance-responsibility slate clean while she blazed a new and more exciting trail.

  I had considered refusing the car and telling my mother where to shove it. But the car meant freedom, including the end to embarrassing school drop-offs in our dad's hideous plumbing truck. On top of that, Dal mentioned a certain Mrs. Hoppenfeffer waving cash around the rink to attract a suitable driver for her kid. Plus, the Honda was adorable. I customized it with flowered seat covers and things dangling from the rearview mirror.

  And so what do you know? Mom and I actually had a meeting of the minds on the car. But like mother, like daughter?

  No. Nein. No way, Jose.

  In fact, a driving force behind my Millionaire Before Twenty plan was to prevent me from ever, even accidentally, turning into a put-yourself-first wife and mother like her. I'd do my own thing before I started a family—or even thought of starting one.

  (Bitter much? Who—me?)

  •

  The second I walked into the kitchen I was attacked for my cheese.

  “The cheddar!” Suzannah exclaimed when I dropped the plastic bag on the kitchen table. “Cheeseburgers just aren't cheeseburgers without cheese.”

  “Yeah, they're called hamburgers.” I climbed onto a counter stool and blew some loose strands of hair away from my face. Traffic had been slow on Division Boulevard, but I'd managed to make it home before the cheese got all soft and gooey from the front seat heater.

  “I figured we'd have your favorite tonight. Because you'd either be celebrating or needing comfort food.”

  I searched her face. Suz had the same straight, dark hair I did, but fuller lips and higher cheekbones. Now that she wore contacts instead of her clunky glasses, she was really pretty. But I'd never tell her that. She was two years younger than me and I had to keep her humble. “I take it you heard.”

  “People started mentioning it to me at lunch, and by the time I got to water polo practice, I was practically a celebrity by association.”

  “Yeah. I'm half expecting a story on CNN tonight.” I rested my chin on my folded arms. “So what are people thinking? Is it bad?”

  “Not so bad, really. Either you've grown on Brandon during chem lab, which means you're not as invisible and boring as people originally thought . . .”

  That wasn't bad?

  “Or you threatened not to do his lab work anymore unless he took you. So he had no choice.”

  My head jerked up. “And what—getting his coach to give him a new lab partner wasn't an option? Don't these people think?” I frowned. “Anyway, it's more like I told him I'd go with him so I could get his work done.”

  Suzannah looked confused—which was one of the few things today that made sense—so I explained.

  “So you meant it as a joke,” she concluded, “but you're going anyway, right?”

  “I'll get out of it somehow. Tomorrow.”

  “Why?”

  “He's annoying.”

  “He's hot!” she said, and followed with a what-is-your-problem scoff.

  “He's immature.”

  “So jump his bones so he can't talk.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “I don't get you,” Suzannah said, scrunching her face. “This is like winning the lottery. I mean, Brandon Callister. Totally popular, buff, and did I mention hot?”

  I paused, thinking about Brandon's unremarkable face and the ears that were pressed so tight
against his head they got lost in his hair. I wondered if she'd think he was so hot without all the baseball buzz.

  “And you're going to pass this date up, Kate. To do what? Analyze the bond market or something just as stupid?”

  Actually, I'd been thinking about a movie with Dal and some friends, but her idea was good, too. So I nodded.

  She made a pistol out of her thumb and forefinger and aimed it at my head. “You, Katharine DelVecchio, are too stupid to live.” She pulled the imaginary trigger. “Bang, bang. No cheeseburger.”

  “Then you,” I said, and lunged for the supermarket bag, “don't get the cheese.”

  That was where Dad found us, moments later. On the kitchen floor, laughing with a block of cheddar cheese between us. Our mother would have gone all rigid and disapproving, probably said things about ruining our clothes and our complexions—not to mention the cheese. But Dad just looked sort of baffled, probably not sure if this was some female bonding ritual or if we had temporarily changed into six-year-old boys. (For the record, the answer was both.)

