A few minutes later the boys stomped, high-fived, and laughed their way onto the bus. The seniors headed for the rear, and a squeal went up from the cheerleading squad. It echoed in the narrow aisle and made my ears ache. I swallowed the urge to roll my eyes. Instead I shut them. Maybe I could shut everything out that way.
“Anyone sitting here?”
I opened my eyes to find Jack Paulson grinning down at me. I shook my head and stuffed the pom-poms down by my feet.
He sat, easing his legs into the aisle.
“Good game,” I said. Lame, lame, lame. But this time it didn’t matter. We’d won. “That last shot,” I added, my voice sounding as breathless as I’d felt earlier. “Wow.”
He shrugged. “I got lucky.”
A lone senior, Ryan Nelson, plopped down across the aisle from us. Jack stared at him.
“What?” Ryan cocked his head and peered past Jack, at me. “Oh, I get it,” he said. Ryan stood and clamped Jack on the shoulder. He looked back at the squealing mass of cheerleaders and cringed. “I’ll take one for the team, man, but you owe me.”
I was still trying to translate the exchange between them—from jock-speak to geek—when the doors clanked shut. The lights flickered out. The driver pulled from the parking lot, and darkness filled the bus. A cry rose from the back, prompting Coach Miller to yell, “Pipe down, or I’m separating all of you.” He sat in the seat behind the driver and muttered, “Christ almighty.”
Jack and I sat in the dark. It was quiet except for the rumble of the bus and the whispered chatter from the back seats. Then Jack leaned forward and grabbed a pom-pom from the floor. “So, this cheerleading thing,” he said, “kind of controversial.”
“Who knew?” I certainly hadn’t.
“I appreciate it.” He rattled the fringe and let the pom-pom slide back to the floor. In the dark, his face was all planes and shadows. “I mean, that someone cares enough to actually follow the game.”
“I wish I could—I mean, follow it better.” I glanced toward the back of the bus and lowered my voice. “I always thought cheerleaders were—” Were what? Dumb? Brainless? Completely without a clue? “But it’s not that easy to keep track of what’s going on when your back is turned.” Babbling. Again. Someday I might manage a conversation with Jack without either clamming up or blathering like a total idiot. But that probably wouldn’t be tonight.
The bus pulled onto the highway, heading west toward Prairie Stone. An hour’s drive. A whole hour sitting next to Jack. And not a thought about what I could say to him or how to sneak my ever-present list of “Witty Things” from my coat pocket and hold it up to the light. What good was having a ginormous brain if it shut down the moment Jack Paulson came within fifteen feet? The drone of wheels against the road lulled everyone, even the rowdiest in the back. Quiet conversations popped up, a word here, a name there. Mine. Jack’s. Together. Did he hear it too?
“You know,” Jack said, “I finished The Lord of the Rings over break. Wilker said I might even get that A.”
“That’s great.” More than great, really, if you considered the basketball team’s grueling practice schedule. “I’m impressed.”
Jack tapped his skull. “Who’d a thunk it, huh?”
I shifted in my seat, enough to face him. Should I go on the offensive? Guys like him understood that, didn’t they? “You, Jack Paulson”—I poked him in the chest—“might be many things, but I’ve heard you in class. You’re no dumb jock.”
I didn’t mention that I sometimes eavesdropped on his one-on-one sessions with Mr. Wilker. That would have been right up there with admitting I had his address and phone number memorized. Which I did. Cue the scary stalker-girl music.
“It’s your fault,” he said.
“My fault?”
“Yeah.” He looked down at my finger, still poked in his chest. Before I could yank my hand away, he slipped his palm under mine. Our hands dropped so they rested half on his thigh, half on mine. All I could think was: Jack Paulson is holding my hand.
Holding.
My hand.
God, I am such a dork.
“I took that class because of you,” he said. “I heard you talking to Moni about it. And I—I watch you sometimes when you read.”
Oh, yeah, I thought. Reading as a spectator sport.
