by Sara Hubbard
“Oh. Is that all?”
She frowns at me. “Isn’t that enough? You know how much I love Thin Thieves.”
“Yeah, almost as much as I love Wonder Woman.”
She sighs. “I paid two hundred and eight dollars for those tickets. Now they’ll have to go in my scrapbook, never to be used.”
“Why don’t you take my car?” I say.
Her rounded shoulders straighten and her neck elongates as she sits up tall. “Really?”
“Of course. I can’t believe you didn’t ask me.”
“Honestly, we never use your car. Sometimes I forget you brought it to school.”
“I used it the other day to go to Blandford.”
She looks left as she purses her lips. “I didn’t put two and two together. Are you sure?” She reaches out to place her hand on top of mine, and I turn mine over and hold hers, squeezing it once before letting go.
“It’s yours. Just don’t leave it somewhere where it will get towed. And don’t leave garbage in it.”
“I would never.” She manages to look offended.
I frown at her. I lent her my car in twelfth grade to go visit some college guy she was dating. Her parents were away, but they wrote down the mileage on the car before they left and told her she wasn’t allowed to use it on penalty of never getting permission to use it again. When Emily brought it back to me, she left McDonald’s wrappers all over the floor and soda cups in the cup holders, one of which leaked. I cleaned it, of course. But I remind her about the mess she left every time we use my car.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come?” Emily asks. “I’m sure we could get you a ticket from a scalper.”
“Umm…nope, I’m good.”
“What are you going to do?” She waggles her eyebrows. “Or should I say who…?”
I roll my eyes and check my watch—completely ignoring her question. “What time is the concert?”
“Nine. Shit! I should call him and let him know we’re back on.” She pulls out her phone from the back pocket of her skinny jeans and dials his number. After she tells him the news, she hangs up quickly. “He’s coming to get me in a half hour. We gotta go. Last chance to come?”
“No. Go. Have fun.”
“I’ll feel better if I know you won’t be holed up in our room studying. Please tell me that you’re finally going out on a Friday night with Mr. Sexy.”
I grin at her. “He asked me to meet him after practice. Speaking of which, he already had practice this morning. How much do they train?” That gives me a great idea for a story, one I could actually use without hurting Ozzie. The life of a varsity athlete: training without sacrificing grades.
She shrugs. “Brad trains six days a week, never twice in one day unless they’ve pissed off their coach.”
“I went to their practice last night, and I’m not entirely certain because their coach seems like an angry guy anyway, but I think he might have been pissed with them.”
“That’ll do it, and Coach Handler has a reputation for being exceptionally tough.” Emily drops her ribs and wipes her hands clean with a wet wipe from a paper packet.
She has to leave, and to help, I pick up my garbage and hers and put it all on one tray. I unload it in the garbage bin while she continues wiping her hands. As we stroll by on the way back to our room, she tosses it in the trash.
In our room, Emily tries on a half-dozen outfits until she decides on a tight dress and a jean jacket. The carnage of her unsuccessful outfits litters the floor on her side of the room, with a few pieces reaching into mine. As she sits on the bed and shoves her feet into black, heeled boots, I pick up the clothes and start hanging them back up.
She rolls her eyes at me affectionately. “Thanks, friend.”
“You’re welcome, asshole.”
She laughs. “Friend gets a new boyfriend and develops an attitude. I’m not sure I like this.”
I shake my head. “You know I’m teasing.”
“I know. I’ll still bring you back a souvenir.”
The door rattles on its hinges with a heavy knock. Emily squeals and grabs her overnight bag before answering it. She opens the door, and Brad gives her a long kiss that doesn’t end until I finally clear my throat.
“Charlie,” he says with a nod.
“Hey, Brad.”
“Thanks for the car. You made my girl really happy.”
I shrug. “No problem. Any time.” I hang up the last of her tops and head to the desk. I sit down with one leg tucked up under my bum.
“We’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. Try not to miss me,” Emily says.
