Mick glanced at me hesitantly, as if he wanted my permission. Or my forgiveness. From where I sat with Nordic Boy’s hand between my knees, though, it was hard to see why he’d need either. Like they say, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander. And this little goose had been getting pretty busy.
Against my gut I looked away, so Jessie and Mick could do whatever would make them happy. After all, I was the bad guy. I had betrayed Mick—however unintentional it had been. The truth was, I deserved what I got. And if what I got turned out to be a hot Icelandic prince…well, I was going to have to be okay with it.
Sixteen
BY the end of November, so much had already happened that I felt like junior year should’ve been ancient history. Except I was still waiting. And wondering. Waiting on pins and needles for my SAT results. And wondering if I had a shot at the sweet photography scholarship Miss Jillian had thrown my way. Waiting the required six months to actually hold my driver’s permit in my hands. And wondering if Mickey Reed Donovan would ever be mine again.
“Hey, spacecase,” Jessie said, interrupting my contemplation. “Look.”
“Huh…? What…?”
She pointed at our old thug-ridden lunch table. “It’s Mick. And Lars.”
“Yeah. And…?”
“And the groupies,” she huffed, referring to a handful of Punxsy High cheerleaders. “Doesn’t that piss you off?”
I hated to tell her, but it did piss me off—just not in the way she thought. Like her, I was deranged over the attention the Punxsy High cheerleading squad was showering on Mick. But for all I cared, the nymphs could have their way with Lars right there on the grungy cafeteria floor.
“I guess,” I said. “But that’s the price you pay for dating a stud.”
“Technically, we’re not dating.”
I rolled my eyes. “If you say so, but the rumor is…”
Jessie ignored me. “What are they doing over there?” she snapped. “I’m gonna…”
I yanked her back to reality—and flat on her ass next to Lucy Tate. “Don’t worry about it,” I said with Zen, live-and-let-live calm. “They probably just got sidetracked on their way to the lunch line. It’s not like they’re actually interested in those girls,” I said, pausing to chomp down half a mozzarella stick in one bite.
“Who?” Lucy asked, suddenly intrigued by our not-so-secret hate-fest.
I sighed. “Nothing. Nobody. Jess is just frustrated with some people, that’s all.”
Jessie snorted. “That’s putting it mildly.”
“Listen, we can either ignore it,” I suggested, “or we can go over there and rescue them. Personally, I vote for ignorance.”
“I’d do something if I were you,” Carla interjected, fanning the flames of Jessie’s fury. “Unless you want those girls thinking your boyfriends are fair game.” She shrugged. “It’s up to you.”
I like Carla. I really do. But on this point, I couldn’t disagree with her more. I mean, what was the sense of causing a scene? The minute Jessie and I paraded over there to stake our claims to Mick and Lars, the groupies were bound to spring into action. And these girls liked nothing more than a good old-fashioned cat fight over a man.
“I don’t know. Isn’t that a little needy?” I said. “Are we really that insecure?”
But even though I was playing devil’s advocate with Jessie, I was keeping one eye trained on Mick. Because if Beth Clarke moved even an inch closer to him, I’d be forced to intervene—no matter the consequences.
“We can’t just sit here and watch that,” Jessie declared. Before I could react, she was on her feet. “I’m gonna...”
“Wait! Wait!” I yelped. “Hold on!”
I trailed Jessie from two or three paces back as she stalked up to Beth Clarke and tapped her on the shoulder.
“Excuse me,” she said, all indignant. “But you girls have had your fun.” With a flick of her wrist, she shooed the cheerleaders away. “You’re free to go now.”
Beth didn’t budge. “In what universe?”
Okay, so the girl had a shred of a point. I mean, it was sort of inexplicable that a sexy, sophisticated guy like Mick had fallen for the pale, bony likes of Jessie Haskell.
“You heard the girl,” I said, channeling Jessie’s confrontational spirit. “Move along.”
To a chorus of huffs and snorts, Jessie reached through the gaggle of groupies and extracted Mick from the clutches of doom.
“C’mon, Lars,” I said. “Let’s go.” I had absolutely no doubt Nordic Boy would obey on command, since for some baffling reason, he was a Flora Fontain fanatic. Go figure.
