“True, but only because you’re telegraphing your passes throughout the first half, so by third quarter, you have absolutely no poker face. The defense knows your every move.”
“We won, didn’t we?” he snaps. “We’re still in the playoffs, right?”
My plan was to make him feel better, not give him something else to stress about. My grasp of his game must be on point because that last critique hit a nerve. I’m thinking of a response that won’t make matters worse, a special skill that I possess, but before I can say anything, the amused Marco returns, like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
“I’m sorry. You’re right. You called it exactly. If I hadn’t turned it around in the last quarter, we’d be out of the running right now.” He puts his arm around me and pulls me close. “I love that you’re studying up on something so important to me, even though you probably hate every minute of it. Anything else, coach?”
“No . . . that was it.”
“If there’s something else, I really want to know.”
“Well, I did notice your ball handling has changed a little. You’re dribbling high, and . . . I remember you told me that’s bad because . . . um,” I say, forgetting what he told me because he’s holding me all close and everything. I can smell just a hint of his aftershave and right now I can barely remember my address.
Just then, Brent Carmody walks through the quad, cutting across the grass and heading in our direction. With ten minutes left until the bell and the temperature in the twenties, the quad is deserted except for the three of us. Just like Golden this morning, it’s obvious he chose this particular path to make a point. I’m thinking he’s about to start something up again, but he only glares at us and keeps on moving, thankfully. But I guess I was worried about the wrong boy.
“Oh, so you got nothing to say when you’re out here alone,” Marco calls after him.
Brent turns around. “You talking to me?”
Marco stands, hands outstretched, and looks around the quad. “See any other douches around here?”
“You’re treading dangerously, Ruiz,” Brent says, walking back toward us. “I didn’t put a gun to your head. You came to me. Haven’t I made it clear what happens next?”
“What’s he talking about, Marco?” I ask, but I think they’ve both forgotten that I’m here.
“Well, I’m coming to you again,” Marco says, stepping right up in Brent’s face. “I told you. I’m out. You need to back up off me.”
Brent looks down at the finger Marco has poked into his chest. It really is about to be on this time. There is no teacher or basketball team to help, so I squeeze myself between them, causing both of them to back up.
“Need your girl to protect you? Who’s the douche now?”
“Get outta here, Chanti. This has nothing to do with you.”
“I don’t know, Ruiz, maybe it does,” Brent says before walking away.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Marco calls after him. “Hey! Answer me!”
Brent turns around and says, “You’ll find out soon enough, if you don’t play by the rules.”
Marco watches Brent walk away, every muscle in his face tense, his jaw clenched. I know he’s trying to decide whether to run Brent down and lay him out, so I’m surprised when he sits on the bench again. He looks completely spent, as though the fight that never happened actually did.
“Marco, do you need—”
“What I need is for you to stay the hell out of my business.”
Okay, he’s perfect and cute and everything, but I’m about to channel one of the Housewives up in here. I turn to leave when he grabs my hand like he did when I first found him under the tree a few minutes ago.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take it out on you. Carmody . . . he just pisses me off, and now he’s talking about—”
“About what? What’s going on, Marco?”
“Everything, like I told you. The papers, basketball practice. I’m worried about my scholarship.”
“What scholarship?”
Marco props his elbows on his knees before dropping his head into his hands. I put my arm across his back, but he stays in the position, talking to me as if from a cave.
“I’m not like all the players I grew up with, hoping for a college scholarship as just a stop on the way to going pro. I know I’m not that good. But I think I’m good enough to get a scholarship from a team at one of the top engineering schools. At least, I was when the season started.”
“You still are. It’s just the playoffs and everything else messing with your game. You just have to get your mojo back.”
“All I’ve ever wanted is to be an engineer, to get into a program like Berkeley or Stanford. Now it’s too late. Universities send scouts to these playoff games and I screwed up in the last two. They don’t care about what you’ve done. Now is all that matters.”
“I guess you weren’t at the same games I saw. They may have been close, but you still won.”
“Turning it around at the last minute makes for an exciting game, but scouts look for consistency.”
“You don’t even need basketball to get into those schools. You have the grades.”
“That’s all I have. The kids I’ll be competing with have the grades, too. But they also have winning projects in national science fairs and summer internships at the top engineering and tech companies. Maybe I’ll be accepted on just my grades, but I won’t get a big scholarship. I can’t afford those schools without one.”
“Okay . . . so what’s all that got to do with Brent?”
Suddenly, he sits up like he has the solution to everything, even though he hasn’t given me even a clue what everything is.
“You think Mr. Mitchell would give me my old job back?”
“Mitchell? You mean driving his moving truck?”
“Yeah. I know I didn’t work there long, but he said I was one of his best employees.”
“Well, sure . . . until we were the reason his kids got expelled from Langdon.”
“They were the reason, not us.”
“I’m pretty sure Mr. Mitchell would only see that as a technicality.”
Marco sinks back down into his head-in-hands position.
“I need money, Chanti. Fast.”
“For the car repairs? I’ve got some saved—” I say, though I’m sure Lana will be ticked if I dip into my savings account to help Marco fix his car. Normally I’d agree with her, but Marco is in a serious state right now.
