by Brenda Hiatt
"So how about your name?"
I grimaced. "My name? I dunno—I always assumed my birth parents gave it to me, but I don't actually know that."
"And what was that face? You don't like your name?" He had that intent look again, like he could see inside me or something.
So I told him the truth. "Not much. It wasn't so bad when I was little—well, not until the Marsha the Martian bit." He gave a little twitch but covered it quickly, so I continued. "But now that they're showing 'Brady Bunch' reruns on TV Land, I get a lot of 'Marsha, Marsha, Marsha.' I wish everyone would just call me M. I've even thought about switching to my middle name."
He leaned forward, seeming way more interested than the subject warranted. "So . . . what is your middle name?"
"Prentiss. I did ask my aunt about that once, and she said it was a family name. But when I asked which family, she got all evasive—so that's all I know."
Rigel shook his head. "I can't imagine knowing so little about myself or my family. Does it ever bother you?"
"Sometimes," I admitted. "It bothered me a lot when I was ten or eleven—when I first started to really think about it. I used to ask a lot of questions, but my aunt, well, you met her. She's not the kind of person to pester. My uncle is easier, but he doesn't seem to know a lot. About me, I mean. So now I just . . . try not to think about it too much."
"I guess that makes sense."
"So what about your family?" I asked before he could start feeling sorry for me again. "You don't have any brothers or sisters? What about grandparents?"
"No, no brothers or sisters. My grandfather—my dad's father—lives in Washington, DC. I don't see him very often, but he calls every week."
"How about your other grandparents? Where do they live?"
He got a strange look on his face, kind of an oh, crap look, but then he gave a little half-shrug. "Um, they're dead. Died before I was born, so I never knew them."
"Oh. I'm sorry," I said automatically, confused by his initial reaction. It didn't seem to fit his answer at all, but it wasn't really something I could ask about. "Any cousins?" I asked instead.
"No, at least, not . . . no. No cousins."
Again, I had the feeling he'd nearly said something, then changed his mind for some reason. Was there something awful about his mother's side of the family he didn't want to talk about? If so, it was his business, I told myself. It didn't stop me from wondering, though.
Since he clearly didn't want to talk about his family, I switched to talking about our Science projects for the rest of the lunch period. As we got up after the bell, Rigel gave a sudden jerk of his head, glancing over at Trina's table, then frowned.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing."
Frustrated and a little bit irritated, I didn't say anything else on the way to History, but he seemed so preoccupied, I wasn't sure he even noticed. Then, just as we reached the classroom, he turned to me.
"You have Trina in your Health class, don't you?"
"Yeah, why?"
For a moment I thought he wasn't going to answer—again. But then he looked at me from under his eyebrows, frowning just like he had in the cafeteria. "Check your seat before you sit down, okay?"
"In Health class, you mean? Why?"
"Just do it. Or don't say I didn't warn you."
With that, he turned away and headed to his seat without looking at me again, leaving me to make my mystified way across the room to Bri and Deb, who were waiting—of course—to hear the latest update. They both squealed when I told them I wouldn't be on the bus this afternoon because Rigel had asked me to come to football practice.
"Shh!" I hissed, glancing over at Rigel, who was looking amused. "It's not like he asked me to prom!"
"Still," Bri whispered, "it's a really big deal, M. I mean, it's one thing for girls with crushes to sneak into the stands to watch practice." She and I had done that more than once last year when Greg and Jimmy were practicing with the JV team. "But for him to actually ask you?"
Deb nodded vigorously. "Only girlfriends—like serious girlfriends!—go to the practices. This is huge, M. Trust us."
I just shrugged. Much as I wanted to believe them, I didn't want to set myself up for a crushing disappointment. Plus, Rigel hadn't made it sound huge at all, more like a friendly invite to pass the afternoon.
Still, I couldn't think about much else for the rest of the school day. History and French went by in a fog of hope, fear and anticipation.
