So Over You Page 4

  “We find out. That’s what we do. That whole reporting thing and all.” Energized, I continued. “Eld—Alden, interview Haney. And I’m changing your name to Frank. Find out where the mandate came from. School board? Teachers’ lounge? Then research city and state statutes for limits of power. Do they have the jurisdiction to impose fines? Is it lawful to confiscate student property if it isn’t illegal or dangerous? What recourse do parents and students have?”

  Frank scribbled furiously, and I began pacing. “Evie, interview a few teachers. Get some opinions from their trenches, but try to find a sampling of for and against. It’s important that we show both sides, or the story becomes opinion not reporting.” I stopped at Foster’s seat and kicked his chair.

  He sighed but relented. “Chelsea, get student reactions. Look especially for alternative ideas from the study body that might satisfy the issues that led to the ruling. Is there a compromise?”

  While he was speaking, he held up his right hand holding a pink slip of paper. I snatched it from his fingers and strode to the other side of the room to open it in peace.

  The Paint Pot.

  Table three. 7:00.

  Seriously? Foster didn’t look at me, but he must have felt my glare, because the grin that crossed his face was the one he reserved for tormenting me.

  The Paint Pot was one of those places where you paint your own…well, pot or mug or plate or whatever. They bake it for you in their kiln and then you have an immortalized piece of pottery to commemorate…your blind date with Mr. March.

  I’m not one of those people who saves little pieces of memorabilia. The past belongs right where it is as far as I’m concerned. My favorite holiday is New Year’s Day—I never have a problem saying goodbye to the old year and hello to the new.

  The crew filed out, leaving Foster and me alone. Again. I didn’t understand why that made me feel so weird lately. I mean, the only feelings I harbored for my lost relationship with Foster were not the kind that make your stomach feel full of butterflies. Maybe a rock tumbler full of stones…but not butterflies.

  “Was the Paint Pot your idea?” I asked.

  “Actually, no. The girls are being surprisingly independent on this venture. And they are taking it very seriously.”

  I checked out his grandpa shirt. “But the Salad Bowl—that was all you, wasn’t it?”

  He gifted me with the smile signifying another point for Team Hell. “Yeah. I remembered how much you used to love bowling.”

  “I hate bowling.”

  “I know. I just told you I remembered.”

  I sucked in a deep breath and tried to think of my happy place. Unfortunately, we were already standing in my happy place and it was less than joyful.

  “How are the photo shoots going? Any proofs?”

  Mr. Self-Satisfied snickered. “Don’t you worry about the photo shoots. Your job is clear—we just need you to stand around and look pretty for a while.”

  I was about to berate him when he stopped me.

  “Or at least fair-looking, if you think you can manage it.”

  It hurt. I knew he was only being mean because I was poking him about having to take beefcake photos—well, that and the fact that he was evil. But it still hurt.

  I stormed out, riding the waves of my righteous anger for the rest of the day.

  * * *

  Arriving at the Paint Pot ten minutes early still didn’t get me there before my date. I peered in the window and saw a very big linebacker sitting at a table already. I wonder if Foster didn’t tell the guys to be there at a different time than me just so I wouldn’t have a chance to get comfortable with my surroundings first.

  My pocket buzzed. I pulled out my phone but didn’t recognize the number.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey. It’s Micah.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “How did you get my number?”

  “I can’t give you my sources, Ms. Reporter. I heard you had another date tonight and just didn’t want you to forget about me.”

  Like that was going to happen. “You are breaking the rules,” I said sternly through a smile.

  “Maybe we should meet in person so you can chastise me properly.”

  “I’m on a date with another boy. That would be the ultimate etiquette breach.”

  Micah sighed. “I’m in Toronto anyway. Wish me luck?”

  “Oh.” Heart, meet pit of stomach. So far away? “Yeah, of course. Good luck shredding the pipe or whatever I’m supposed to say.”

  Somehow, I felt his smile through the phone. “Have a nice date, Layney.”

  Huh. Boys were more complicated than I thought.

  I turned my phone off, just in case, and pulled open the door to meet bachelor number three.

  BN3 actually stood up when I got to his table. All three hundred pounds of him. He was close to a foot taller and had about two hundred pounds on me—but he was the opposite of scary. Don’t laugh, but he had Santa Claus eyes. They twinkled.

  “Hi Layney. I’m Tyler.”

  I couldn’t stop smiling, and I had no idea why. Tyler put me at ease immediately. He was like…a cup of cocoa and a book on a snowy day.

