“Yo, foosball fanatics. Who should I put my money on?” He strokes his chin. “I’m leaning toward Laurel, since she took down that monster.” He punches Carlos on the shoulder. “You only had to beat that tiny Asian chick in the last round.”
Carlos recovers quickly from his embarrassment. “Are you being a racist?”
Elijah rolls his eyes. “I’m just comparing the competition.”
“Just because she was, uh, petite doesn’t mean she wasn’t good. And what does being Asian have to do with it? Do you call me the Mexican?”
“Dude. Are you colorblind?” Elijah gestures to himself. “You really think I’m gonna do that?”
Carlos huffs out a breath and runs a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I’m just…I’m grabbing waters. You want anything?”
Elijah shakes his head, then turns to me as Carlos practically sprints away.
“What’d you say to freak him out, Special K?”
“Did you put that cereal box on my desk?”
“Me? Nah. But the nickname fits you.” He tilts his head as he studies me. “Seriously, what’d you say to send him running off?”
My heartbeat is still racing, but I try to pull off casual. “We were just smack-talking each other. Maybe he has the pregame jitters.”
Elijah’s eyes narrow. “Uh huh.” He glances toward the drink table, then back at me. “That guy doesn’t get the jitters.”
Of course Carlos hadn’t meant to say I was hot hot. He meant I was a sweaty mess. And his challenge to bring my best game only meant foosball. Why do I let myself get carried away? I reach into the back pocket of my jeans for a hair tie, then pull my hair into a ponytail. I can’t afford to be distracted by anything if I want to win.
And I want to win this whole thing. I want to take home that cheesy trophy Brian stuck on the dessert table. I want another lowfive from my dad.
Carlos returns with water bottles but doesn’t make eye contact when he hands mine over. I take a long swig, wishing for a towel to wipe my face and neck, but that would only draw attention to my sweatiness.
“Final round!” Brian yells. “Everybody gather around!”
“May the best foosballer win.” Elijah reaches out to shake both of our hands with mock solemnity.
I follow Carlos to the table, pushing through the crowd, which has grown louder as the afternoon has worn on and more beers have been consumed. We take our places on either side of the table. I notice the other interns gathered in a tight knot, watching us, and I wonder who they’ll cheer for. Who am I kidding? Go Carlos go!
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the first time we’ve had interns as our final competitors.” Brian pauses. “It’s also the first time Emergent has ever hired interns, so…” A few people laugh.
“Carlos and Laurel will play until one of them wins five points. Whoever wins gets the trophy, bragging rights, and their name added to the Foosball Hall of Fame plaque.”
There’s a plaque? For real?
“You guys ready?” Brian asks. We nod.
Carlos gives me the chin tilt, which I interpret to mean good luck. Or maybe, I’m going to crush you. I guess if I’m going to be crushed by anyone, I’d like it to be him. But that makes me think of bodies crushing together and—
“Go!” Brian yells, and I jerk my attention to the table.
Playing Carlos is way different than playing Lewis. Whereas Lewis was frenetic and impulsive, Carlos is deliberate and strategic. He lines up his shots carefully and figures out my style of play quickly. The scoring goes back and forth, and before I know it we’re tied at three.
A loud cheer goes up after he scores his third goal, and I notice the interns are especially raucous. Way more than they were when I scored. Except for Elijah, who shows the same enthusiasm for each of us. Lewis and his beefy friend stand off to the side, cheering loudly for Carlos. Their obvious sexism irritates me, so I channel my frustration into the game, scoring a fourth point quickly with a move that catches Carlos off guard.
He glances up, setting me off balance with a smirk. “Nice shot.”
I nod my thanks but don’t say anything. He serves and we’re back in the groove, shooting and blocking. We enter a rhythm, both of us predicting the other’s moves and responding accordingly. In any other circumstance I might say we’re compatible. Well-matched.
My cheeks heat at the direction my thoughts are going and I remind myself to focus, but in the few seconds I’m distracted, Carlos takes advantage and scores, tying us at four.
“Nice shot.”