It wasn't until I was about to sit down in my last class that I suddenly remembered that weird warning Rigel had given me after lunch and paused to examine my desk chair. It looked shinier than usual, so I took the precaution of touching it. Sticky, like it was covered with glue.
I glanced at Trina just in time to see her look away with a fake innocent expression. Yep, she'd definitely done something.
There was still a minute or two till the bell, so I went up to the front of the room and stopped next to the teacher, then looked at Trina again. Now she was looking nervous—and so were her minions, Donna and Amber.
Just to mess with them, I asked Mrs. Harklewood a quiet question about yesterday's lesson before going to the paper towel dispenser near the door and grabbing a few sheets, then returning to my desk. Without even a hint of a glance at Trina or her buddies, I calmly spread the towels over my seat, then sat down.
Once class was underway and everyone around us was distracted, Trina leaned across the aisle and whispered, "Okay, which one of you warned her? Nobody else knew I was going to do that!"
I couldn't quite hear their replies, but it was obvious they were both vigorously denying saying a word to me. I smiled to myself.
And wondered how on earth Rigel had known.
"Hey, M, thanks for coming," Rigel greeted me when I reached the football stadium after class. "I hope it won't be too boring for you—I think we're mostly going to be doing drills. But you can do homework and stuff if you want."
"I'll be fine." I was about to ask him how he knew about Trina and the glue when the coach blew a whistle and he sprinted off to the field.
With a little shrug, I climbed into the stands and sat down. I'd just add that to my list of things to ask later—along with why he really wanted me here today.
There were a few other girls watching the practice, all sitting together at the other end of the bleachers. I toyed with the idea of joining them, then decided it wasn't worth the risk of rejection. Rigel might have asked me here, but that didn't mean I would instantly be accepted into a group several social rungs above my usual one.
Instead, I pulled a couple of books out of my backpack so I could pretend to be working on something, even though I knew I wouldn't be able to concentrate on anything except Rigel.
The players were already warming up, running up and down the field. After a moment I decided it definitely was not my imagination that Rigel moved more smoothly than any of the others. He had a strength and grace about him that seemed almost out of place in a high school sophomore—more like something you'd see in a professional athlete. With a happy sigh, I gave myself up to the pleasure of just watching him.
They finished warming up and started drills involving sprinting and throwing and stuff. The ball became a blur when Rigel threw it. Watching Jaworski and Mullins repeatedly dropping passes, I remembered what I'd heard them saying yesterday morning. The coach said something to Rigel and he nodded. It looked now like he was trying to throw softer, so the other guys could catch the ball. It didn't seem fair that he had to lower his level of play for their benefit, but I guess if it would help us win games . . .
Suddenly I saw half the team's heads whip around, so I looked where they were looking and saw the cheerleading squad, including Trina, sauntering up to the field, dressed in teensy shorts and sports bras. They mostly pretended to ignore the players, though a couple of them waggled their fingers at the guys. Then they started practicing, which mostly meant waving their boobs and butts around for t
he benefit of the team.
Sheesh, no wonder our school sucked at football! I was surprised the coaches even allowed this, as distracted as most of the guys seemed to be. But not Rigel, I noticed with great satisfaction. Whatever attraction he'd felt toward Trina on the first day of school had apparently evaporated once he'd gotten to know her better. Which proved he was smart as well as gorgeous.
Of course, I already knew that. I'd heard his answers in the classes we shared, though he rarely raised his hand. He seemed to know geometry and geology as well as the teachers did, if not better. English was the only class I felt like I might be able to keep up with him, since I'd always been a big reader. Books were so much easier to relate to than people.
As if to prove my point, just then one of the other girls in the stands called over to me, "Hey, Marsha! What did you have to promise Rigel to get him to sit with you at lunch?"
The others laughed, then one said—or rather, yelled— "You know what they say, nerds are really easy, if a guy just pays some attention to them."
Now the cheerleaders joined in. Donna shouted up from the field, "I bet five bucks he's tired of her in a week! Any takers?"