“You get this look,” he continued. “It’s like you go somewhere else, like reading isn’t a colossal pain in the ass.”
“It isn’t,” I said, surprised I could still form words with Jack attached to my hand.
He didn’t let go, but something changed in his grip, a new tension, and not the good kind. I needed to say something. Preferably something not stupid, but one good soul-baring confession deserved another.
I drew a breath. “I kind of did the same thing.” I couldn’t read his face, so I went on touch alone. “Last fall I heard you talking about running, about liking the sound of your own footsteps.”
Jack snorted. “I took some major crap for that. You should’ve heard Mangers.”
I was glad I hadn’t. “I wanted to know what that was like, so I started jogging. I had to stop with all the snow, but I really liked it.”
“Want to help me get in shape for track this spring?” He glanced down. “You got the legs for it, and I already know you’re fast.”
I gulped a breath, and then another, remembering my dash for the dropped note. “You’re a lot faster than me. I’m usually pretty slow.”
“Slow’s not such a bad thing.” His grip tightened on my fingers. “I mean, you got to start somewhere.” He gave my hand a squeeze. “Right?”
We rode in silence for a while, but it wasn’t the panicked, agonizing silence that generally passed between us. This time the silence was…nice. And a dark bus with Jack Paulson holding my hand—that was really nice.
“You tired?” Jack asked a few miles later.
“I’m okay.”
“Seriously. Are. You. Tired?” he said, enunciating each word. He drew his fingers along my face, urging me, just slightly, toward his shoulder.
Oh! Was I tired? For a nerdy girl, I was a little slow picking up on the new vocabulary word. “Maybe a little.” I sank against him gingerly at first. He was all lanky muscle and bone through the letter jacket’s leather and felt.
“Bethany?” The word brushed against my hair, and his breath sent shivers across my scalp.
“Yes?”
“I…never mind. It’s—” He laughed softly and pressed his lips to my head. “It’s nothing.”
Maybe. But that didn’t matter. All that mattered was the way Jack said my name and the touch of his lips against my hair.
There were three drawbacks to sitting with Jack on the bus: The sudden stop in the Prairie Stone High School parking lot, the glare of overhead lights, and the shouts that rose up behind us.
“Whoo, Paulson!”
I winced against the brightness and the taunts. By Monday, the entire school would know. I groped for my pom-poms with my free hand and grabbed Jack’s ankle instead. Unfazed, he led me into the aisle, his grip still tight on my hand. He scowled toward the back of the bus. “Chill,” he said.
And they did.
Wow. If only I could do that.
Outside, a shiver ran through me. Students streamed from the bus behind us, some fanning out through the parking lot while others headed toward the school. I yawned. The cold made me feel stupid. Or maybe it was Jack, who still held my hand. Neither was helping me form words.
“I need to—” I waved the pom-poms at the school. “I mean, my dad.”
Jack slung his gym bag over one shoulder. “I can drive you home.”
“I don’t want to be too much trouble.” I couldn’t tell. Was Jack just being polite? “I can always—”
“No problem.” He led me to a battered Toyota pickup truck. “I mean, if you don’t mind the ride. It’s not exactly new.” He paused and stared at the truck. “It was my dad’s, from a long time ago.”
“Really? That’s cool.”
“You think so?”
I nodded. “Yeah, it’s like, I don’t know, a legacy.”
“He drove it when he first started dating my mom.”
His words, spoken so low, almost escaped me. I stared up at Jack while he turned his attention to his shoes. “Then it really is a legacy,” I said.
He didn’t speak, didn’t smile, but something in his expression changed. It was another one of those unfathomable looks, the kind I still couldn’t read. But he unlocked the truck door and held it open.
When he slammed his own door, the truck rocked. I clutched the armrest.
“Sorry, it sticks. And that.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the gym bag on the flatbed. “Stinks. And—” He shifted in his seat and turned the ignition. The engine whined and sputtered, clearly not happy about the cold. “I’ve got to let her warm up for about five minutes. Didn’t know what you were getting into, did you?”
