by Tina Ferraro
“Mom,” I said, feeling a well of emotion in my throat. I had to tell her. It was time. “You can forget about the mortgage for right now. I—I went to the bank and paid the total due.”
She turned. “You did … what? When?”
“Yesterday. During lunch. Jared drove me.”
“Where'd you get the money?”
“The money from Grandma,” I said, suddenly focused on the linoleum floor. “I knew you were strapped. And I still had a bunch left over.”
“I didn't think you had that much. I mean, she only left you …” She stared off into space, then back at me. “That was wonderful of you … really wonderful. I hate that you spent your own money to keep a roof over our heads. But that was wonderful.”
“Don't worry about it.”
She suddenly lunged at me and gave me a noisy kiss on my forehead. “You are the most unselfish, loving daughter in the world! And I swear to you—on your grandmother's grave—that I will pay back every penny of that. With interest.”
I forced a smile, but I could feel its edges trembling. “I don't want the money back, Mom. Forget it.”
“Forget it?” She let out another laugh. One filled with relief. Joy.
That struck my conscience like a devil with a pitchfork.
“Forget it?” she repeated. “Not only will I remember this kindness as long as I live, Nicolette, I may even take an ad out in the newspaper to tell everyone the incredible thing you did for me!”
I faked another smile. She'd better be exaggerating. Or else I had to hope that the newspaper wasn't available as far north as my dad's place.
I left Mom in her giddy glory, snatched the flyers, and headed to my room. After closing the door, I slid the stack under a Lakers sweatshirt in my closet. No way I wanted her seeing them now.
I'd paid her bills with money from the man she hated. I'd lied to her face and pretended the money was the very same I'd selfishly pissed away ages ago. And all in the name of helping.
Helping myself was more like it.
I flopped down on my bed and was trying to concentrate on the little rocks in the cottage-cheese ceiling when the phone rang.
Alison started talking as soon as I picked up. “Okay, so Jared said something pretty interesting after we dropped you off,” she started in immediately. “He doesn't think Kylie really cares about the homecoming game as much as the homecoming dance.”
I sat up. Go, Jared.
“He thinks she's afraid Rascal will be suspended from the game, and then they won't be able to go to the dance, either, disqualifying them from being named king and queen. And since they're seniors, of course, it's now or never.”
“Sure,” I said, thinking aloud. “What do you bet she's already written her acceptance speech and purchased her royal gown?”
“Or was shopping for it when Cherry and Natalia saw us?”
I hummed in agreement. “All she needs is her tiara.”
“And her king to stay out of trouble.”
“Tell Jared he's a regular Sherlock Holmes.”
She was silent for a beat. “Better I don't. It was just a passing comment. And he already thinks you have some kind of an obsession about dances and dresses.”
I felt blood rush to my face.
Well, of course he would, having spent so much time driving me from store to store. Hearing what was wrong with the first gazillion dresses I'd tried on, and so right about my one-of-a-kind vintage find. I'd probably babbled like an idiot.
My gaze flew to the back of my door, to the garment bag encasing the loveliest, softest, sweetest dress ever.
Aaaahhhh.
Okay, so maybe I did have a bit of an obsession going on. But The Dress was incredible—whether or not I got to wear it outside my room. Besides, there were other uses for it. Plenty of uses.
Drope it over your bed, for while you may never be prom queen, at least you'll sleep in princesslike spelndor (and avoid mosquito bites).
I shook my head as if to rid myself of my ridiculousness and kept listening to Alison, who was now asking how Mom's open house had gone. Another subject I didn't want to discuss. But these things were apparently out of my control. I shifted gears and gave her the scoop, including how I'd owned up to paying the mortgage.
“Did she ask a million questions, guess where the money came from, and throw things?”
“No, no, just the opposite. She totally believed it was from my bank account and acted like I was the best daughter in the world.”
“Ouch.”
