by Germaine, KF
Northern’s banquet hall was swarming with mothers and football players. Coach was making his rounds in his best suit, trying to pretend he didn’t beat our asses on the field six days a week.
The seating was assigned, and Mom and I were (un)fortunate enough to be placed with Jack’s family, Chance, and Chance’s twenty-eight-year-old stepmom Maxi.
Maxi was Chance’s dad’s latest wife. Number four, I think. I don’t know. What I did know was Maxi had a huge rack and a pair of lips the size of Texas, which I think was where Chance’s dad found her—doing flips on the Dallas cheerleading squad.
“Hi there, I’m Maxi.” Maxi extended a manicured hand to Mom.
Mom shook her hand and stared at her ample breasts. “Della Peters.” Being the polite librarian she is, Mom gave her a genuine smile and extended her hand to Margot. “Hi, Mrs. Porter, it’s great to meet you. You must be so proud of Jack there, and I just adore your daughter Sydney.”
“Ms. Porter,” Margot corrected. Ignoring Mom’s hand, she turned back to Jack. “If your sister isn’t here within the next ten seconds, I’m going to revisit those grand theft charges. I can’t believe she’d even want to show her face here to support you. What’s she ever done for you, or me, besides make our lives miserable?”
Jack looked down at his hands and wiped his palms over his slacks. “Well, actually, she’s alw—”
“Shh, Jack,” Margot cut in, giving my Mom another disapproving glance. “We don’t need to rehash family business in front of strangers.” Her eyes jumped to the banquet hall entrance just as Sydney walked inside.
Pulling my napkin down in my lap, I twisted it over and over in my hands, pretending it was Margot’s neck. I couldn’t imagine living twenty years under that woman’s roof. It’s no wonder Jack acted like a pussy and Sydney… Well, Sydney… was beautiful.
Sydney’s hair was straightened and lying across her shoulders. She was wearing a wool pea coat and a tight black pencil skirt with red heels reminiscent of a sexy librarian. Which is gross, considering my mother’s a librarian, but I’d overlook that gut-wrenching detail for now.
If she meant to torture me, Sinister’s plan was working.
Spotting our table, she gave Jack a smile, but it collapsed to a scowl when she noticed the only empty spot was next to me. Strutting over with confidence, but a bit wobbly in those heels, she stopped next to Jack. When she lifted an eyebrow, Jack jumped up, taking the seat next to me.
Dammit.
“Morning, Mrs. Peters,” Sydney said, settling into her seat. “I just love those earrings. Amethyst, right?”
Mom touched her ear and smiled. “Yes, dear.”
“Sydney, you are ten minutes late.” Margot gave her a nasty glare. “You have zero respect, young lady. We’re going to have a lon—”
“Hi there.” Sydney extended an arm across the table to Maxi and smirked at Chance. “Chance, did you finally win one of those Playboy dream dates?”
Chance rolled his eyes but snickered under his breath.
“I saw the short story competition on the back of one your bathroom magazines. Fifteen hundred words on creative uses for French baguettes and Nutella, you poet you.”
Margot’s jaw couldn’t be lower than if it unhinged and sank to the core of the earth.
Maxi blushed and leaned back in her seat, jiggling every part of her. “Oh my gosh! I was a centerfold in December 2010. Did you see that?” she asked, completely serious.
Sydney shook her head, still holding a fake smile. “No, must have missed that one.” Her eyes flashed to mine for a half second as she pulled off her coat, revealing a sheer polka-dot blouse with a tight black tank underneath. Who is this woman? And goddammit, put your coat back on!
Pulling my lips into a tight line, I closed my eyes and ran my fingertips over my eyelids. What the hell is Sydney trying to prove? That she’s gorgeous and she’s not mine—message received.
Mom chuckled at my reaction and pinched my leg.
She’d been talking my ear off about Sydney all morning. How pretty she was. How funny she was. Telling me to invite Jack and Sydney for Thanksgiving. Asking me if she likes Tofurky. No matter how hard I’d tried, I couldn’t get it through to her that Sydney wanted to see me die a fiery death, not sit at our dining room table, eating turkey leg-shaped bean curd.