“I d-don’t m-mind,” I said, but the chattering of my teeth gave me away.
“Oh, man.” Jack took my hands in his. “You’re freezing.”
“My fault. I am the one wearing the miniskirt.” Really, there should be some kind of exception for cheerleaders in Minnesota.
“Yeah, well.” An incredible smile lit his face. “I really like that skirt.”
Jack scooted closer. My teeth chattered even harder. Cold? Nerves? I wasn’t sure. I was alone. With Jack. In his truck. He leaned closer. His fingertips came to rest along my cheekbone. He tilted my chin with his thumb. Then Jack Paulson kissed me.
Kissed.
Me.
The feel of strange lips against mine surprised me, and I forgot to close my eyes.
Jack eased away. “You know, you gotta kiss back. There’s this whole guy ego thing tied up in that.”
“Oh.” I shut my eyes then, trying to block the sudden tears. “It’s just, I never—” Oh God. Did I really just admit that?
“What? No way.” Jack looked shocked, then leaned forward, all earnest.
“I’m sorry—,” I began.
“For what? Don’t be sorry,” Jack said. “I just—I mean, you’re so—and then there’s Todd.”
Todd? Did people actually think Todd…and me? No wonder I didn’t have a social life. “It’s not like that, if that’s what you mean,” I said.
“I don’t know what I mean.” Jack fiddled with the Toyota’s heater. “Look, you’re smart, you’re pretty, and that intimidates the hell out of most guys.”
“Even guys like you?”
He turned so our faces were even. “Especially guys like me.”
His mouth was only a breath or two from mine. For once, he looked vulnerable. So maybe I didn’t know the rules to this game, or maybe any games that guys like Jack played. Did it matter?
We met halfway, and kissing back was so much better. Air from the heater flowed through the small pocket between my face and his, tickled my nose, and roared in my ears—or maybe that was my pulse. I couldn’t say for sure.
“Now I know why you’re on the honor roll,” Jack said, his lips still against my mouth. “You learn fast.” He eased back and reached for his seat belt, fingers fumbling with the strap. “I should get you home, but I—can you believe it? We’re practicing tomorrow, otherwise—would you?” He shook his head. “Never mind.”
“What?”
“We have a break on Saturdays from twelve to one.” His hands came to rest on the steering wheel. He stared straight ahead as though he were talking to the windshield instead of me. “I thought maybe you could stop by and we could—I don’t know—go get some lunch?”
Okay. This I understood. Maybe it wasn’t a date, but Jack Paulson was asking me to lunch. “Sure.”
Jack put the truck in gear. When it leaped forward, he gave me that little-boy grin.
8
From The Prairie Stone High Varsity Cheerleading Guide:
When you cheer for our Prairie Stone athletes, friendships and bonds will develop. Make certain you don’t favor one friend, one team, one sport over another. Remember, they all need our support.
Twenty questions greeted me when I got home: Who drove you? Why didn’t you call first? Do we know him? They came at me so rapid-fire that I couldn’t answer, all I could do was swivel from one parent to the other.
But when Mom said, “I’m not sure you know what you’re doing anymore, Bee.”
And Dad followed with, “Todd said something about strange boys, and we’re concerned that—” I had to make it stop.
“What?” I said. I think the outrage in my voice surprised all three of us. “In the first place, who says I ever knew what I was doing?” I paused to make sure they were going to hear me out before they decided to ground me permanently. “In the second place, I thought you wanted me to try new things. Or maybe there was something in all those lectures about being ‘well rounded’ that I didn’t understand. In the third place—”
“Hold on there, young lady,” said Dad. “I think your mother has a point. First you try out for cheerleading, then you’re riding around with strange boys. Who knows what could happen next?”
Who knows what could happen next.
Two hours earlier I would have disagreed with them. I would have explained the Distributive Property of High School Popularity: You can take the girl out of the geeks, but you can’t take the geek out of the girl.
Then Jack Paulson kissed me.
Jack Paulson kissed me.
And I had to admit, “You’re right.”