“I’ll try my hardest.”
She skips over and gives me a wet kiss on my forehead with her ruby-stained lips. “Have a good night. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“Which pretty much leaves anything on the table,” Brad says with a wink.
I really don’t need to have mental images of my friend getting it on with Brad.
I wave goodbye, and the door slams shut, rattling the few photos on my desk. I grab my backpack, pull out my pencil case and books, and search around for my day-timer. I open my bag wide and peek inside once it’s empty. It’s missing. How is it missing? I wanted to add notes about my new story idea. My whole life was inside that book, including all my notes on Ozzie and information about his family. Sometimes I scribble diary-like entries in it, and learning about his family affected me. I needed to write it down and work through my feelings.
I search the floor. Did it fall out? I get on my hands and knees and look under the desk and under the beds. It has to be here somewhere. Thirty minutes later, my mattress is on its side, my sheets are in a pile in the corner, my clothes from earlier today are on the floor, as well as my last two days of laundry. My books are strewn on the desk. My heart is beating out of my chest.
My day-timer is nowhere. I retrace my steps, and the last time I remember seeing it was in English. I slap my head to my palm and recall how quickly I gathered my stuff and left class. It must be there still. I don’t remember putting it in my bag…but I do remember Piper sitting in my seat smiling like she had a secret. A big one.
I slump down along the wall to the floor. It hits me only now. Piper took it. She had to have stolen it. And if she took it, that means she’ll share it with Sam. She’ll know my inner thoughts and learn some of Ozzie’s secrets. And she’ll know I was writing a story on him.
Without him knowing about it.
I spring to my feet and throw open my door. In my sock feet, I try to run down the hall but slide more than I run. I get to the end of my hall, turn, and slide down the rest of that hallway, all the way down to the stairwell exit door. Piper’s room is beside it.
I rap on the door and don’t let up until she opens it. My heart pounds in my chest, and it’s hard to catch my breath. She stands in the doorjamb and stares at me before folding her arms across her chest. “Can I help you with something?”
“My planner! Did you take it?”
Her lips are set in a firm line. Second by second, the tightness relaxes as her lips twitch up at the corners. “What planner?”
“Please. Don’t mess with me. It’s mine, and I need it.”
She takes a deep breath, and her expression changes to mock sadness. “If I had it, I would give it to you.”
I exhale slowly. “So, you don’t have it?”
She shakes her head, her smile returning.
Her words replay in my head—word for word. She doesn’t have it right now, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t have it earlier. “Okay...did you have it?”
She tips her head to the side. “I’m busy. There’s a party tonight at Ozzie’s place. At ten…after practice. You should come. It’ll be a good time.”
“Piper, no. Please don’t do this.”
“Please don’t do this? Sam asked you nicely, and she wasn’t a bitch about it. Girl code. You don’t date your friend’s exes.”
“Sam and I aren’t really friend
s.”
She laughs without humor. “Then she owes you nothing. Have a nice night, Charlie.” Piper attempts to close her door in my face, but I jut out my hand and foot and try to force her to stop and keep talking to me. She’s stronger than me, though, and I end up losing the tug of war. The door slams in my face, and I’m left on the other side, struggling to catch my breath.
I finally find a guy who cares about me perhaps as much as I care for him, and I’ve managed to wreck my relationship with him in under a week. Why couldn’t I tell him the truth? Why didn’t I have the courage? What sucks even more is that when he finds out from Sam, he’ll never believe me when I tell him I decided not to write the story. He’ll think I'm lying. And I won’t blame him. He’ll never trust a word I say from this point forward.
The only hope I have is to get to him first, and that’s not much hope at all.
Chapter Seventeen
Nail biting: it’s a terrible habit that I broke years ago. But here I stand in the chilly arena near the Plexiglas boards, watching the hockey team as they play a game with half of them wearing black shirts and the other half in red. Does he know? He hasn’t looked in my direction once since I got here twenty minutes ago. Maybe he hasn’t seen me. No, I don’t believe that. The last time I came here, it was like he had radar specifically for me. He locked onto me and couldn’t contain his smile for the rest of his practice.