“Thanks, but I can’t take your money for something like this. I need to fix it on my own.”
He must feel the way I did in the parking lot after the game the other night—all alone. Before I can convince him he isn’t, Marco gets up and walks off, leaving me without a kiss, a goodbye, or anything.
Chapter 6
The next day, I spend lunch staring at the poster describing how this week’s menu will transport diners to Italy. Ms. Ayotunde runs the kitchen and is clearly no average school cafeteria lady. Not only is the food great, she takes the time to create a weekly theme, and each theme has its own poster. After spending the last ten minutes studying it, I’ve memorized every detail and wish I could jump into it somehow, join the group of friends riding in a gondola, laughing and smiling like they’ve never worried about out-of-work parents or boyfriends being threatened by the school gangster, even if the gangster is just Brent Carmody.
The poster kids are my only company, but The poster kids are my only company, but at least the cafeteria is drama-free today. That’s because all the main players are avoiding me, or maybe they’re just avoiding lunch. Annette blamed cheerleading responsibilities again, and Marco claimed he had a meeting with Coach Rickford. With no one to talk to, no brewing arguments to watch for, I make quick work of the pasta Bolognese. Thanks to some kids at the table behind me discussing the history pop quiz they had last period, I can use the last ten minutes of lunch to study for it since that’s my next class.
At least, that was the plan unt
il on my way to Main Hall, I walk past the open doors of the gym and hear loud, angry voices coming from just inside. Maybe it’s too much testosterone in one place, but guys in gyms always sound a little angry to me, whether it’s a friendly pick-up basketball game or the coach yelling out practice drills. I don’t think much of it until I recognize one of the angry voices. Then I double back and stand outside the door, listening.
“You’re supposed to be so badass, but had to bring a couple of friends and wait ’til I’m alone. More like punk-ass,” I hear Marco say.
While I have every confidence in Marco’s ability to defend himself, being outnumbered three-to-one requires Jason Bourne–like skills, and I doubt Marco is that good.
“Just do what you’re told and there won’t be any problems.”
I recognize that voice, too—Brent Carmody.
“I already told you,” Marco says. “I can’t.”
“You got what you wanted, now you have to pay up. That’s how a deal works, and we had a deal.”
“I’ll pay you back, I just need some time.”
“Do you think I’m giving you options here?” Brent asks, then laughs. “He thinks I’m giving him some kind of choice.”
More laughter, but not from Brent or Marco. It must be from Brent’s friends.
“It isn’t going to happen,” Marco says, “so I guess you got a problem.”
“Look, Ruiz, I could make this a learning experience so you can see just how serious I am, but I need you healthy, so this is more like a friendly reminder. Next time, I won’t be so friendly.”
“There won’t be a next time,” Marco says. “Stay the hell away from me.”
“Or what?”
Yeah, or what? It sounded like Brent and his crew were going to let it go, for now at least, until Marco jumped bad and started making threats. Normally I’d think my man was pretty brave, but being outnumbered the way he is, I think he’s being kinda stupid. I look around for the help that I’m certain Marco’s going to need, but there’s only me. Then I hear it, the unmistakable sound of fist hitting flesh and bone. I’m about to run inside and do—well, I don’t know what I plan to do—when I see Reginald Dacey walking toward me, gym bag slung over his shoulder.
“Fight!” I yell, knowing that no other word can get a faster reaction at school.
Reginald drops his bag and comes running. Like Marco, he’s from my side of town and I’m hoping that means he can handle himself. I follow him into the gym, where I see it was Marco who landed that first punch because Brent’s nose is bleeding. Now his sidekicks are holding Marco, one on each arm, and Brent is rearing back to return the punch. But Reginald surprises them all and jams his forearm into Brent’s ribs right under his raised punching arm. Brent doubles over, trying to recover the air the rib-hit knocked out of his lungs. His partners release Marco to go after Reginald. Big mistake, because Marco is able to tackle one of them to the ground.
I’m thinking maybe two-against-three will be an even match when the two are Heights boys and the three are Langdonites, but suddenly a couple of coaches and several boys, dressed for PE, appear out of nowhere. Maybe I yelled Fight! a little louder than I thought.
*
When I catch Marco at his locker at the end of the day, the hall is already empty. Marco isn’t the only one not talking. Surprisingly, between lunch and last bell, I haven’t heard a single word, not the tiniest bit of gossip, about the fight. I’m hoping he thinks I’m as oblivious about it as the rest of the school appears to be. Once I saw the coaches were there to stop it and that Marco was on the winning end of being jumped, I took off. The less Marco thinks I know about it, the better. That way, he won’t see it coming when I start looking into why he’d take money from Brent but not me.
“There’s my MVP,” I say, hopefully sounding cheery, and not like I’ve spent the last three periods stressing out. “I thought you’d be in the gym getting a pep talk for tonight’s game.”
“I’m running a few minutes late. But I’m going,” Marco says, not even looking up at me.
“You don’t seem very excited about it. And you’re never late. Coach Rickford will make you run laps.”
“I don’t need you to remind me that Coach is all over my ass, too.”
“Um . . . sorry?”