“Loser buys donuts for the winner.” The skin around his eyes crinkles and the butterflies in my stomach swirl like a tornado.
“Deal.” It’s my turn to serve, so I do, intending to score quickly and end this. But Carlos surprises me, switching up his game and transforming into a whirling dervish instead of the measured competitor he’s been for the past four points. I try to match his play, but I’m a beat too slow, and he scores the game-winning point to a deafening roar of cheers.
Go, Carlos, go.
He’s swarmed by fans, and I step back from the table, stunned at how he tricked me. If I’d watched him to do it to someone else, I’d have been impressed. Sighing, I wipe a sheen of perspiration from my forehead. Why is it no one swarms the loser after a game?
Brian presents the trophy to Carlos, who grins and takes an exaggerated bow as the crowd applauds. I scan the clumps of people for my dad. I spot him, and he gives me a thumbs-up, but even from a distance I can tell he feels bad for me.
I’m anxious to get home, maybe join Lexi at the pool, but then I remember I don’t have a ride home thanks to Dad’s surprise date for Mom. Great. Now I have a long, hot train ride to look forward to. I sneak toward the exit.
“How about a round of applause for Laurel?” Carlos calls out, making me freeze mid-escape.
I flatten myself against the wall as everyone turns toward me, since Carlos has helpfully pointed me out. Ugh. The crowd claps and a few people whistle. I assume it’s pity cheering because I’m Mr. K’s daughter, which stings even worse than losing. I offer a pathetic half wave and refuse to make eye contact with the winner. Fortunately, my time in the spotlight is short-lived as everyone turns back to Carlos or grabs more beer and soda.
Ms. Romero, ever my champion, appears next to me and hands me a water bottle. “Great game, Laurel. You made him fight for it.”
Not really. I suspect he had me figured out from the beginning. I wonder if he let me score on purpose, waiting until the very end to destroy me. If he did, that sucks. I hate when people don’t play their best, reeling others in and then revealing their true skills. And he told me not to hold back?
“We leave early on pizza Fridays,” Ms. Romero says. “I need to clean up so I can get out of here. Enjoy your weekend, hon.” She gives my shoulder a squeeze and heads to a nearby table littered with empty beer bottles, gathering them up.
I frown, wondering why people don’t clean up after themselves, when Carlos swoops in, quickly gathering bottles and empty plates.
“You don’t have to do that,” Ms. Romero protests, but she looks grateful.
Carlos grins. “I’m a professional. Years of experience.” He moves quickly to the other tables, bussing like a pro because of his family restaurant, I assume. I head to the dessert table, stacking up empty platters, trying to make myself useful. A few other people join in and the mess is cleared quickly.
Ready to leave, I head for the stairs carrying empty dessert trays, but a hand on my shoulder stops me. I know who it is before I turn around.
“It was a great game, Laurel.” Carlos reaches for the platters. “I’d shake your hand but you’re making it tough. Let me help you carry that stuff.”
I shake my head like a stubborn child. “I’ve got it.” Then I remember what a sore loser Lewis was. I don’t want to be like that. I force a smile. “You played great. Congrats.” I want to brush the stray hairs from my face but can’t because my hands are full. �
��Uh, what kind of donuts do you like?” I know he likes chocolate, but it’s easier to ask that than ask if he let me score.
His expression shifts. “I was just kidding about that. Trying to, uh, stoke the competitive fires or whatever.”
“We made a deal. Loser buys donuts. So tell me what you like or I might show up with something awful, like plain donuts.”
“I’m a traditionalist. Plain is perfect,” Carlos jokes. When I don’t laugh, he frowns. “Are you upset about the game? You played great, Laurel. You almost beat me.”
Flustered, I shift my stance and the plates wobble. Carlos reaches out again, taking the stack from me. His fingers brush mine and launch another butterfly party in my stomach.
“I just…” I begin, then stare at the ground. Do I really want to know if he gave me the go-easy-on-Mr.-K’s-daughter treatment?
“What?” he prompts.