Not only had Jack kissed me, but I had a date to meet him for lunch. Anything could happen next. That is, if I wasn’t grounded times forever. What was it that Art of War guy had to say? Something about “He who can modify his tactics in relation to his opponent…” That was it.
“I should have called first,” I told them. “I should have asked your permission. I can tell that you were really worried about me and I’m sorry that I made you worry.” Things changed, I thought. I remembered that interview I did for my Life at Prairie Stone column. We were talking about change and how we resist it, even when something good happens to us.
I could almost hear Dad say those words. And when I used them in my column, Todd hadn’t edited them, which meant he was impressed.
“I guess some things are changing,” I said out loud. But I couldn’t follow it up with anything beyond that.
Still, I wondered if Dad heard the echo of his own words. His anger melted, and then he offered up a slight smile. “We’ll talk about this in the morning,” he said.
I nodded, shrugged off my coat, unlaced my shoes, and stowed everything where it belonged—in the closet, instead of on the hall bench where I usually dropped things.
“G’night,” I said before climbing the stairs to head for the bedroom hallway. “Oh, and Dad?” When I turned back I found him still standing, openmouthed, staring up at me. “That boy who drove me home, Jack Paulson? He’s a lot less strange than Todd.”
Oh, the handyman’s son, that nice Paulson boy. I could see the recognition settle on their faces.
Something about the name “Jack Paulson” and a good night’s sleep mellowed my parents considerably. It didn’t hurt that I got up early and made breakfast.
“Keep us informed,” Dad said over maple syrup and pancakes.
“You don’t suppose she needs a cell phone?” Mom mused.
I nearly broke into a spontaneous cheer but played it cool. The phone was still up for debate, but otherwise, things were kind of/sort of back to normal, which meant, late Saturday morning, I studied the two kinds of bread we had in our pantry like I was about to make the most important decision of my life.
Multigrain or sourdough? Ham and cheese or the old standby, peanut butter and jelly? Both? The smell of warm brownies filled the kitchen, but nerves kept me from trying one. One careful spreading of peanut butter later, I felt I’d reached a compromise—good, but casual. Casual sandwiches? I let my he
ad rest against the refrigerator. I had totally lost it.
I wished Moni would answer her phone. I needed help dissecting Jack’s every word and move last night. I needed someone to tell me that what I was about to do wasn’t socially or romantically stupid.
I was shrugging on my coat when the phone rang in my room. I almost dropped the lunch in my rush down the hall. Bag in one hand, I launched across the bed and grabbed the receiver.
“Good, you’re home,” Moni said.
“I almost wasn’t.”
“What?”
“I’m having lunch with Jack Paulson.” In anticipation of her reaction, I held the phone away from my ear.
“You’re what?” Moni squealed. “Tell me everything.”
“No time. When I get back. I’m meeting him at noon.”
“Oh God. Call. If you don’t, I won’t tell you who I talked to last night.”
“Brian?” I guessed. She’d been ignoring him since winter break and even switched partners in the Math League. Maybe he’d stopped taking Todd’s advice and offered that Party Quest wand to Moni on a more permanent basis? That would be big news.
“What?” she said. “No way.”
“Then who?” I needed to leave, like five minutes ago, but even over a phone line I could sense that Moni was smiling.
I waited for Jack in the school lobby, thinking. Thinking about Jack, about the nerd quotient of multigrain bread. About Moni.
She’d refused to say much, just that Rick Mangers had called her. That he was the reason her phone had rolled into voice mail until two a.m. last night. They’d talked for hours, she said, and he was calling again. Tonight. Nice. Maybe Moni could pencil me in for a chat before Geek Night at Todd’s.
Finally basketball players started streaming from the locker room. The scent of warm boy sweat overpowered the smell of the brownies. Jack broke from the group, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and stopped in front of me.
“Hey,” he said, then added, “You’re here.”
The surprise in his voice made me wonder if he’d really meant it. Maybe “meet me for lunch” was one of those standard—yet insincere—lines the popular boy always said to the loser girl.
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