I kept my eyes on Rigel, who was across the field, doing my best to ignore them, though I knew my face must be fire engine red.
One of the players near our side of the field looked over at Donna and made a comment about not betting against a sure thing, getting a laugh. My one consolation was that Rigel was too far away to hear any of this. But just as I was thinking that, Rigel suddenly turned and zipped the football at the guy who'd made the crack, catching him squarely in the stomach.
He doubled over and almost fell down. It took him a minute to get his breath, and then he yelled, "What the hell, man?"
"Sorry," Rigel called, though he didn't sound sorry at all. "I thought you were paying attention. I'll shout 'heads up' next time, okay?"
The other guy turned away muttering and I realized it was Bryce Farmer, last year's quarterback. Rigel probably wasn't his favorite person, even before this.
But . . . what had that really been about? It looked exactly like Rigel had hit him with the ball because he'd laughed at me, but there was no way Rigel could have heard any of those cracks from across the field! Could he? I remembered the glue on my seat in Health class. Had he heard Trina and her pals talking on the other side of the lunchroom? How else could he have known what they were plotting?
So . . . did he have super hearing or something? Along with super strength, at least in his throwing arm? Not that I was complaining, exactly . . .
Speculating about the wonderful weirdness that was Rigel kept me occupied for the rest of practice. The other girls didn't say anything else to me, which was absolutely fine. I needed to think—with the fraction of my brain that wasn't devoted to watching Rigel.
All too soon, practice was over and the players were sent off to the showers. I used that time to finally get some homework done, since I knew Aunt Theresa would ask about it and I didn't want to tell her why I'd been too distracted.
I was almost finished with my Geometry assignment when a shadow fell across me. I looked up with a smile, ready to tell Rigel he'd looked good out there, then saw it wasn't Rigel. Instead, Bryce Farmer stood there, glaring down at me.
"Um, hi?" I said. Bryce and I didn't know each other at all, had never even spoken, since not only was he a senior, but we were at exact opposite ends of the social spectrum. Or had been last year.
"You. Marsha. Tell your boy Stuart he'd better stay out of my way if he knows what's good for him."
I blinked at him for a moment before a spurt of anger surprised me. "Why? Are you afraid to tell him yourself? Why ask a girl to do your dirty work for you?"
The rational part of my brain was astonished that I, Marsha Truitt, was actually standing up to big shot Bryce Farmer, but mostly I was just pissed.
But he looked pissed, too—and a lot more dangerous. "It's your fault he made me look stupid today—in front of Trina."
Bryce was still looming over me, so I jumped to my feet to face him. He still topped me by a foot or more.
"You're making yourself look plenty stupid without anybody's help." Again, the words were out before I could stop them.
Now he looked really, really pissed. "You little— Nobody talks to me that way. Especially a nobody like you. How about I give you a stronger message to take to your boyfriend?" He stepped toward me, an ugly smile twisting his face.
Suddenly Rigel was there, stepping between us. "Go home, Farmer. Any beef you have, take it up with me—or the coach. But leave M out of it."
"Yeah? Or what?" Bryce sneered. "Your dorky girlfriend needs to learn some respect. If you won't teach her, maybe I'll just—"
He reached for me and then several things happened at once. I grabbed Rigel's hand just as he moved to block Bryce again, and out of nowhere—or rather, out of us—a blue arc of what looked almost like lightning hit Bryce in the chest, knocking him to his knees. His eyes went super wide for a second, then he slumped down onto the bleachers and passed out.
"Holy crap!" I looked around wildly, expecting to see people rushing toward us, but the bleachers and the field were empty. "What the hell just happened?"
Rigel looked almost as startled as I was—but not quite. At least, I didn't think so.
"I . . . I'm not sure," he said. "Maybe that static thing—?"
"No way. That went way, way past anything static could ever do. You did it, didn't you? You shot lightning at him or something? How did you do that? What if he's—"
Bryce groaned, then struggled to his knees, looking dazedly up at Rigel. "You bastard! You punched me!"