We stare at each other. It’s not one of those Hollywood omigod-we’re-going-to-kiss moments. Instead it’s awkward and uncomfortable. I glance around, noticing we’re the last ones on the rooftop. How did that happen?
“Did you let me almost win?”
He looks as shocked as I am at the words tumbling out of my mouth.
“Are you kidding me?” His grip tightens on the plates. “Why would you even ask that?”
“Because at the end you shifted to a whole new style of play. It was almost like you held back the rest of the game.” I take another breath and bite my lip. His gaze darts to my mouth, then he frowns and glances away. “Also,” I continue, “I’m the boss’s daughter. It’s hard to know who’s being…genuine…or whatever, and who’s not.”
He flinches like I’ve slapped him.
“I don’t cheat,” he says, his jaw tight. “And I don’t suck up to people because of their connections.” He shifts his stance and bites out the next words. “Sorry you thought I did.”
And then he’s gone, disappearing through the doorway, the sound of his footsteps rocketing down the stairs.
Way to go, Laurel.
Way. To. Go.
Eleven
Lexi and I meet at the pool after I get home. The water feels amazing after burning up on Emergent’s rooftop, then riding home on the light rail. I spent the entire train ride cringing as I replayed how I’d insulted Carlos.
“So do you still want to quit your job?” Lexi asks. We’re treading water in the deep end, ignoring the crazy kids splashing around us.
“No.”
Her eyebrows lift in surprise, then she swims off to the edge after a rambunctious boy splashes her in the face. I follow her and we perch on the ledge, our sparkling rainbow fingernails grasping the smooth lip of the pool deck.
“So what changed your mind? I thought you hated working for the evil empire.” She blinks her dark lashes and tosses wet hair over her shoulder, a few wet strands sticking to her chest. Lexi fills out a bikini top impressively. Me, not so much.
“Yeah, well…turns out it’s not so evil.”
“Interesting.” She leans back, balancing on her elbows. “Maybe Kendra is right. Try to make friends with the girls, at least one of them. That will make it more fun.” Her lips curve into a Cheshire grin. “Plus, three cute guys? Come on, you ought to be able to hook up with one of them this summer.”
There’s only one guy I’m interested in, but I managed to insult him today, so I’ve killed any chance I had. Not to mention it’s against the rules.
“Hey, my mom said you’re working the church carnival, so now I have to.” Lexi doesn’t sound thrilled about this.
I shrug. “I don’t mind doing it. It’s for a good cause.”
She rolls her eyes. “I know that. Don’t make me feel like a jerk.”
“So don’t do it if you don’t want to. You could donate money instead. Buy a fake brick.”
Our church sells fake bricks at the carnival every year. People pay crazy sums of money for a cardboard rectangle, and the little kids decorate them. Then we stack the bricks in the reception hall until next year’s carnival rolls around.
Lexi exudes annoyance, and I realize we’re not really talking about the carnival.
“Something up with you and Brayden?” I ask. I hope not, because even though I don’t like him, I want her to be happy. She shrugs and turns away, watching the kids playing Marco Polo. “Lexi, what’s up?”
“My brother. My parents are so freaked about the way he bombed out of school that they’ve got us both on lockdown. I had to beg them just to hang out with you tonight.”
“But that doesn’t make sense. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“You don’t have to tell me.” She sighs and closes her eyes. “I just wanted a normal summer, you know? Working, hanging out with you, seeing Brayden. But I’m not allowed to see him unless he comes over while my parents are home.”
I wince. “Ugh. It’s like you’re in middle school.”
“I know, right?” She twirls a strand of wet hair around her index finger. “I’m so mad at Scott for messing up, but I’m worried about him, too.”
I push myself up to sit next to her. I can’t imagine how she feels because I can’t picture Kendra messing up. Ever. When she’d told me he’d flunked out, I couldn’t believe it.
“Is there anything I can do?”
She shrugs. “Maybe not complain so much. Your life’s not that bad, you know?”
Her words cut, but instead of getting defensive I stay quiet, because deep down I know she’s right.
“We should do something fun.” I want to make her laugh, or at least smile.
“Like what?”
