Please don’t ask me.
“Yeah.” He sweeps up a hand and scratches his neck. It’s a strong neck that you can see because he has an actual haircut, unlike certain other members of the team. “But then I decided not to.”
“Oh.”
I stare at him. Was that an insult? If it was, I guess I should be relieved, but it feels like I just got sucker punched. I take a few steps backward. Maybe he’s not so cute.
“Not because I don’t want to go with you,” he says, “but because it’s too weird, you and Alex.”
“What does he have to do with anything? He’s a liar.”
Caleb half shrugs, and I’m confused.
“But I think he wants to go with you. I think he’s always wanted to go with you.”
My stomach tightens. I shake my head, because he’s completely wrong. “No, he’s going with Devon, and he never wanted to go with me. He helped me set up that whole promposal. A cow. He got a cow. He planned the whole thing.”
He shakes his head. “And then he messed it all up at the last minute.”
I don’t like the way this conversation is going, because if it was true once, that Alex wanted to go to prom with me, it’s definitely not true now. “With a lie. He lied to me, outright, and that was humiliating. I mean. It was so bad. You know—you’ve seen it. Seriously, what kind of friend does that?”
“A friend who wants to go with you himself but doesn’t know how to ask?”
I’m frowning at Caleb, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s grinning like nobody’s business. “I don’t care what Alex Koviak wants,” I say with a rising crescendo in my voice. “I don’t want to go with him!”
Now Caleb laughs, and I’m about to lose my shit.
“Why are you laughing? Here, I’ll prove it to you!”
He glances from side to side. I’m being loud, I realize that. I lower my voice and pause for a beat to get my thoughts together.
“Caleb, will you go to the prom with me?”
He laughs again, but it’s not a mean laugh. I don’t think he knows how to be mean.
“You know, I’m tempted,” he says. “You did mount a cow for me.”
That’s true.
“But I’m not going with you so you can prove to yourself that you don’t want to go with Alex.”
“That’s not what I’m doing!” Again, I’m too loud, and soon the bell will ring, and I’ll be tardy and…
“I hear you, Bailey, but I’m still gonna say no.” He steps back.
“Wait,” I say. “Would you have said yes if I’d asked you from the cow?”
He scratches his head. “Probably so.”
“So why not now?” I don’t know why I’m trying so hard to get him to go with me. I do not want to go to prom with anyone, but it’s the principle of the thing. I don’t want to go with Alex. Caleb needs to believe that.
He grins. “I watched that video. You know the part where he’s looking at you, watching you walk away, with those big puppy dog eyes? That dude likes you, probably even more than likes you, and I think you’re cool, but I’m not stepping in the middle of that.”
“Well, if that were true, and it’s not, he hates me now.”
Caleb spurts out a laugh. “I don’t think so, Bailey. He was just in the library looking for you.”
“No, he wasn’t.”
“Yeah, he was. He found you, too, over in your corner, and he stood by the circulation desk for a long time, like he was trying to decide if he was gonna talk to you. I watched the whole thing. It was hilarious.”
I blink slowly.
“Yeah. So”—he hoists his backpack higher on his shoulder—“you coming to the game tomorrow?”
“Um. No. I’m working,” I say, not that I would go anyway. Then I remind myself that the world does not revolve around me. “But good luck. I hope you win.”
“Thanks,” he says, then leans forward. “Also, he’s not going to the prom with Devon. Never was.” He steps back, gives me another killer smile, and walks off into the sunset like a proper cowboy.
I’m left stranded in the middle of the hallway surrounded by doubt and fear and maybe a little bit of hope, but then more doubt, and yeah, way more fear.
Students scuttle around me like cockroaches. The bell is about to ring. It’s like a scene from a high school movie. I can picture the whole thing: me standing outside the library doors, confused and frozen, no idea what to do about anything. Paralyzed.