“No, it’s me. I’m the one who’s sorry,” Marcos says, looking at me for the first time since I walked up. He leans in to kiss me, but as tempting as he is, I put my hand on his chest to push him back. I tried waiting for him to bring up the fight, but I can tell he doesn’t plan on talking about it. I have to know what he’s up to, and if he kisses me, I’ll lose my nerve.
“What’s going on?”
“Business first,” I say.
“I knew it was coming,” Marco says, letting go of me and stepping back a couple of inches.
I play dumb.
“Knew what was coming?”
“We’re about to have a problem, aren’t we? I suppose you heard about what happened in the gym today.”
Since he doesn’t realize I’m the one who yelled for backup, I keep pretending I don’t know anything.
“No, I was going to ask about you and Brent on the quad yesterday. What happened in the gym, and why is me asking about it a problem? Whatever it is.”
“I don’t mind you asking about it. The problem is you thinking it’s business, thinking it’s any of your business.”
There’s that Jekyll/Hyde thing again, just like yesterday.
“That’s kind of mean.”
“I didn’t mean it to be,” Marco says, softening his tone. “I just don’t want you turning it into some big deal, starting some investigation over nothing.”
“I’m not starting an investigation.”
He gives me a look that says, Don’t play me because I totally know what you’re up to, so I give up the charade.
“It’s just you’re my guy and I care about you. Annette told me—”
“Here we go.”
“Here we go what?”
“That’s how these things always start. Someone tells you something, you dream up crazy scenarios, and next thing you know, there’s some conspiracy going on or someone’s being framed.”
“Have I been wrong?”
Marco is slow with a comeback for that one.
“Well, this time you are. Guys have beef with other guys. Sometimes we talk it out, sometimes things get a little more serious than talk. It’s just how it works.”
“So this beef you have with Brent is the kind that can’t be worked out with words?” I say, gently taking his right hand in both of mine. “Is that why your knuckles are all bruised?”
“Guys fight. It’s nothing Chanti.”
“I don’t know. Annette . . . I mean, I heard that guy is kinda dangerous, and if you owe him money—”
Marco laughs like I just suggested he should be afraid of the boogieman. “There ain’t a dude up in here I can’t handle. You think he’s more serious than just about anyone at my old school? Hell, I’d take on Brent before I got on the wrong side of a Denver Heights cheerleader.”
He says that like he knows from experience, which he probably does since he had a rep at his old school for being a player, and I don’t mean only on the court. But just like looking directly at the sun, I try to avoid thinking about cheerleading girlfriends from Marco’s past or I might be blinded by jealousy and forget the whole point of my being here.
“That’s what I thought about Langdonites until the star quarterback nearly got us killed. I know you haven’t forgotten Justin Mitchell already.”
Marco’s expression changes when I mention Justin, like the name just sapped all that swagger right out of him.
“No, I haven’t forgotten. But this is different. I’m not Justin, and I can handle Brent.”
“But—”
“And you need to let me handle it, Chanti.”
“I never said you couldn’t handle it. I worry, that’s all.”
“I k
now—worrying is your favorite sport. But don’t,” he says before going back to loading books into his backpack.
“I’ll try. So . . . are we still on for Wednesday night? Because I was thinking we could just stay home, pop some corn, watch an old movie.”
“You hate old movies.”
“I can learn to like them. By the time you buy the tickets and popcorn, you’ll be spending forty dollars.”
“Chanti, I can afford to take my girl to a movie. What happened to not worrying?”
“Yes . . . right.”
“What I really want to do is blow off practice and be with you right now.”
“Don’t let me get you in trouble with the coach. Besides, we’ll have some time together later, after the game.”
“Wish I could blow off the game, too,” Marco says, hurriedly adding, “I need to start on those papers.”
“Let me know what I can do to help with that.”
“You can help by promising you won’t worry about me anymore, not about Brent, or my bank account, or my GPA. I was just a little stressed yesterday, but I’m okay, really.”
“Promise,” I say, crossing my heart and mentally crossing my fingers.
I hate to make a promise I can’t keep, but I don’t think it’s wrong if your boyfriend is hiding something from you that might prove dangerous to him. He doesn’t need to know that, so I try to look up at him with my best coy expression, like they always describe about the heroine in romance novels. I’ve never been good at that whole use-your-feminine-wiles-to-distract-a-guy thing, but you can’t succeed if you don’t try, so I do. Maybe it works, because Marco leans in again to kiss me, and this time I don’t stop him.
Chapter 7
As I’m walking down the long driveway from school to the bus stop, a car slows beside me. It’s Reginald Dacey. Before today, I’d expect he was about to throw some game. He’s had a little thing for me since I solved that mistaken identity case for him and got him un-expelled from Langdon. I didn’t exactly set the record straight about my relationship status when I had the chance. In fact, I might have used him a little when Marco and I were having problems and I wanted to make him jealous. Now that Marco and I are perfect, I’m not trying to mess it up. Except Reginald knows everything is not perfect since he saved Marco from a beatdown today. Still, I smile at him like the gym fight never happened and keep walking, hoping he gets the picture.
Guys, Lies & Alibis Page 3