Jessie and I sauntered victoriously back to our table, while our sex-god boyfriends hit the lunch line.
“So what was that about?” Jessie asked Mick, when our guys returned with their trays. “Were they hitting on you or something?”
Way to go, Jessie. Make us look like desperate, insecure fools. Perfect
Mick looked at me instead of her. “No, I don’t think so,” he said. “Beth just wanted to know about the party at the Fisks’. Right, Lars?”
A party? At Viv and Elmer’s? And Lars hadn’t even told me about it? I smelled something fishy.
“Yeah. Everyone’s coming over after the game on Saturday,” Lars explained. “Mr. and Mrs. Fisk are going away to the Poconos for the weekend.” He shot me a seductive, come-hither grin.
“No parents?” I asked, with a combination of shock and awe. I’d never been to one of those kinds of parties.
“Nope,” Mick said. “Just us.”
Taking the words right out of my mouth, Jessie asked, “Us who?”
Mick shrugged.
“Well, everyone here,” Lars said, draping his arm over my shoulder and glancing around the table. “And quite a few others who Vivian and Elmer have invited.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Plus, some fringe elements. Things could end up getting very interesting.”
On that bizarre note, Mick shot me a cautionary glance that made me wonder if he knew something I didn’t. But the more I thought about it, his silent warning actually ticked me off. I mean, what right did he have to act like my protector when he didn’t even want me anymore?
“I’m up for interesting,” I said.
At my obvious lack of comprehension, Mick shook his head, forcing me to do something kind of evil to shove him in the right direction. As they say, all’s fair…
“Well, I can’t wait, baby,” I said to Lars with gag-me sweetness. Then I took the Icelandic prince’s face in my hands and landed a luscious kiss right on his lips, which he returned with a vengeance.
And all I can say is: mission accomplished. Because when I caught Mick’s gaze again, he was truly, madly, deeply speechless.
My last stint behind the wheel of the Drive Right Academy’s behemoth was Friday, November twenty-seventh, the day before the Fisks’ big bash. And honestly, my brain was on autopilot. I mean, I had clothes to buy, eyebrows to pluck, makeup to perfect, and boys to impress—not necessarily in that order. Because at the very least, I had to be physically worthy of my Nordic hottie. But my real goal was to lure Mick back into my love-web with just the right combination of sexpot vampiness and innocent schoolgirl charm.
“Okay, Miss Fontain. Your turn,” Lester said, as we cruised through the grocery store parking lot and coasted to an expert stop in front of the bank.
Begrudgingly, I switched spots with Carla, whose belly was rapidly approaching blastoff. I swear, if she even hiccupped we were going to get stuck boiling water.
Lester directed me out of the parking lot, through town, and into the wilderness. It’s a common trick these driver’s ed guys use to kill time and avoid actually teaching: Send the twerps into the middle of nowhere, where they won’t encounter so much as a red light or a stop sign—oh, or even learn how to drive. How useless.
“So will you be at the party tomorrow?” Lars asked Carla in the back, while I fought off a serious case of the sleepies.
It was the one flaw in Lester’s plan: Boring roads make you tired. And as we all learned on the first day of class, tired drivers are dangerous drivers.
“I dunno. Sounds kinda lame,” Carla said. “Not to be rude or anything.”
I guess if you were preparing to push a human being out of your body at the drop of a hat, a high school party—any high school party—would qualify as lame.
“Well, I’m sure we’ll have a good time,” Lars said, clearly hurt. “You should come and see.”
I glanced in the rearview just in time to catch Lars offer Carla a sweet, inviting smile that reminded me of…Mick.
“Maybe,” Carla said. “If I get back from my grandmother’s in time. We have a family thing tomorrow, so…”
Out of the blue, Lars remarked, “You’re a very good driver, you know.”
Carla said, “Thanks. So are you. And you smell really good too. Is that Obsession? ’Cause I know someone who used to wear that stuff all the time.”
She knew someone, all right. A really sleazy someone.
Lars chuckled. “Uh, no. It’s Crave,” he said. “But it is Calvin Klein.”