As we picked at our overcooked eggs and pancakes, Coach gave his usual half-assed speech on how well the team was performing. Then, my favorite part of Mom’s brunch started: embarrassing newbie stories.
A microphone was passed from table to table as Moms told hilarious tales about their sons. This only happened to the new players. Freshman year, Mom told everyone I was a bed wetter until I was ten, and all the upper grads chastised me until I was a sophomore. By sophomore year, there was fresh meat, and the cycle continued.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed Chance jotting down notes. Good thinking.
Soon, the microphone was passed to our table and to Jack’s mom. I cringed just thinking about what this beast would say. Picking up the microphone, Margot stood and said, “Jack’s perfect,” and handed the mic back to Coach.
What? Jack’s perfect? Glancing around the room, I saw the incensed scowls of all the upper grads. She’d practically placed a target on Jack’s back. Everyone knew this was what happened on Mom’s Weekend. Sometimes the players begged their mothers to tell stories. The worse, the better. Jack was warned this was a rite of passage.
Jumping from my seat, I grabbed the microphone. Jack actually looked relieved when I snatched it from Coach’s hands, and Sydney stared up at me, stunned.
“Jack Porter,” I began, then slammed my mouth shut. Christ, what am I thinking? “Jack Porter is far from perfect. I mean, we all know the kid can catch balls, or at least that’s what he told the Northern Weekly.”
The football players in the room had a good laugh, and Jack smiled.
“He’ll tell you his strong arms come from years of hard work and practice. But I think I’ll have to take a little credit if you don’t mind. Jack would never have those bulging forearm muscles if he didn’t scrub vomit out of carpet so well.” Cue another group laugh. “Seriously, you don’t know clean until a toothbrush hits an oriental rug.” Taking a quick glance at Fernando, I added, “Reminds me. Might want to change your toothbrush, Fernando.”
I had the mothers and players rolling by now, but more importantly, one laugh cut through the crowd—Sydney’s. The only laugh that mattered.
“We know Jack is meticulous. I mean, I just sat here watching him rearrange the table centerpiece for fifteen minutes.” I pointed to the hydrangeas on the table, and everyone laughed, but my ears were trained on the only laugh I wanted to hear. And when it came again, I felt alive.
“But Jack’s more than a closet florist. He’s a helluva running back. Swift-footed and spry. And I’d be remiss if I didn’t say it was his family that led to his success.”
Margot straightened in her seat and glanced around the room, expecting a collective thanks.
“Really, isn’t it all our families that brought us to this point? And for Jack Porter, that was his sister, Sydney.”
Sydney’s eyes flashed to mine, and her face grew flush. Margot crossed her arms, digging her nails into her blazer, and leaned back in her chair.
“Sydney, stand up.” I motioned for her to stand, and she went from flush to plum purple. “Come on, let everyone see the pretty Porter.”
Sydney slid out of her seat and stood. A few catcalls shot from the crowd, and I glanced at Chance. Immediately, he started writing names of players who’d get their asses kicked later.
“Jack Porter’s number one fan, people.” An applause erupted from the banquet hall. “Jack Porter is a good kid. He’s a talented athlete and a loyal friend. We all love Porter.” I turned to Sydney, and this time her eyes never faltered from mine. “I know I’m in love with Porter.”
Not laugher, but an awkward silence followed, and Sydney took off runn
ing for the door.
Handing the mic to Coach, I ran after her.
Chapter Forty-Five
I was breaking out in hives because this closet was packed with scratchy wool. Flammable wool. Which wasn’t good since my face was a four-alarm fire.
“Sydney?”
Hearing Gray’s voice, I crunched into the tiniest ball possible and hid behind a blue trench. When I ran from that banquet hall, I took my first left into the coat closet, locking the door behind me.
“Sydney, please. You couldn’t run that fast down the hallway. Not in those heels. You’d roll an ankle.”
Damn heels, I thought as I rubbed my sore ankle. I would’ve been long gone if I had on my Converse.