  “When's dinner, Suzannah?” he asked, propping his metal lunchbox on the counter as if this was how he normally found us. His lunchbox was scratched and dented from years of being banged around inside his truck, but Dad wouldn't dream of getting a new one any more than he'd dream of buying his lunch.

  Not that money was the issue. Dad's business was booming, and more than once, I'd heard our mother suggest he sell it and invest the profits in real estate or other ventures. But that wasn't Dad. He was happiest when snaking drains, laying pipes, and doing all that messy, hands-on stuff. He was oceans away from our mother. Figuratively, as well as literally.

  I let Suz crawl out from under my hold.

  “Twenty minutes, Dad,” she managed to reply, her face flushed. “I just need to fry the burgers.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I'm taking a shower.”

  I glanced at the wall clock. I needed to get my English homework started before dinner, considering I had that phone call later.

  I stood and shook a finger at my sister. “This is not over.”

  “Not in a million years.”

  A smile tugged at her mouth and she went back to forming hamburger patties, probably hoping this was one of the times she could count on Big Sister's hand-me-downs, but not fully grasping that Brandon wasn't mine to pass off and never would be.

  Being popular and running with the “cool kids” just didn't get my motor running. Which either made me wise beyond my years or just plain weird.

  Three

  Belly-down on my bed after dinner, one hand poised above my laptop keyboard, the other on my cell phone, I listened to the ringing on the other end.

  I hadn't bothered to ask Chelsea who her so-called hottie was, but circumstances being what they were, that wasn't so odd. You see, many, many housing developments ago—way before the rush of people discovered the crisp, clean air and wide-open spaces in eastern Washington—Franklin Pierce High School had been built to hold about a thousand students.

  The community might have grown, but Franklin Pierce hadn't. Now we were two and three to a locker, up to forty in a class. (Any wonder a petition had gone around last year to change our school mascot from Spartans to Sardines?) As if making a name for yourself wasn't hard enough at any high school, you pretty much had to be a beauty queen, a sports legend, or a delinquent awaiting trial to get noticed around here.

  Which explained a lot about my current situation:

  How I could be a Rolling Hills native, have near-perfect school attendance and a very decent 3.6 GPA, be prez of a recognized club, and still wander the hallways anonymously.

  How a goof-off like Brandon had attained a godlike status with his golden pitching arm.

  And why I hadn't bothered to ask Chelsea to reveal her secret crush. I mean, what were the odds I'd even heard of the guy?

  After what felt like an eternity, Chelsea answered, and I quickly shifted to my professional tone—the one I practiced in the car when pretending to be interviewing with corporate CEOs.

  I started by asking her how well she knew the guy. “Are we talking a total stranger here? Or someone you speak to?”

  “I know him. Really well. He works at the rink.”

  I started to say, “Good.” But everything inside me suddenly tensed and my words tumbled out. “It wouldn't happen to be Dal, right?”

  “No.”

  “Because Dal has a girlfriend.”

  “I told you . . .”

  “And he's a dedicated guy, wouldn't cheat or anything.”

  “. . . that he's a football player,” she continued.

  “Yeah, right.” I inhaled, trying to hear her. But just one more thing, almost because I needed to hear it myself. “Because Dal's a really good friend of mine, and it would be unethical, as well as just plain dishonest of me, to plot something behind his and Marissa's back.”

  “Mark,” she finally blurted out.

  Then she let out this dreamy sigh that felt embarrassingly personal, so I basically ignored it and stayed with the program.

  Mark was good. Very good. Not only did she know him, but I did, too. He was the tall blond I'd seen working beside her in the snack bar. I could watch his reactions to her. Get a feel for whether I could bring this job to its rightful conclusion.

  Wait—better yet, what if I brought Dal in on it? As my inside man, he could work on Mark while I worked on Chelsea. Sure, I'd have to slip Dal some bucks, but every business had its outlay expenses. And I knew he needed money for college.

  Dal . . . yeah. Good.

  When my mind connected with Chelsea's voice again, she was still all about Mark. How cute he was, how he didn't have a girlfriend, how she just knew they'd be perfect together, et cetera, et cetera. I just hoped she didn't ramble this much around him.