Carla drew one of those deep-lung breaths that expand your chest out of its comfort zone. So deep, in fact, I could hear it from the driver’s seat.
“Well, whatever it is, it’s workin’ for ya,” she said. “But you’d better be careful. You might just drive some poor girl insane—unless that’s what you’re going for, of course.”
Not that I was savvy enough to take my eyes off the road to check, but I was pretty sure good ol’ Lester was catching some shuteye in the passenger seat, which explains my reaction when he finally piped up after an eternity of silence.
“Next right,” he squawked abruptly, surprising me. “Right here.”
The only word that registered in my brain was right, so I reflexively tugged the wheel toward the ditch—that was, until the rest of the sentence clicked. But by then it was already too late.
Like Inspector Gadget’s creepy uncle, Lester shot his extendo arm out of its socket and landed a death grip on the steering wheel. But all I could do was panic. With my heart in my throat, I stared wide-eyed ahead as Lester saved us from the edge of destruction. And, moronic me, I never even took my foot off the gas.
“Sheesh, that was close,” Carla complained once we’d straightened out again. “Maybe you should, uh, pull over.”
Okay, I get it. I endangered lives. I drove like an idiot. I’m a horrible person. Blah. Blah. Blah.
“That’s not necessary,” Lester said. “Just make a right at the next crossroad.”
Well, at least the teacher wasn’t freaking out. I guess he’d seen a lot of crazy shit from that seat. So much crazy shit that a little near-death experience wasn’t about to rattle him any.
I hit the blinker. “Turning right,” I announced like a psychopath.
“Good,” Lars said. “Nice turn.”
Nice turn? He must be kidding. Honestly, if he kept kissing my ass with such zeal, I was going to have to buy him some Chap Stick.
Lester checked his watch. “Looks like we have a few extra minutes,” he said. “When we get back to town, I’ll have you stop at the grocery so Mr. Johannsson can take the wheel.”
“Uh-huh,” I agreed, only too glad to relinquish control of the beast. I mean, I only had one more hour of torture to go—with Lars at the helm—before I was an official graduate of the Drive Right Academy. How freakin’ fantastic.
With the precision of a chess master, I navigated the final twists and turns of my test drive and returned us to our starting point—the grocery store parking lot.
“Here we go,” I chirped, rolling up behind a red convertible that curiously had its top down.
“Very nice, Miss Fontain,” Lester said. “I’m going to make a quick run inside. You two go ahead and switch.” He waved a scaly finger back and forth between me and Lars. “I’ll be right back.”
I was about to make way for the Icelandic prince, I really was, when I noticed something disturbing off in the distance. It was Mick. And Jessie. The love of my life was giving my best friend a piggyback ride, and she was wrapped around him like a boa constrictor. A love-struck, back-stabbing snake.
Hoping I was imagining things—horrible things—I blinked to let the scene reload. But instead of the pleasant Mick-and-Jessie-free view I was hoping for, I was smacked with a double whammy: The deceitful duo were as intertwined as ever, and my foot had slipped off the brake. The result: I’d rear-ended the shiny new convertible in front of us, triggering a car alarm meltdown of epic proportions.
“Oh my God! Shit! Shit! Shit!” I cried, turning to Lars. “What do I do? I can’t… My parents…” Tears started cascading down my cheeks. “They’re gonna kill me.”
“Back up a few feet, shift into park, and get out,” Lars instructed calmly. “I’ll take care of it.”
With the sirens still screeching at full tilt, I did exactly as Lars said. And even though I had no idea how he was going to handle the situation, I was infinitely grateful he’d volunteered to help.
“Is everything all right over here?” some random old guy asked from the sidewalk. “Can I call you some help?” His gaze paused on the convertible’s dented bumper.
Lars stepped around to the back of the SUV. “You could do us a favor,” he told the old guy. “You could have the store page Lester, from Drive Right Academy—oh, and also the owner of this car.”
As if he’d been waiting his whole life for just such an opportunity, the old guy whipped a stubby scrap of paper from his shirt pocket and copied down the convertible’s plate number. “Sure thing,” he agreed. Then he was off.
