The Art of Lainey

by Paula Stokes

  “Um, hello? Lainey? Are you still there?”

  “Yeah, I was just think—”

  “Oh, great. One of my roomies is talking about me.” Kendall swears under her breath. “She’s tattling about something to one of the production assistants.”

  “So . . .” I start. “Not sure if you’ve heard about this or not . . .”

  “Hang on.” I hear muffled voices, a stern-sounding man, and then Kendall sounding extra-indignant. “Apparently I have to go in two minutes,” she says. “Heard about what?”

  My eyes flick to the picture of Jay and me at prom again. “It’s not important. I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”

  “For sure. Give my brother a hug for me.”

  The phone clicks softly as she hangs up. I’m not sure why I didn’t tell her. It doesn’t take two minutes to say “Jason broke up with me.” Maybe it’s because there wouldn’t have been time left for her to give me advice. Maybe I didn’t want to dump my problems on her when she already sounded so stressed.

  Or maybe I just didn’t want to start crying again.

  Chapter 4

  “THOUGH WE HAVE HEARD OF STUPID HASTE IN WAR, CLEVERNESS HAS NEVER BEEN ASSOCIATED WITH LONG DELAYS.”

  —SUN TZU, THE ART OF WAR

  A few days later, I have a dream about Jason lying in a ditch, calling out to me for help. It’s four o’clock in the morning when I sit up suddenly in my bed, positive he’s in some kind of trouble. I should call him. I mean, what if he’s really hurt somewhere?

  I debate it for about five minutes but then decide to call Bianca instead. She went through a phase in fifth grade where she had night terrors and she used to call me at crazy hours when she woke up and couldn’t fall back to sleep. We would end up talking movies and the cute boys in our class until Bee felt better and then we’d both doze off in class the next day. She hasn’t made a late night call in years, but she won’t mind if I wake her up just this once.

  She picks up on the third ring. “Are you okay?” she asks.

  “Sort of.” I explain the situation.

  “Don’t do it, Lainey.” Bee yawns. “Nothing says pathetic like a middle-of-the-night text message.”

  “But what if he was in a terrible accident?” I ask. “What if he really is lying in a ditch somewhere and I’m, like, psychically connected to him?”

  Bianca mutters something in Spanish under her breath, but she stays on the phone with me while I do an internet search for recent crimes and car accidents. The Hazelton police department has logged exactly two incidents in the past twelve hours: a car break-in and a vandalized doghouse.

  “Who would vandalize a doghouse?” I ask.

  “Cats?” Bee suggests. She yawns again. I laugh. I love her. She lets me keep her on the phone for another half hour, talking about soccer strategies and Undead Academy, our favorite TV show. We trade opinions on which of this season’s zombies have the best hair, and then discuss which of the JV girls might make varsity soccer in the fall. It feels almost like fifth grade all over again. For a minute, I miss how simple things used to be.

  Finally Bianca says, “You should get some sleep, Lainey.”

  I sigh. “There’s no chance I’ll be able to fall back asleep. But I shouldn’t keep you awake just because I’m all freaked out.”

  “There’s nothing to freak out about,” Bee says. “Did you read The Art of War yet?”

  “I skimmed it a little,” I say. “I mean, I did look at it a couple of times.” In between reading and rereading every single email Jason ever sent me and moping around the house.

  “Why don’t you go read it for real,” Bee suggests. “Think of me and you as one army, Jason as the opposing army, and your relationship as the country being fought over. I’ll come by around eight and we can go for a run and start strategizing.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Bee.”

  “See you soon,” she says.

  I hang up and dig The Art of War out from beneath a stack of magazines on my dresser. Using the light on my phone, I open the book and start to read. The first part makes sense—the five factors, planning, all warfare being based on deception. But then Part II starts talking about chariots and how much it costs to raise an army. How the hell can that be relevant? I skim forward until I find something that makes sense to me: In war, then, let your great object be victory, not lengthy campaigns.