The camera pans out and fades to black.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Alex
So my parents are finally acting parental, and they totally, officially grounded me, including, but not limited to—taking away my phone, my debit card, and yes, even my car, except for school and practice. So yeah, having real parents totally sucks.
Worse, I could easily get away with not following the terms of my grounding if it were just Miriam at home, but they’re here, and they’re not leaving. Oh, and also, I have to do chores.
Laundry, emptying the dishwasher, vacuuming, even cooking—it’s all me. Mom says Miriam will teach me how to do everything and that it will come in handy in college.
Friday night, Miriam’s still in the kitchen when I get home from practice. I haven’t seen her since the party. She waited for me to make dinner, which tells me things are going to be bad.
I stare at her, trying to judge just how bad. “Hey…”
“Wash your hands, little man,” she barks. “I’m putting you to work.”
“Okay.” I wash my hands and wait for instructions.
For ten minutes, I wait as she throws things around and mumbles under her breath. She gets out a giant knife and starts to hack apart a whole chicken. The knife makes giant whacking sounds on the butcher block that, I’m not gonna lie, scare the piss out of me.
I pull out one of the bar stools and try to sit down. She doesn’t even look up but tsks and says, “Don’t you dare.”
“Is there something you want me to do?” I should know better than to ask her that.
The chicken is in pieces, but she still has the knife. “Oh, I’m sorry, is your time precious? You poor baby.” She points the knife to a bag of potatoes on the counter. “Those. Scrub them. Cut them into wedges. You think you can handle that?” One eyebrow lifts, and her eyes narrow to slits.
“Yeah.” I yank the bag off the counter and take it to the sink. If she’s just gonna be grumpy all night, I might as well get this over with. “I know you’re pissed at me, Miriam. And I’m sorry. I mean it, I’m really sorry.”
She clucks loudly and shakes her head. “Can’t believe what you did.”
“I know, I know.”
“You’re stupid. That’s what you are.”
“I know!” I grab some potatoes from the bag and turn on the faucet. I pick up a brush that she set out for me and scrub them hard.
“Don’t take the skin off!” she says.
“Sorry.”
“Yeah, you’re sorry. Sure you are. Listen, I’ve been taking care of this house, and you, for a long time. My time is precious, too, you know? Then you go and do something that could land you in jail or make you sick or dead. You get that? I don’t have time to mourn your death, and I don’t have patience for stupid people.”
I keep scrubbing potatoes. What can I say? She’s right.
She walks to the sink and bumps me over with her hip. “Move. Let me wash my hands.” I move, and she washes and then leans against the counter and turns her head to look at me. “Don’t think I don’t know what this is all about.”
I glance at her, then go back to my potatoes.
“Oh yes, I know. I’ve seen you these last few months.” She bumps my hip again. “You do know all you have to do is ask her out?”
I glare at the potatoes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She huffs out a breath. “Well, then you’re dumber than I thought. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s given me a few months of peace when I le
ave here at night because I know you’re too stupid to let her know how much you like her. Let me tell you, it’s been a blessing to know that you’re not out waving around that baby maker at any girl who looks at you twice.”
“Damn, Miriam!” It’s not like this is the first time she’s warned me about my “baby maker,” but it’s not easy to hear. “Come on!”
“Oh, what?” She nudges my side with hers. “Am I too close to the truth?”
I go back to the potatoes. “No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“You sure about that?”
“Doesn’t matter.” I bring the washed potatoes to the cutting board. “She doesn’t want someone like me.”
“You serious? That girl thinks you hung the moon.”
I slice the first potato in half, and she’s at my side, grabbing the knife. “I said wedges. That means length-wise, you big dummy.”
I take the knife back. “She doesn’t think I hung shit. If she did, she’d have wanted to ask me to the prom.”
Miriam pffts and puts her hands on her hips. “Are you really that damn lazy?” Her eyes bore into me like a dentist drill into a tooth. I don’t like it.
“What does that mean?”