“Totally.” I exhaled, my gaze drifting to the Lakers sweatshirt in the open closet. “So I figure I'd better spend tomorrow passing out the flyers. Secretly, you know, to help her get more business, but without her going all crazy about how totally wonderful I am.”
“Yeah,” she said, and made a noise like she agreed. “I wish I could help, but my mother's on a rampage about my room. She's ‘made time’ tomorrow to help me with a complete overhaul. It's going to be one long day.”
“Well, when we're college roommates, we can have competitions to see whose side of the room can be the messiest.”
“Seriously.”
A knuckled rap sounded on my door. “Dinner, honey. And I made hot fudge to pour over ice cream for dessert.”
God, she knew how to hurt a person.
“I gotta go,” I told Alison.
“Wait.” She stopped me. “One last thing. Did you hear from Mitch?”
“Mitch?”
“Yeah, about Spanish, or whatever.”
“No.” I had totally forgotten about that. “And I don't want to,” I added. “But hey, if you like him, I could maybe call him and set something up where you're there, too?”
“No thanks,” she said, and seemed to laugh.
After I hung up I stood there for a second and took a deep breath, readying myself for my mom. Realizing that asking Jared for the ride and Dad for the money might actually have been the easy part. What might kill me was this—pretending to be worthy of Mom's hot-fudge adoration.
•
I was relieved to wake up the next morning to a note saying a prospective client had called and asked Mom to show him some properties. Not only did it mean the possibility of an eventual paycheck, but it made my day easier. I wouldn't have to smuggle the flyers outside or lie about where I was going.
But for some odd reason, the best part of the morning was when I opened the front door to see my best friend's brother on the step, jangling his car keys.
“I hear you've got a job to do.” Jared dug his hand into the pocket of his board shorts.
A smile took over my face. It felt too big, actually. But just being near him again lit a weird, happy glow inside me. “Yeah. You here to help me stuff mailboxes?” “I was thinking it might go better if we hit some minimalls. Put the flyers on people's windshields.” I studied his face. “I can't pay you.” “Did you hear me negotiating a price?” “You're just here because you're a nice guy?” His mouth curled into a half smile. “Don't push it.” As we drove to our first destination, I sketched him a quick background on the lovely turn of events with my mom, and he told me about the big argument his mother and Alison had had.
“Alison wanted to move the room-cleaning to another day so she could come and help you.” He blew out an exhale. “But when my mom gets something in her head …”
“Oh, it's nice she tried. But I kind of like this chauffeur service, too. Especially since it's finally for a reasonable rate,” I said, and glanced out the window so I wouldn't catch a look from him that made me smile too big again.
A girl had to be careful. Especially when the guy who was making her feel weird was just a friend. And sometimes, not even that. Besides, I figured Jared had simply come by because Alison had asked him to. Her version of sloppy seconds.
I was impressed, but a little disappointed, too. It would have been nice to think that he cared enough to come over on his own.
Traffic slowed as we approached Thurman Oa
ks Park. People spilled out of parked cars, carrying kids on their shoulders, pushing strollers, holding hands.
Jared snuck me a look. “Hey, today's the farmers' market, isn't it? People come from all over … including some who might need a realtor.” He glanced in the rearview mirror, threw the car into reverse, and backed up to the curb.
“Smooth,” I said. I was still a little surprised I didn't have to shell out for this trip. “Thanks for being so nice—you know, helping me and all.”
He did this exaggerated shudder. “Okay, enough with the nice-guy thing. Don't you know what people say about nice guys? Not only do they finish last, but they never get the girl.”
I studied his face. Was there a girl in question? Or was that just a general statement? For lack of a better response, I let out a little “Sorry.”
He flashed a grin. White, toothy. And, well, nice. Which set off something also very nice inside me. That I didn't want to think about.
I jumped out, took in the sweet breeze—peaches or nectarines from the booths, no doubt—and split the neon flyers into two piles. Handing one to him, I pointed toward a row of cars.