  I keep reading. Part III is about when to attack and when to retreat. If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. That’s sounds promising. Obviously I know myself, and after almost three years, I know Jason pretty well too. I’m starting to feel like Bee’s idea isn’t so crazy. I flip forward a few pages. Part V talks about combining direct and indirect strategies. The quality of decision is like the well-timed swoop of a falcon. I hold out my hand and imagined my manicured fingernails as talons. I see myself swooping in and snatching back Jason’s love. Therefore the good fighter will be terrible in his onset and prompt in his decision. I flip to the next part. March swiftly to places where you are not expected. That sounds like I’m supposed to attack quickly, an idea I like a whole lot better than sitting around doing nothing.

  I’m only about halfway through the book, but I’m already feeling a lot better. Later today, I’ll talk things over with Bee. Then, I’ll officially start my battle.

  Bianca arrives promptly at eight while I’m in the process of putting my hair in a ponytail. She follows me from the front door back to my room.

  “Did you stay strong?” she asks. “Resist the urge to text?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “And I even read part of The Art of War.”

  She flops down on my bed. “Won’t your English teacher be pleasantly surprised.”

  I start pinning back my flyaways. “Don’t talk about school.” For a second, I imagine going back as someone other than Jason Chase’s girlfriend. My heart starts to race. Who would that girl even be?

  I don’t want to find out.

  Bianca spends a few minutes admiring the newest poster of Caleb Waters tacked to the wall behind my bed. “Come on,” she says finally.

  “Almost done.” I peer at my freckle tumor. “You don’t get it. You’re one of those people who can just roll out of bed and look good.”

  She snorts. “No I’m not.”

  “I’ve only been to about fifty sleepovers with you. I know what I’m talking about.” I turn around and give Bee’s thick braid a squeeze. “I, unfortunately, require a little more polish than you.”

  “How much polish do you need to run?” She gestures at my posters. “Are you expecting to bump into Caleb?”

  “Dude. I hope so. That’d be enough to make me forget about Jason for at least a day.” I drop the remaining bobby pins back onto my dresser. “Fine, I’m ready.”

  “So how much did you read?” Bee asks as we head outside and start our usual three-mile loop through the main streets of Hazelton.

  “I only got about halfway through,” I admit. “I feel like it kept saying to strike fast and be decisive. I think it’s time for me to do something.”

  “All right. But remember it also says something about stupid haste being a bad idea.” Bianca turns the corner, her feet pounding the pavement in an even stride. “As long as you’re not just acting out of emotion.”

  “Who? Me?” I’m pretty much always acting out of emotion, so I see what she means. “I’m not going to break down crying and beg Jason to take me back. Maybe that first text I sent was too quick, but now I’m ready.”

  I pull even with her as we pass The Devil’s Doorstep. It’s a bar during the week and a live music venue on weekends—mostly for local punk and hard rock bands. The main windows are papered over with flyers announcing an upcoming concert for an all-girl group called Hannah in Handcuffs. I’ve never heard of them. The girls on the poster look like a cross between circus clowns and dominatrices.

  Two guys sit cross-legged in front of the covered window, smoking cigarettes and f
lipping through the latest issue of the Riverfront Times, St. Louis’s alternative newspaper. They either didn’t make it home last night or have showed up extra early hoping to meet whoever is playing tonight when they roll in for sound check. Between the two of them, they have an eyebrow ring, two lip rings, and at least eight visible tattoos.

  “They’ll probably end up as our coworkers someday,” I say, nodding toward the guys. “If Ebony wasn’t gay I’d totally think she was hiring herself a harem of rocker boys to seduce.”

  Bee laughs. I lengthen my stride and concentrate on the way it feels when each shoe hits the pavement, on the way the wind flares my ponytail out behind me like a flag. I don’t usually get up before nine, and running feels different this early in the morning. Quieter. Less humid. Kind of nice.

  Halfway through our usual loop, Bee veers off into an alley.

  “Where we heading?” I ask.

  She flashes me a mysterious grin over one shoulder. “It’s a surprise.”