“I swear to God.” Annnnd she’s throwing things again. “You want everything handed to you?” She shakes her head and pushes me away from the potatoes, taking the knife. “The only thing you’re willing to work for is that game. Everything else you give up on if it doesn’t come to you easy. You didn’t used to be like that.” She huffs. “I don’t even know you anymore. Get out of my kitchen.” These words snap out of her like a whip, and like a whip, they sting.
“Come on, Miriam.” I don’t know what else to say. All I know is that my face is hot and whatever words I’m holding back are too heavy to let out.
“Go!” She gets to work on my potatoes and shouts at the sound system to play some Aretha Franklin. R-E-S-P-E-C-T starts playing, and she’s singing along, loud.
I grab my backpack and duffel bag and stare at her. “I’m not lazy!” I shout over the music.
She lifts a shoulder and gives me one last glare. “Prove it.” Then she turns her back to me.
I go up to my room and fling my duffel across it. It lands at the foot of my weight bench. I roll my eyes and kick off my shoes, and I want to growl again.
I could have still asked her to the prom if I wanted to, even after she dropped the Caleb bomb on me. I’m not lazy or spoiled, okay, maybe I’m spoiled, but I don’t expect everything handed to me. This is not about any of that.
I can almost hear Miriam shouting in my ear. “Then what is it about?”
My shoulders sag, and I straggle to my bed, falling face down on the mattress. Dammit. She is right. I work for lacrosse. I’d do anything for that team. Why? Maybe because I know I’m good at it. I have skill. The risk is minimal. It’s easy.
I haven’t asked a girl to a dance in all four years of high school, and yet I’m never worried that I won’t go to the dance. I’ve always assumed someone’s going to ask, and I love it because I don’t have to do the work or deal with possible rejection.
So Miriam was right about that too. I am lazy. Also maybe a little scared.
Lying on my bed, I’m hit with a wave of wanting to see Bailey, just see her. She won’t want to see me, she’s made that clear, but I want a glimpse. I want to go to the coffee shop. It’s Friday night, she should be there, except FML, I don’t have a car.
Maybe I need to start treating the rest of my life like I do lacrosse. All in, all the time. Maybe, at the very least, I should get off my ass and try.
The next day I’m trying to stay focused for the big game against Winter Park. I feel like a car window on a cold day—I keep fogging up with blinding thoughts of Bailey. Between Eli’s Love Guru-esque speech and Miriam bitch slapping me last night, I’m feeling the need to do something. Anything to get us started on the path to—I guess being just friends, for real this time.
Miriam was right saying that I expected everything handed to me. If I want to have another shot at being friends with Bailey, I can’t sit around waiting for her to do the work. It’s not her job. If I want it, it’s all on me. And I do want it.
It’s not as easy as it sounds, though. Yesterday, I went into the library at school, walked across it, got about fifty feet from the cubicle desk where she always studies, and stopped.
I was scared out of my mind, took a few steps forward, then backward, then forward again, and then I finally chickened out. I knew I had to apologize, but what was going to happen after that?
So I left without talking to her, and now I’m crazed. Not in a good way. Then to make things worse, Dad says he’s going to drive me to school for the game, that him and Mom, who are all of a sudden A-plus parents, will take me home after.
“No, Dad,” I say. “It could be a while afterwards. You won’t want to wait around.”
“No. I don’t mind. I’ll drive. It’s not an inconvenience.”
“I can get a ride with Eli. He won’t care.” I hate riding in Eli’s piece of shit car, but I will. I’m not gonna get dropped off at school like a damn eighth grader.
“Nope.” Dad is keeping his voice calm, which is new for him. “Let’s go.”
So here I am, in the passenger seat of my dad’s Mercedes, a senior in high school, and I’m probably about to get a lecture. He’s going to say all the stuff he’s already said—outlining the reasons I am a bad son—and probably add some new bullet points. To say I’m not looking forward to it is an understatement.
He starts the engine, and some nineties shit music comes over the sound system. It’s loud, and I hope it stays that way as he pulls out of the driveway. If he turns it down, he’ll start talking.