“I know you don’t want to talk to me, so I’ll talk to you. Just stay wherever your little monkey body is hidden. It’ll only take a second.”
A sigh came next, followed by a low kick near the closet door, so I held my breath.
“Sydney, please, I can’t stand that you hate me. If I could take it all back, I would in a heartbeat. I would’ve never messed with you. I would’ve never left my dorm room freshman year. I would’ve loved you two years ago as much as I love you today.”
Lifting the heels of my hands to my eyes, I tried to cool them down, but it was no use. Tears began to fall, sliding down my cheeks, with no end in sight. An audible snort was coming next, so I grabbed a cashmere sweater coat and buried my face into the soft red fabric.
Why is he telling me this?
I’d forever be grateful for what he did for Jack in there. Even I couldn’t have saved that mess. But telling me he loved me in front of a hundred strangers? Didn’t he understand it was hard to be around him? Every word from his mouth was a reminder of what I’d be missing next year when he was gone. I was protecting us both.
“Don’t worry. I plan on staying away from you like you asked.” Gray let out a heavy sigh. “But I won’t stop thinking about you, Sinister. You can hate me, but please stay away from Ni—”
“Gray?” Della’s voice echoed down the hall. “What are you doing out here? Your coach is talking about draft.” A set of heels stopped by the door. “Where’s Sydney?”
“She’s gone,” he answered, his voice weary. “She won’t be back.”
He’d forget about me eventually.
When he was freezing in Pittsburgh. But he’d probably have a blanket of money and a cheerleader to keep him warm at night. And he could draw her naked body with his oil pastels and have five stupid perfect babies with his gorgeous face and her proportionate ears.
I stared down at my mixer, dragging my fingers over the crossfade. I’d just left the studio after getting the shit verbally kicked out of me by Brian.
“What the hell was that?” Brian had screamed. “That was a crap show, Sydney. It would have been more entertaining to get you drunk and put you on the air. At least you’d have something interesting to say. Tuesday better be the best show of your life or you can kiss that internship good-bye.”
I just stood there agreeing with him. Too embarrassed to tell him the truth. There would be no internship, and being a radio personality would just be a college phase. I’d agreed to blackmail Katharine, but Sunday Lane would be forgotten. And in the meantime, she’d be a slave to the Panhellenic.
“Lots of people here,” Nick said, placing a bottle of water next to my mixer. “I think the word’s out about DJ Sinister.” He waited next to the table, and I gave him a half-hearted smile.
“What’s wrong?” Placing a hand on my back, he rubbed gently. “Trouble with Peters?”
I shook my head. “No more Peters.”
“Shit. I’m sorry,” he said, now wearing a grin. “Well, it looks like you need a drink. After your set? An old buddy of mine is having a party.”
“I don’t know, Nick.”
“Just think about it.” He hopped down from the stage. “Time to spin, Sinister.”
The crowd had nearly tripled, and I would’ve thought it was because there was no school Monday, but I genuinely think they were there for me. And like it always did, the energy around me filled my empty insides, and I spun my little heart out. I put all my rage, all my bottled-up emotion, into the set.
After an hour, I took a break and headed toward the bar.
“Shorty!” I heard a husky voice yell through the crowd. “Shorty!”
Flipping around, I slammed into a lean, sweaty chest and looked up at DJ Bently.
“Let me buy you a drink,” he said, leading me up to the bar. He rapped his knuckles against the counter, and soon Nick was over. “Two beers.”
“Bently, what are you doing here?” I asked, thinking over my set.
Shit, Sydney, did you mess up and embarrass yourself? God, if I knew he was here, I probably would have played my newest mix. Then I could have asked his opinion, whether the beat was too fast to be laid over a Portishead track or if I should have chosen something slower.
“Here to see you, shorty.” He took a swig of his beer and pointed to a middle-aged man wearing a green sweater and jeans, sitting at the far end of the bar. “That’s Darren Waters.” Bently nodded, and soon Darren was standing next to me. “Darren owns Nirvana. I gave him your mix, and he loved it.”