  “You hate surprises,” I say, but I let her lead.

  The alley runs behind a strip of small businesses and ends at an abandoned lot overgrown with weeds. Bianca jogs from the pavement up onto the uneven ground, tromping down the high grass as she disappears back into a thick grove of trees. I should have known. Bee is such a nature bunny. She’s always going camping and hiking and stuff with her family.

  I skid to a stop. I’m not a big fan of the woods or the bugs living there. “Bianca, where are we going?”

  She ignores me and I have no choice but to follow her into the trees. We twist our way through the branches until we come out on a path that seems to spiral around the large hill that forms the northern boundary of Hazelton. I watch Bee’s thick braid flap like a horse’s tail. Somewhere in the trees, a bird trills. A butterfly flits past me, its pale wings beating furiously. Suddenly I hear the whoosh of cars. Bee slows to a stop at the edge of a sheer cliff cut into the side of the hill.

  I catch up to her, my blood accelerating in my veins as I look down. We’re higher up than I thought we were. Below us, an eighteen-wheeler whizzes by on the highway, the driver oblivious to the fact he’s being watched. “This must be where the thugs come to drop rocks on windshields,” I say.

  Bee exhales hard, winded from the steep climb. “You always focus on the negative. I think it’s great. It’s like looking down on the whole world.”

  “I guess, if your whole world consists of an interstate, a strip mall, and a graffiti-covered airport terminal,” I mumble. A patch of forest stands beyond the airport’s high fence. The view sums up how I feel about Hazelton. A little bit of nature. A little bit of business. Not enough of anything.

  “Hazelton isn’t that bad,” Bee says.

  “Then why are you leaving?”

  “Mizzou has the most affordable med school in the state,” she reminds me. “And they’ll accept all of my college and AP credits. I can have my MD in seven years, maybe six and a half if I go to summer school. Besides, Columbia is only two hours away.”

  She’s told me this before, but it’s still weird to think of her not being around all the time. “Maybe I should apply there too. Mizzou’s got a great Division I schedule.” My ultimate dream would be to play soccer for Northwestern like Caleb Waters did. Both their men’s and women’s soccer teams are national contenders most years. Plus, Chicago! I could live in a big city and still be just a weekend train ride away from Jason. But I have about as much chance of getting into Northwestern as I would have getting into Harvard—about zero.

  “Definitely,” Bianca says. “Mizzou might offer you a scholarship.”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t really get scouted by anyone last season. And Mizzou only gives out a couple of soccer scholarships to entering freshmen each year.”

  “So then you can get loans if you need to,” she says.

  “It seems stupid to go into debt when I can take classes where my mom teaches for free.” I stare off into the distance. “I’m not sure I’m good enough to play for a Division I school.”

  “You’re totally good enough.” Bee sits at the edge of the cliff, dangling her legs over the side. And for some people that would just be them telling me what I want to hear, but I know Bianca means it. My eyes start to water.

  “Thanks.” I turn and wipe away a stray tear before she sees it. “How’d you even find this place?” I ask, changing the subject.

  She pats the ground next to her. Reluctantly I take a seat. I’m a little afraid of heights. “The new guy at work said he likes to jog this route,” she says.

  “What new guy?”

  “Leo. You’ve seen him. He goes to school with us. Kind of preppy?”

  “Oh, right.” I do remember my dad giving the standard Denali tour to some kid dressed like a golfer. “Did Ebony hire him? He seems too normal to have attracted her attention.” I raise an eyebrow suggestively. “Maybe his tattoos and piercings are in more discreet places.”

  “You’re bad.” Bee giggles. “I think Micah recommended him.”

  I snicker. “He seems too normal to have attracted Micah’s attention.”

  “They live in the same apartment building. Your dad had me training him on the register yesterday and we got to talking.” Bianca, pauses, looking down at the cars. “I’m glad you’re making jokes, Lainey. I was starting to worry about you.”

  I wrap an arm around her shoulders. “Sorry about getting all dramatic and keeping you on the phone. That was pretty lame.”