  “Thanks for agreeing to the interview—I mean date.” We sat down and I inspected the plain mug in front of me. “Head’s up. I’m not going to impress you with my artistic ability tonight. I’m better with written words than pictures.”

  He laughed. From his belly—again, like Santa, if Santa were a Polynesian high school student. “It’ll be fun.”

  An employee came to our table and explained the process to us, and then left us to our own devices. While she talked, I took the room in, trying to come up with the words that could describe it. Kitschy? Perky? There was an abundance of blue and yellow gingham, and the employee sported some serious apron flair.

  “Do you play football, Tyler?” Because, duh.

  “I play church league, but they chose me for the calendar because I’m in the high school choir.”

  “The choir?”

  He nodded. “I know most people think I’d be better at football or sumo wrestling—but I really enjoy singing and playing the piano.”

  “I don’t sing.”

  “Ever?”

  “Not in front of anyone.” I shivered, pretending I was cold—but really, that was how much I hated singing in front of people. “What do you like to sing?”

  “I like the old stuff—Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr., Dean Martin…”

  The image of Tyler singing songs my great-grandmother listened too struck me as odd, yet in a really refreshing way. And I doubt he had to put up with too much teasing. He may have a smooth voice, but he was still built for damage.

  The clean paintbrushes on the table mocked me with their unsullied bristles. “I have no idea how to start this.”

  “You’re a lot more uptight than I thought you were.”

  That surprised me until I realized he was right. Everything about me was rigid—my stiff arms, my severe posture. I exhaled and shook out my limbs. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m so tense.”

  “It’s just a mug. If you want, you can put a dot on it and call it done. No pressure.”

  Tyler, on the other hand, busily ran his brush over the mug in front of him. No pressure. Hah. My plain white cup blinked at me like a fully lit neon sign that flashed Failure! Failure! “What are you putting on yours?”

  “I can’t tell you. You’ll have to wait until it’s done.”

  I must have picked up and set down everything in front of me at least twice. When I drummed my fingers on the edge, he set down his own brush and leaned back into his chair.

  I expected some sort of reprimand for my nervous energy or lack of participation in the artistic portion of the evening’s program. Instead, Tyler asked me, “What actress would you pick to play you in the movie version of your life?”

  “I can honestly say that I’ve never thought of that. Can I be Humphrey Bogart?”

  “No.”

&
nbsp; “Does she have to be living?”

  “It would make it easier to cast her in the role, but I suppose for you we can make an exception.”

  “Fine. I’ll play it your way. That girl who plays Veronica Mars.”

  “You kind of look like her.”

  “What about you? Who plays Tyler in the movie of your life?”

  “Elvis Presley.”

  “Nice. I think people would spend the $12.50 to see Elvis and Veronica Mars on a date in a pottery-painting store, don’t you?”

  “Box-office hit written all over it.”

  We chatted some more and he told me lovely stories about growing up in Hawaii, where his grandparents still lived. The way he described the fresh pineapple made my mouth water, and I could almost smell coconuts. Tyler came from a long line of storytellers, and I really believe he could carry on the tradition.

  He still wouldn’t let me see the mug, though, even going so far as to sneak it up the store employee. I assumed that meant that I would end up keeping the one he made for me, which meant the one I had in front of me was going to have to be for him.

  I picked up the brush again when he went to restroom and painted the words:

  I went on a date with Veronica Mars, and all I got was this lousy coffee mug.

  The nice lady came and got it from me, explaining that the King of Rock and Roll already made arrangements to pick them up next week and deliver mine to me.

  When Tyler sat down, I smiled.

  “Why are you smiling?” he asked. “Not that I’m complaining. You don’t look constipated anymore at least.”

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “I think I just like you. Is that weird?”

  “Yeah.”

  I didn’t have a lot of friends. Okay, I didn’t have any friends. I mean, I wasn’t like scary loner in a black trench coat; I did function and interact with people. And people interested me—as a writer, how could they not? But I didn’t have anyone my own age to share confidences with. I talked to Mr. Blake about career planning and stuff like that. My mom consoled me when I needed to vent about school. Through the years, I would hang out with the upperclassmen on the paper staff on the weekends—but now that I was the upperclassmen, I was sort of alone.

  Which normally didn’t bother me so much. But just hanging out with Tyler made me feel—normal, I guess. His easygoing manner suited me. That he would never make me hold his hair while throwing up or borrow my favorite shirt and never return it made him even more appealing.