When he pulls out onto our street, his hand goes to the volume knob. I sink down in my seat and close my eyes.
“So.” He waits, and I wait. Here we go. Ten-minute drive to school. Buckle up.
“I can’t believe you’re about to graduate.”
Why? Because he thought it wouldn’t happen? I say nothing.
“Are you getting excited?”
I glance at him. I look a lot like my dad, but I don’t think anything like him. “I guess.”
“You should be. You should be proud of yourself.”
My eyes focus out the side window, and I wonder what I have to be proud of. “I guess.”
“Your mom and I are. In case you were wondering.”
I lift my chin. “Oh.” Great to hear. I shift in my seat. I’ve never wanted to get to school so bad in my life.
“Is everything going okay, in general?” he says. Dad pulls up to the light that divides the center of town. Just up the block to the left is Java Infusion. She’s not there now. She might be there later. I don’t know, she doesn’t tell me her schedule anymore.
A fire sparks in my gut and spreads so fast it comes out my mouth. “No.”
Shit. Why did I say that? We still have a good seven minutes to school.
“Oh?”
I grunt, knowing I should shut this conversation down now. As usual, I fail at the task. “Yeah.”
“Friend trouble?”
“No.”
“Worried about the future?”
“No.”
“A girl?”
I say nothing. He says nothing. We drive in silence the rest of the way to school. He turns into the parking lot and pulls up to the curb in front of the locker room. My teammates are walking by, staring at the car, wondering what lame ass is getting dropped off by his dad. I reach for the handle to get out and face them.
Dad stops me. “Alex?”
“What?”
“I’m sorry.” That’s all he says.
“Okay.”
“I know I haven’t been around enough.”
“Whatever,” I say but wish I could say more. Like how bad it sucks to be alone all the time.
“Okay,” he says. “Listen. Have a goo
d game, okay? And I know that you probably don’t want any advice from me at the moment, but you know lately, when I’m doubting myself, I think of that rat.”
I twist to him. “Rat?”
“Yeah, that one, with the pizza?”
“Pizza Rat?” I say, remembering the clip that went viral.
“Yeah, him.”
My father has completely lost his mind. “What are you talking about?”
He hikes up a corner of the mouth. “Yeah, maybe it doesn’t make sense to anyone but me, but whenever we run into an obstacle, Mom and I—which we have lately, by the way. Run into obstacles. There’s so much need out there, so much red tape…” He waves a hand. “But yeah, that rat saw that pizza, and it was giant and on the stairs, and he still went for it. So that’s what I think of when I’m not sure what to do.”
I stare at Dad, who basically runs an international charity. “Are you telling me you’re your inspiration in life…is a hungry subway rodent?”
“Yeah, Mom doesn’t get it, either. I’ll pop the trunk,” he says. “Good luck tonight, kid.”
“Yeah, thanks.” I step out of the car onto the pavement, walk around to the trunk, and get my equipment.
Weird. I lift a hand to him as he drives away and go inside where everyone is suiting up. I give my usual greetings, patting backs and pumping up my teammates.
A win tonight would clench divisionals. We have to do it. We will do it.
I sit on the bench and stare into the gray metallic space of my open locker. The thought of not seeing Bailey tonight hurts. I lean forward, and my hair falls in my eyes. It’s really getting stupid long and annoying, but somehow, I’ve turned it into a good luck charm, like I did with Bailey. I groan softly, knowing I won’t get my post-game Reese’s and Sprite from the cute cashier in the express lane.
She doesn’t believe in luck, anyway, or if she does, she believes in making her own. Like that rat—he probably has a list of goals taped to the wall next to his little rat bed. First item: Get a big-ass slice of pizza.
Maybe I could do that, too, stop doing what comes easy and, for once in my life, do the hard thing.
Damn, who knew Dad’s words of rodent-based wisdom could apply to me?
Love and Other Secrets Page 20