Rigel barely missed a beat. "You deserved it. Leave M alone. Got it?"
Though Bryce still seemed pretty out of it, he glowered. "Yeah, I'll leave her alone. For now. You didn't have to go all caveman on me." With one last glare at both of us, he turned and stumbled back down the bleachers and out of the stadium, still shaking his head.
I waited until he was gone to round on Rigel. "Now, will you please tell me what the hell just happened?"
"I think I . . . we . . . shocked him. Somehow."
"Well, duh. But how?"
He shrugged and shook his head, but I noticed he didn't look me in the eye. He was definitely hiding something and I was determined, this time, to get to the bottom of it, even while I was a little terrified that I might push him away. In just a week, Rigel had become almost as important to me as air. Which was scary all by itself.
So instead of demanding he explain, I tried something more roundabout. In as offhand, nonchalant a tone as I could manage, I said, "Maybe Mr. Ferguson will have some kind of explanation. I'll ask him about it tomorrow."
As I'd hoped, Rigel immediately looked alarmed. "No! I mean, I'm sure it's not worth bothering him about. He'll probably just think we imagined it or something."
I wasn't giving up that easily. "Maybe," I said with a shrug, "but it's worth a try. I'll explain exactly what happened just now. If he doesn't believe me, maybe I can get Bryce to remember and back me up. If . . . if you won't."
He frowned at me for a long, tense moment, and I could tell he was trying to come to some kind of decision. Finally, he said, "Look, I know you need to get home and the late buses leave in about five minutes. But can I call you tonight?"
"Sure," I said eagerly, then remembered— "But I, uh, don't have a phone in my room. So my end might not be very . . . private." I had a feeling that might matter. At least, I hoped it would.
"No cordless?"
I shook my head. "We used to have one, but I, um, shorted it out. The old-fashioned kind seems to be more resistant—or so my aunt says." Personally, I thought it was to make sure I didn't spend too much time on the phone.
"Hm. Well, I'll still call, and then we can talk more at lunch tomorrow or something. C'mon, we'd better hurry."
We headed for the three activity buses in front of the school.
"So
you're not even going to give me a hint?" I asked.
"I . . . I'd better not. Not yet."
Even with only three buses, Rigel and I were on different ones, which meant I couldn't keep pestering him for information. But he'd all but admitted there was something to tell. I really hoped I could manage to get some privacy when he called tonight.
Unfortunately, hoping wasn't enough. Aunt Theresa wanted to know exactly why I'd stayed after school, and she was horrified when I told her the truth. All through dinner I had to listen to a lecture about girls who chase after boys and what that would do to their reputations. No amount of explaining that Rigel had invited me to come to practice made a difference.
"A boy like that is bound to have certain . . . expectations about a girl who goes along with his every whim," she told me as I cleared the dishes from the table and put them in the sink. "It never hurts a girl's stock to play hard to get. Remember that."
I came back for the water glasses. "It's not like that. We're friends—that's all." I definitely wanted it to be more than friends, but for now that was the absolute truth.
She still wasn't buying it. "A girl doesn't stop wearing her glasses and fix up her hair for a 'friend.' You may not believe it, Marsha, but I do remember being young, once upon a time. I know what peer pressure can do to a girl's convictions."
The very idea of stolid Aunt Theresa ever being tempted by a boy almost made me drop a glass. Before I could get past that distraction to argue again, the phone rang.
"I'll get it!" I said quickly, but it was too late. Uncle Louie already had his hand on the receiver.
"Hello? Yes, she's right here." He turned to me with a grin. "It's Rigel," he whispered loudly enough for the next door neighbors to hear. I was sure Rigel had.
"Thanks," I said, ignoring Aunt Theresa's sour look. I took the phone, wishing harder than I ever had before that we still had a cordless, like every single other family in the United States. The best I could do was to stretch the cord its full length, which took me just barely around the corner from the kitchen into the front hall.