Now I guess when your eardrums are shattering at breakneck speed, it’s hard for sounds to actually burst through. Because to get my attention, Lars had to practically dislocate my shoulder. “Just follow my lead,” he whispered, pulling me to his side. “And relax. Don’t say anything unless I tell you to.”
“Okay…” I tentatively agreed, finally realizing Lester was headed in our direction.
“Shh,” Lars hissed.
Geez, chill. No need to go all Nazi on me. I get it: Zip the lips.
“Sir, there’s been a minor accident,” Lars announced, before Lester could even assess the situation. “Of course, I’ll pay for all the damages.”
First of all, kudos to the Icelandic prince for being so bold. And second of all, huh? Why would he pay for the damages when I was at fault? I mean, I was sort of his girlfriend, but it wasn’t like I was married to the guy.
Lester just paced back and forth in silence, studying the series of jagged cracks I’d so carelessly inflicted on the convertible’s bumper—not to mention the damage I’d done to the SUV. “How did this happen?” he asked, frowning and shaking his head.
“A rookie mistake,” Lars said, explaining the mishap away.
You could say that again.
“I’ve learned my lesson, though,” he continued. “I can assure you it won’t happen again.”
What? Was Lars taking the blame? Sacrificing himself in my place? I could hardly believe my ears. And apparently neither could Carla, because when I glanced in her direction, she was halfway into a classic give-me-a-break eye roll. I could only hope she wasn’t offended enough to rat me out.
Lester sighed. “Well, I certainly hope not,” he said, patting Lars on the shoulder. “Because this doesn’t bode well for your future as a licensed driver. I’m obligated to report this, you know.”
“I understand,” Lars said, nodding.
That was it. I couldn’t take it any longer. I had to rat myself out. I had to vindicate Lars the Innocent. “Excuse me,” I croaked unevenly, “but…”
“Yes?” Lester said, rummaging through the SUV’s glove box.
Lars silenced me with a cold, menacing glare that would have scared even the burliest tough guy into submission, let alone a wishy-washy wuss like me.
“Never mind,” I replied.
&n
bsp; And that’s how I became a pathetic excuse for a human being. So pathetic, in fact, I let a boy I didn’t even like that much take the fall for an accident I’d caused while obsessing over a boy I did like—a lot. My name is Flora. Flora Fontain. But you can call me the Amazing Gutless Wonder. Trust me, the shoe fits.
Seventeen
I GUESS you could say that, all things considered, the whole fender bender debacle turned out okay. I mean, Carla didn’t rat me out, and Lars didn’t end up in any serious trouble. Plus, like Lars explained, he was an Icelandic citizen, so it wasn’t like he needed a Pennsylvania driver’s permit; hence, saving me from the consequences of my own moronic actions was a no-brainer—or at least so he’d said anyway.
Only…
I couldn’t help wondering if Lars would have been so magnanimous if he knew why I’d smashed up the convertible in the first place. Somehow I doubted it. Nobody’s that nice, unless there’s something seriously wrong with them. I’m talking full-blown, rubber-room crazy. But as mental as Lars was for being interested in me in the first place, he just didn’t strike me as the straightjacket type.
“Flora!” my dad called up the stairs. “Phone! It’s Jessie!”
Great. Just what I needed. More drama. Couldn’t the girl take a hint? I mean, I’d ignored all sixty-three of her calls to my cell this morning. What made her think I was suddenly up for some inane chitchat, especially if there was the slightest chance in hell she’d be gushing about Mick? No thanks.
“Take a message!” I yelled.
Now should I wear the turquoise sequined tank under the black puff-sleeved blazer, or would the flowy asymmetrical top that exposed my shoulder send Mick running for a cold shower? Either way, I knew I had the right pants for the job—a hip-hugging pair of indigo jeans that had Mick written all over them. And not just because they showed off my new curves either, but because the pockets were sprinkled with silver butterflies. Mick loves butterflies.
My father knocked once before haphazardly flinging my door open. Lucky for both of us, he didn’t catch me mid shirt-change. “Jessie wants to know if you need a ride to Vivian’s later,” he said, staring at the mess of crumpled clothes strewn across my floor. “She said to call her by six to let her know.”
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