  “So, what do you think?” she finally paused to ask. “Can you make it work for us?”

  I sat up and balanced my laptop on my crossed legs. “I'm going to have to do more research and crunch the numbers,” I said, because it sounded good. “See if you and Mark fit into my . . . my . . . you know, Six-Point Plan. My, uh, hottie-hooking hexagon.”

  “Oh, Kate, I knew it! You do have some secret formula or something. Omigod, this is so great. You're really going to make this happen for me.”

  I managed a smile, praying I'd never have to explain myself. A hottie-hooking hexagon? I could hear the buzzer blaring on my BS meter. Fortunately—and more importantly—Chelsea didn't seem to. She promised to bring me fifty big ones the next day and then wondered aloud if she'd be able to sleep.

  I wondered the same about myself. I mean, she only had anticipation to deal with. I was the one flying without a net.

  •

  Suzannah and I were crossing the senior parking lot the next morning when the first bell sounded. Good thing I pretty much carried my entire life in my backpack, because there was no time for my locker.

  I rushed through the side door and tugged off my knit cap. Following a full hair flick and some pats to combat the static, I headed off in the direction of my first classroom, going into my usual corridor routine—shove, “Excuse me,” push, “Sorry.”

  But something strange happened. Instead of moving in fits and starts, the crowd parted away from me—or for me—letting me pass. People stopped, turned. And stared.

  And then there were the voices—some whisper quiet, some loud and obnoxious.

  “That's her.”

  “Brandon's new girlfriend . . .”

  “Kate DelVecchio.”

  It was like one of those dreams where people are gawking at you and it takes you a while to realize you're naked.

  “DelVecchio's no dog,” a girl said as I rounded a corner. “But she's no Summer Smith, either.”

  That voice was instantly recognizable. It had blended with mine spring after spring in elementary school when we'd stood outside supermarkets in our Brownie uniforms, hawking Thin Mints and Do-Si-Dos.

/>   I was tempted to look tough-as-nails Dakota Watson dead in the eye and tell her thanks—and that I didn't think she howled at the moon, either. But what was the point? My banquet date was going to be history by lunch, and this embarrassing mess would be nothing but a blip on the radar of my senior year. Plus, she and I still needed to get along in our Future Business Leaders of America club.

  Feeling the stares of Dakota and her friends drilling into the back of my peacoat, I continued to class, telling myself not to sweat it. Soon I'd be the only one who even remembered this morning had happened.

  •

  To say I was glad to see Dal out on the quad during morning break would be an understatement. I was in dire need of someone who knew me, liked me, and wasn't out to judge me.

  And besides, I had that proposal for him.

  “Did you break your date from hell yet?” he asked as soon as he saw me.

  Okay—I admit I would have preferred a simple “Hi, Kate.” And I still wasn't thrilled with how he'd somehow gotten all critical of my so-called love life. But the last thing I wanted was more conflict, so I rubbed my chilly palms together and met his gaze. “Not yet.”

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “Next period. When we have chem.”

  “Oh . . . yeah.” He let out a little laugh, then a smile so wide that it touched his eyes.

  A couple of his hockey buddies stopped by with a big bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos. Which was great—I mean, the more Cheetos the better—until one of them asked about my Big Date. I shot Dal a look, curious to see how he'd respond, and crammed my mouth with artificial cheese.

  “Just a misunderstanding,” he said, and shrugged. “Brandon and Kate are chem partners. That's all.”

  I wasn't letting Dal off the hook that easily, so when all eyes fell on me, I gave him a little grin and a shrug. Leaving the door open just a little. I was starting to see that the attention Brandon had given me did have its uses. . . .

  The guys switched to talking hockey—boring—so I tuned them out and glanced around the quad. Carlton Camp from the student store was sitting alone on a stoop, staring at a nearby group of girls. They seemed oblivious to him, and I sort of felt sorry for him, until one of the girls caught me staring, and then I just felt stupid for myself.