“You take that side, I'll take this one,” I said, and to my surprise, he nodded and got to work.
We plastered the bright pink flyers on the windshields of every car in the lot, as well as dozens up and down the side street. Tossing the remaining flyers onto his passenger seat later, Jared nodded toward the midway and its colorful canopied booths.
“Five or ten minutes?” he asked. “Just to see if they've got snow cones or cotton candy?”
“More likely asparagus and blueberries, but why not?”
We pushed our way through the crowds, pausing to examine the fruits, veggies, nuts, and whole-grain breads. Venders' voices competed in promoting their specials and deals, most faces lined and bronzed from too much sun.
Jared settled on a package of pralines and was turning to head out when something seemed to catch his eye. He stepped closer to me and gave my side a nudge.
I followed his line of vision. Massive and pulsating, a red, blue, and yellow inflatable obstacle course filled a back lot, wheezing and breathing from pumped-in air, as if it had a life of its own. Except it also seemed quite lonely with only one kid visible, straddling its climbing wall.
An attendant stood beside a $3.00 per person sign.
Jared flashed me that smile again. “What do you say?”
I shrugged.
“Come on, it'll be like we're little kids. At Gym-boree or some rich kid's birthday party.”
I bit my tongue to keep from blurting out, “Like yours?” He was being too nice to deserve any more of my mouth.
Instead I arched a brow. “You paying?”
“Sure. I'll do one better than that. I'll race you over the course. You win, I'll buy you lunch. I win …”
My interest and adrenaline skyrocketed.
“… you have to wash my car.” He studied my face. “In a bikini.”
Yeah, right. Even so, I was surprised he'd think of me like that.
“Okay,” I said, and high-fived him. I was pretty sure my volleyball skills wouldn't fail me, and there was no way I'd let myself lose and give Jared the chance to laugh at my scrawny bikini-clad body. “You're on!”
Jared forked over the bucks and we kicked off our shoes and lined up on the platform. Two ropes stretched down from the eight-foot climbing wall, daring us to start.
“No rules,” he announced. “Just stay on course, and first one to the other side wins.”
We gave each other the Squinty Eye.
“Okay,” I said. “Ready…set…go!”
I shimmied up the rope, my feet horizontally scaling the wall, and I reached the top. Piece of cake. I didn't bother to glance over, but my peripheral vision told me that he was somewhere behind, and my common sense added that he had a lot more weight to haul.
I used my back to slide down the steep incline, landed square on two feet, and turned to face a short tunnel.
Jared pounded the flooring beside me—throwing me up a good foot into the air—and then dropped to his knees and dove headfirst into his tunnel. Man, he was fast….
After regaining my balance, I went on hands and knees through my (hot, stuffy) tunnel, coming out to see stacks of pumped-up horizontal pillars. Jared was in midair, doing a move worthy of a long jumper. I caught my breath and followed with a belly-up dive. Twisted in the air as I scaled the pillars, I thought I would somehow land on my feet.
Wrong.
I landed face-first. Wedged in a small space between the pillars and another climbing wall. On top of Jared.
Twin emotions vied for dominance. How totally embarrassed I was. And how totally, weirdly good it felt to be so close to him.
He emitted a little groan, letting me know my full-body slam dunk hadn't killed him. But he didn't move. Didn't shove me aside and take advantage of my prone position for the easy win.
“Sorry,” I said halfheartedly.
“You've got a lot of oomph for someone so little.”
I nodded and sat up. Then, catching the mischievous look in his eye, I dove for the next wall, digging my hands into the climb moldings.
Movement blurred in my side vision, but I'd been an athlete long enough to know not to waste precious seconds sizing up the competition.
I dug, I hauled, I elevated.
Loving every moment of this one-on-one physical challenge with Jared.
Finally, I crowned the wall. First. I saw the long slide to the finish and pushed off on my butt, my hands waving triumphantly over my head, only to see him bullet, face-first, right past me.