The coach yells at them as they skate around the ice. I can’t follow their movements. I don’t know the rules, and I have no interest in learning them. All I know is number four has the puck and he just passed it to Ozzie, who races forward, slapping the puck hard toward the net when he’s only ten feet away.
The goalie drops to his knees, his legs out to the sides, and the puck bounces off his bulky knee pads. Ozzie lets out a curse and slaps his stick on the ice.
“Concentrate, Oz! The season’s over, you want your career to be finished, too?”
Ozzie shakes his head, and he skates around the back of the net like he’s on rails. He keeps moving along the side, passing me. His eyes flash to me for the briefest of moments, and I swear I see him scowl. My hopeful mood disintegrates.
She got to him first.
Or Sam did. Yes, definitely Sam. She would have loved to deliver the news to Ozzie. It would clear the pathway for her. Compared to me, what she did was nothing. She just wanted to know more about her boyfriend. I wanted to exploit him.
Oh, God. I’m such an asshole.
I lower myself into the seat behind me. With my elbows on my knees and my cheeks in my palms, I watch the rest of their practice. After a poor game, where probably twenty attempts were made on the net and no one got a single goal, the coach blows his whistle and rips it off his neck. He pitches it across the ice. Then he removes his hat and slams that down on the ice, too.
“Mother fuckers! What is wrong with you?”
The players stop and stare. He goes to the closest player and pushes him. He loses his balance and dances on his skates, almost falling over, before he regains his erect stance. The guy spits on the ice when the coach isn’t looking.
“Bunch of mother fucking pussies! You came this close this year!” He holds up his hand and makes a gesture with his index finger and thumb. “This close! I need dedication! I need effort. If you bitches can’t give that to me, then get the fuck off my ice and don’t bother coming back here in the fall.” He skates to the exit and gets off the ice, slamming the thick half-door behind him. All the players look around at one another, shaking their heads. A few shrug their shoulders, and then they file off the ice.
“Ozzie!” I yell. He completely ignores me. I expected it, but it hurts. Somewhere deep in my gut. The punch is sharper than I anticipated. By the dressing room door, I wait for him to change and come out. I plan what I want to say and how I want to say it. But I can’t keep my thoughts straight. There is nothing I can say to fix this.
A few guys come out; each of them glance at me but keep walking. Another handful come out. And then a few more. I swear the whole team has left, and Ozzie is in there waiting me out.
But then his friend Michael comes out. He clucks his tongue at me and shakes his head. He keeps walking. I keep my head up but I want to cry. I’m no stranger to hatred. People hated me all the time in high school. Maybe not hate, but they sure had no problem letting me know they didn’t have time for me. Maybe if I was funny or not socially awkward, I could have charmed them, but I wasn’t either of those things. I was a smart kid with extra weight who was more interested in writing down the stories in my head than making friends.
Another twenty-five minutes crawl by, and I take a seat on the bench for no more than ten seconds before he walks out. He spies me when he comes around the corner. He slows but then picks up his pace, stalking straight past me.
Jack told me stories of how he treated the people who tried to interview him. I’m getting the same treatment.
“Ozzie! Please stop. Can we talk?”
“Sure thing. What would you like to know? Are we on the record or not? Because that might make a difference.” He looks at me sideways with narrowed eyes and gritted teeth. He looks at me like I’m some bug on his shoe he wants to annihilate. No one has ever looked at me like this, and it stops me in my tracks while he keeps walking.
“If you could just let me explain,” I call out to him.
He stops. With his back to me, we pass a long moment of silence. The air becomes thick, and it makes it hard for me to breathe. He turns around and comes back to meet me, standing only a few feet away. My palms grow sweaty. I want to reach out to him, to take his hand, like it might make me stronger, but I can’t do that. He wouldn’t let me.
“You got one minute.”