Darren reached out a hand, and even though I was totally confused, I shook it. “My mix?”
“Yeah,” Bently said, nudging my beer closer to me. “QB gave it to me the night after you came to Nirvana. Didn’t he tell you?”
I shook my head.
How did Gray get ahold of one of my mixes? Why did he give it to Bently? Was this another detail he’d overlooked when he divulged his plot to ruin me?
“Hey, Sydney.” Darren leaned against the bar and regarded the dancing crowd with a smile on his face. “I can’t believe you turned this dump around. I knew Rick had a secret weapon.”
He laughed and turned to face me. “Listen, you’re good, and this asshole”—he pointed to Bently—“has decided to take off and join some lame band tour.”
Bently laughed. “I’d be stupid to pass up a European tour, Waters.”
Darren smirked and set his drink down next to mine. “I want you at Nirvana, Sydney. Pays not much, ten percent of the door earnings. So around three hundred a night. But the crowd is huge.”
Taking a long, slow drink of my beer, I stared at myself in the bar mirror. I was looking at the new Nirvana house DJ.
“Yes,” I answered, choking down the last sip. “I’m in.”
Darren slipped me a card and patted my back. “See you next Friday, Sinister. Love the name by the way.”
Bently clinked his beer against mine. “Time to get up there and finish your set. Be sure to let Rick down nice and easy.” He smiled and headed back into the crowd with Darren. Twisting around one last time, he yelled, “Then go home and remind QB how talented his girl is!”
The excitement swirling in my stomach barely outweighed the pain when he mentioned Gray. Gray had done this for me? Because he thought my music was beautiful. I gripped the bar rail until it was slick from sweat. Gray gave me Nirvana. And it wasn’t two days ago just to cover his ass. He gave him the mix weeks ago. After I’d done awful things to him, Gray rose above it all.
So why couldn’t I?
“Oh, you’re definitely going to need to celebrate.”
I glanced up to find Nick standing behind the bar.
“And I won’t take no for an answer.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Echols’s house was buzzing, but I was the stumbling dead stuffed into Echols’s grandmother’s armchair. Tina sat on the armrest, fingering the collar of my shirt. I let her. I would have pushed her off by now, but I missed being touched. Even if the hands didn’t belong to Sydney.
“Get lost, Tina. You’re staining Grandma’s doily,” Chance said, pushing her long legs to the side. “You’ll have better luck with Fernando.” He jerked his head toward Fernando, who was surreptitiously sniffing his armpits in the corner, scoping out two b
runettes in the dining room.
Tina wrapped her arm around my neck and leaned in closer. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Get lost, Tina,” I repeated Chance. “It’s not going to happen. Not tonight. Not ever.”
Tina released my neck and slid off the armrest. “You’re a hack, Peters. No wonder that weird bitch left you high and dry. She saw right through you.”
Chance laughed as Tina stormed out of the living room.
“Don’t listen to her.” He sank down on the couch nearest to me. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
“She’s right,” I mumbled, lifting my keg cup to my lips. “She’s right about me. I’m a hack and I ruin everything.”
“Well, right now you’re shit-faced, Peters. How many drinks is that, nine or ten?”
Jerking my head toward Chance, I opened my mouth to speak.
“Shut up, asshole. I know it’s eleven,” he snapped, glancing around the crowded living room. “You and Sydney are both idiots. You’ve been sitting here for weeks, pining over her. At the same time torturing her, and you think she’s going to forgive you right away?” Propping his feet on the coffee table, he tipped his cup toward me. “You’re both stubborn. Fighting over one night two years ago? What a waste.”
Leaning my head back against the chair, I released a heavy sigh. “Fuck Nick Sharbus.”
Last night I’d spent sixty bucks buying Ashton Williams drinks. It was a well-known fact any man who drinks his weight in Cadillac margaritas would eventually tell you his life story. In this case, the story of Nick and Ashton getting the boot from the Northern football team. They were forced out after a series of underage hookups and unproven drug accusations.