“Watch a movie with me tonight. I made cookies yesterday.” Lexi likes my cookies almost as much as Dad does.
“Okay.” She doesn’t look excited, but I hope I can cheer her up. Maybe she’s right and I need to stop focusing on my own problems.
…
Unfortunately Lexi leaves after the movie instead of spending the night.
“No sleepovers,” she grouses, staring at her phone.
“Not even with me?” I can’t believe her parents are being this strict.
I hug Lexi goodbye and wave from the front door as she climbs into her SUV. This summer is going to stink if her parents keep her on lockdown, but I’m hoping they’ll relent soon.
My parents will be out late, so I curl up on the family room sofa with my laptop. After wasting time on a few YouTube videos, I give in to my true desire and pull up Carlos’s restaurant website. I may have looked at it a few times this week, late at night while lying in bed. Maybe more than a few times. An idea bubbles in my mind, but I try to quash it. I am not stalking Carlos at his restaurant.
No way.
“Encantado, may I help you?” The voice is familiar, even over the cacophony of laughter and music in the background.
My throat constricts as I debate what to do. Disguise my voice and ask how late they’re open? Tell him I’m sorry for what I said on the rooftop?
“Hello? May I help you?” Carlos is unfailingly polite, even to a prank caller.
I disconnect and toss my phone aside like it burns my hand. The last time I phone-stalked a guy was in the eighth grade. And it was Jason. What is wrong with me?
Eventually I drift to sleep in front of the TV, dreaming of my parents’ soft voices and the warmth of a blanket being tucked around my body.
“She lost the foosball tournament today,” my dad whispers. “But she was a good sport about it.”
Maybe I’m not dreaming. Mom’s cool hand smooths hair from my forehead. “Of course she was. Sounds to me like she’s being a trooper with this job, Rhett. I hope it works out the way you hope.”
Even though I’m 99 percent asleep, my ears prick up.
“It will,” Dad says. “I’m sure of it.”
Twelve
On Monday, my own personal Dementor fog shrouds me. I dread facing Carlos after the way I accused him of cheating at foosball.
Dad chats me up
as we drive, saying he’s proud of the way I’m “hanging in there” and of how I almost kicked Carlos’s butt at foosball, though he doesn’t phrase it quite like that. Vader is a mood reader.
“I noticed you took photos on Friday. May I see them?”
Suspicion pricks at me like thorns. “Maybe.”
“Laurel, don’t be stubborn. I’d like to see how they turned out.”
“It’s not like I’m a professional.”
He blows out an exasperated breath. “Come to my office. I have an idea.”
“Does this idea involve you embarrassing me in any way?”
“What? No.”
“Can we have lunch together today?” I ask. “I can run out and bring us back sandwiches if you’re too busy to go to a restaurant.”
Dad glances at me, brow furrowed. “Sorry, kiddo. I’m meeting with a client for lunch today.”
“How about tomorrow?”
“Not sure. My lunches are usually booked up far in advance.” He keeps his focus on the traffic.
I slump in my seat, as deflated as the tires on my old tricycle rusting in our shed.
“Maybe I’ll check with Ms. Romero. See if there’s room to squeeze me into your schedule.”
“She would know.”
Does he even want to spend time with me? I know he’s running the empire, but can’t he eke out twenty minutes to have a sandwich with me?
…
Dad checks out my photos while Ms. Romero stacks files on his desk. She does it every morning, with color-coded notes and instructions. I wish I had a Ms. Romero to organize my homework.
“Fantastic, Laurel.” Dad looks up from my camera, his grin wide and genuine. “I want you to show these to Brian and Jiang.” His enthusiasm takes away some of the sting of no lunch date.
“Really? Where do I find them?” I’m kind of excited. If the marketing people like my photos, maybe they’ll show up on Emergent’s social media, which would be cool.
“Second floor. Look for the life-sized King Kong cutout.”
“Later, Vader.”
“Later, Leibovitz.”
“I wish.” I can only dream of someday being as accomplished as the famous Annie Leibovitz.
Spies, Lies, and Allies Page 13