“Oh…um…okay. I wasn’t really expecting you to hear me out.”
“Should I keep walking?”
“No! Please, don’t do that.” I take a deep breath. “Okay, here it goes. I was asked to write a story about you for the paper, and in exchange the editor said he’d let me join the paper and feature what I wrote. I wanted to write it. I was determined to make it the best damned story I ever wrote, but…”
He raises an eyebrow and then bounces the strap of his hockey bag up higher on his shoulder.
“I started to care about you, and when I realized you were more important than the story, I tried to tell you. Do you remember? When I told you I had something to tell you and you told me not to tell you? I was trying to tell you then.”
He chuckles without humor. With one hand, he removes his baseball cap, and with the other, he runs his hand through his damp hair. “I thought you were going to tell me something about your past, something that doesn’t matter anymore. Some bullshit about baggage or some shit like that. I didn't expect it to be about you lying to me. Or you using me. Fuck! I find a girl I like, and I find out she’s nothing special after all. I think I’ll go back to just fucking girls. It hurt a lot less.”
His words are like a slap to the face, and I flinch from the pain. He doesn’t care. He scoffs at me, surveys me up and down, and backs away before turning and leaving me to stand alone in the cool arena. The Zamboni revs up and starts to clean the ice, its engine loud and persistent. I turn and watch it polish the clear ice to a soft shine. A single tear falls down my cheeks. I wipe it away and hang my head.
I’m nothing special. His words pierce my chest and stab at my heart. My shoulders round as the jagged blade sinks deeper. He meant to hurt me as much as I hurt him, and I get that. I’m sure a lot of people would respond that way. But just because I hurt him, it doesn’t give him the right to make me feel like I’m nothing.
Why couldn’t I just listen to that nagging feeling in my gut that told me not to do the story? I ignored this guy’s right to privacy and betrayed his trust all because I couldn’t walk away from the plan I’d hatched when I was still a girl, when my father’s approval and interest meant everything to me—because it didn’t come easy. Maybe Jack was right. I don’
t have what it takes. I don’t want that life if it means not being able to look at myself in the mirror. I’m not sure if anything is worth that.
My phone rings early the following morning, pulling me from a deep sleep. I went to bed not long after three, after feasting on cookie dough ice cream and ketchup potato chips. After an epic marathon of tossing and turning, I finally fell asleep and had nightmares about being in the middle of a hockey rink as Ozzie’s team surrounded me and the crowd booed and tossed eggs at my face. My pillow is wet and sticky from dream tears.
With my eyes closed, I feel around the side of my desktop for my phone. When I feel its rectangular outline, I snatch it and hold it up high over my face. I blink rapidly and wipe the sleep from my eyes before trying to focus on the display.
Mom calling.
I press accept and hold it up to my ear. “Hello,” I say, my voice groggy.
“Charlotte? Are you still in bed?”
“Mm hmm.”
“Are you ill?”
“What time is it?”
There is a rustling on the other end of the phone. “It’s after ten. I don’t think you’ve ever slept in this late in your entire life. Not even as a moody teenager.”
“I was never a moody teenager, Mom.” I push up on my elbows and then into a sitting position.
“Debatable. I just called to check in. Is everything ok?”
I sigh and pick at the fuzz on my comforter. “Sure.”
“Charlotte, start talking before I drive up there.”
I chuckle quietly. She thinks this is a threat, but she’s exactly what I need right now. My mom, complete with advice—even if I don’t take it.
“Charlotte?”
“If you came by, I’d be okay with that.”
The phone is silent, and then, “I’m on my way.”
She isn’t joking. She arrives an hour later when it normally takes an hour and ten minutes to get here. She shows up at my room, and the second I open the door, she knows something is very wrong. She frowns at me and opens her arms. I walk into her embrace, and she kisses my forehead as she soothes me and strokes my back. I lean my head on her shoulder and feel my lower lip tremble. Why am I so sad? Why do I feel so much for someone I barely know?