We landed seconds apart, but there was no denying he beat me out.
Ugh. I so didn't want to wash his car! Still, I growled with good humor. “Rematch?”
His chest heaved. “Not on your life. I might not win again.”
Standing, I offered him my hand. “So we should just call this even, huh, and forget about the bet?”
“In your dreams, Nic.”
I pulled him to his feet, but then, instead of breaking away, I gave his arm a playful shove. And he gave me that smile from the car.
Beating me again, darn him.
In a perfect world—or even a semisane world—I would think my racecourse challenge with Jared made me feel less tense. Cleared the air. But since when was my world perfect?
As we smacked flyers on windshields and did handouts, I pretty much kept my distance. I figured he'd forget all about our car-wash bet, and even though we were having a lot of fun today, back at school, we'd go separate ways. So I had to protect myself somehow.
Eventually the stack of flyers dwindled, as did my motivation.
“Want to hit BK?” he asked, crossing the parking lot.
“There? Again?”
“I like Whoppers.”
I grinned, suddenly remembering a saying from Mom's previous incarnation as a Martha Stewart housewife.
“What?” he said, and elbowed me playfully in the side. “What are you smiling about?”
“Oh, you know what they say. If you are what you eat, then fast-food lovers are cheap, fast, and easy.”
He laughed and lunged for me, his arm coming from behind to lock around my neck in a playful half nelson.
It didn't hurt. Anything but.
“So,” he said, “if I'm, what? Cheap and easy—”
“Don't forget fast,” I interrupted, and giggled.
He pulled me to the hard wall of his chest. Until all of me pushed up against all of him.
Oh, God.
“And so what does that make you?” he breathed down into my ear.
I had no smart response. I was paralyzed.
“What, I've quieted the mighty Nic Antonovich?”
I came back to life and I wriggled from his hold, then attempted a casual stroll over to the passengerside door.
Even though embarrassment was sometimes my middle name, I'd surprised myself by that whole body/
brain stall-out the instant he had grabbed hold of me. Like I'd short-circuited. The last time I'd been that close to him was during the Canadian incident, and I'd certainly held my own that time. What was wrong with me now?
Because, a voice in my head suddenly responded, this is different.
•
Several deep breaths later, we were more or less back to normal. (Whatever normal was.) As we sat in the drive-thru line, we talked about colleges—the ones he was thinking of applying to, and the fact that I was hoping for a volleyball scholarship to be able to go at all.
He inched the car forward. “Do you have any games this week?”
“Yeah, Wednesday.”
“What time?”
“Four.”
“In the gym?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Maybe I'll come and watch.”
For some reason, I was Tense City again. Not that I was self-conscious or worried his presence would throw off my game. But it seemed … unnatural. I mean, a week ago he wouldn't have acknowledged me if we'd body-slammed while rounding a corner.
Did he feel sorry for me now or something—the girl whose mother was struggling to keep the house? Was he stepping up to “help” me like he had by pulling me away from that guy on the beach last summer?
“Alison comes to most home games,” I said, as if that smoothed everything over. Because really, I did not need a big brother. “My mom, too.”
He looked at me like I'd spoken Chinese.
“So, I'm covered,” I said. “I won't be the only player without a cheering section or anything.”
“I don't know what's going on in that head of yours, Nic, but if I come to your game, it's because I want to.” His gaze drilled into mine. “And just to be perfectly clear, I came to help today because spending time with you is better than studying for my physics test. Alison doesn't even know I'm with you.”
I bit down on my lip, not knowing how to reply. It was great that he'd gone out of his way for me. But I hoped Alison didn't see this as sneaking around behind her back—or leaving her out. (Okay, now I was sounding mental. Was I ever satisfied?)
“Plus,” he went on, advancing the car to the window, “I want to see your mom get back on track. Get more properties and more clients. So you can go back to thinking about normal things. Like homework and volleyball and the homecoming dance.”