  “You’re not lame,” Bee says. “With or without Jason, your life is still amazing, you know?”

  “I guess.” But ever since the day Jason dumped me, I’ve felt less and less sure about that. Almost anyone can be successful at sports if they work hard. Even popularity is more about who you know than who you are. Being Jason’s girlfriend was different. A guy who could date almost anyone picked me. With him, I felt part of something bigger. Just like with Kendall, he made me feel invincible, like things would work out for me no matter what. Once you’ve experienced that, it’s kind of hard to give it up.

  Bianca and I finish our run at the park across the street from my house. We guzzle water from a fountain shaped like a lion’s head, and then Bee jogs over to the curb and pulls a soccer ball out of her trunk. I groan.

  “What? Are you tired?” she asks. “You were the one ready to beg to play on Jason’s coed team. How about you practice with me?”

  “I don’t know. I’m kind of exhausted just from the drama of the past few days.”

  “I get it,” Bee says. “But I know how much you want a scholarship. This thing with Jason is out of your control at the moment. But soccer—no one can take that from you unless you let them.”

  “How’d you get so smart?” I snatch the ball out of her hands and twirl it between my fingers.

  “I watch people. I see things.”

  And that’s Bee. A watcher. A “think first and leap later” girl.

  “I just figure instead of obsessing about what is out of your hands, why not control the things you can?” she adds.

  “Okay.” I toss her the ball and mop the sweat from my forehead. “But prepare to be dominated.”

  For the next thirty minutes, we play one-on-one, chasing each other up and down the full-length field. I score the first goal and impulsively turn cartwheels all the way back to midfield.

  “That’s the Lainey I know,” Bee says as I collapse in a heap of giggles.

  She fights back and ties the score, pulling a couple of nice moves to pass me on her way to the goal.

  “Somebody’s been practicing without me.” I chase her down the field.

  “Two brothers,” she hollers back.

  “No fair. My brother never played soccer.” I put my game face back on and manage to score twice more. When we finally decide we’ve had enough, I’m still ahead, three goals to one, but both Bianca and I are smiling. I realize our “game” is the first time in days that I’ve thought about something other than Jaso
n.

  After a break, Bee practices throw-ins and then plays goalie so I can take a few penalty shots.

  I’m feeling giddy, so good I could probably practice all day, when I notice my arms are looking a little pink. The sun seems to be centered exactly over the field where we’re practicing and I only put sunscreen on my face.

  “I’m turning into a lobster,” I say, passing the ball to Bianca and heading for the nearest shade. We both collapse onto the ground beneath an ancient oak tree. I feel my stomach rise and fall with each breath.

  “So.” Bee blots her forehead on the sleeve of her T-shirt. “You’re sure you’re ready to see him?”

  “Ready,” I confirm. “And thanks for the workout. It felt good.”

  “Maybe we can still get on a rec team somewhere.” She tosses the ball up into the sky and then catches it on her fingertips.

  Bianca wanted to sign us up to play soccer for her church on Saturday nights. I told her no because I figured I’d be playing on Jason’s team and hanging out with him on the weekends.

  “It’s okay,” I tell her. “Like you said, we can work out together. Besides, August practices for the Archers will be here before I know it.” The St. Louis Archers is the select team I play for during the off-season. “You should try out too.”

  “Nah. I get enough soccer in the spring,” Bee says. “My fall schedule is full of AP classes. I’m going to need my free time for studying.”

  “Sounds boring.” I nudge her in the ribs. “Think about it. I bet you would totally make it.”

  “All right. I’ll think about it.” She hops to her feet and lifts one of her legs behind her, pressing the heel of her shoe against her butt. She does the same thing with the other side, and then pulls the foot almost all the way up to her head. I watch with envy. I’m not even close to that flexible. “So what’s the plan for Jason?” she asks.

  “I’m thinking maybe I should wait until Monday,” I say. “That’ll be a whole week since we’ve talked, and I know he has a ride-along shift so I can catch him if I go by his dad’s place in the morning.”