  “I’ll tell you why I’m smiling if you tell me what you put on that mug.”

  Santa Elvis just smiled.

  “Fine. I guess we both have our secrets. Do you want to come over on Sunday and watch football with me after you get home from church?”

  “You like football?”

  “I love football. Well, not really, but I’ll watch it with you anyway.”

  “I thought there was some kind of rule…”

  “I’m good at bending rules. Here’s the thing—I’ve decided that you are going to be the closest thing to a BFF I’ll allow myself to have. Whether you like it or not, we’re buddies now.”

  “Okay, psycho girl. But if you start wearing your hair like mine and pilfering my clothes like that Single White Female movie, we’re breaking up.”

  Chapter Five

  Mr. April

  Waves of nostalgia crested over me as I opened the heavy door and stepped into the darkened space. This corner was always best rushed through. At least it used to be. Once you ran through it, down the slightly creepy corridor, a magical kingdom awaited.

  In four years, little had changed. Lights bounced off the walls in green, red, blue, and white. A disconcerting mesh of fragrance permeated the air consisting of nacho cheese, watermelon bubble gum, and feet. Music pumped through an ancient sound system while giggles and screams bounced off the walls, and a disco ball oversaw the mayhem from its perch in the middle of it all.

  I hadn’t been roller-skating in four years.

  I showed up half an hour early hoping to get my bearings on the wheels before I embarrassed myself in front of Mr. April. Standing in line to trade my shoes in for skates, a smile stretched across my face listening to the girls around me.

  “Jake told Lissa that Connor wants to ask me out, but every time I try to talk to Connor, he just says he has to go now.”

  “My mom said I can’t wear eye shadow until next year. That is so lame.”

  “Did you see who Parker was talking to after school yesterday? Ohmigawd, I totally thought they broke up already.”

  The conversations, cute at first because they reminded me of my own misspent middle school days, quickly became tiresome by the time I reached the counter. Makeup, boys, and gossip. Unfortunately, I’m not convinced that the chat would be so different if it were seventeen-year-olds in line instead of thirteen-year-olds.

  Lacing up my boots filled me with apprehension but also a strange warmth—a glow even. Some of my best memories took place inside these walls. The rink used to be my favorite haunt.

  Jimmy Foster’s too.

  An ache quickly replaced the glow. The pang of regret, the sorrow of loss. Those days were a lot simpler. We spent seventh and most of eighth grade here. Together. In fact, we spent every possible minute of every day together, as well as a few illicit nights (not that illicit) in which we had to sneak out of our houses and meet in the dead of night just because we couldn’t stand to be apart for very long.

  I used to really love Jimmy Foster.

  My heart crinkled at the memories, and I tried to brush them off. Remembering the way we were wasn’t going to help me deal with the way we are. Someday, when I didn’t have to manage—daily—the satanic version of the boy he’d become, I’d let my heart have its way. Until then, a fondness for my first crush—no, it was more than that—my first love, would have to wait.

  A boy plopped down on the bench beside me, so I straightened automatically. I wasn’t supposed to meet my date for fifteen more minutes, but since he was the only guy in the room over the age of fourteen and smiling at me, I realized that once again, I’d underestimated Foster’s desire to keep me on edge by having my escorts be early.

  I recognized this date. Dean Darnell was the campus celeb in the way that only the most annoying popular kids get to be. Nobody challenged his run at Homecoming King, though who else would want it? Dean was the kind of guy who blow-dried his blond shaggy Efron hair every morning, and I’d bet money that he had a skin-care regimen. He wore his two-hundred-dollar jeans with the same ease that he climbed into his shiny black Hummer. Those kinds of boys practice being effortless.

  As only the very entitled would dare, he snaked his arm behind me and lounged in his seat, probably waiting for me to gush about the privilege of his company.

  “Hey, Dean.”

  “Hey, Laynster.”

  “How are you?” I asked, pretending to care. We weren’t exactly friends, but we had friends in common. Well, as close to friends as I had. I didn’t hate Dean; I just really didn’t care how he was one way or the other.

  “I’ll be better when we get out of here.” He didn’t have skates on, and he hadn’t rented any either.

  “Sorry, you’ll have to suffer for one hour. Where are your skates?”

  Dean leaned in close, way too close. Like get-out-of-my-bubble-bad-man too close. “You don’t seriously want to stay here, do you? We could go for a drive.”

  The scent of alcohol on his breath drifted my way, and with it a deluge of unwanted memories landslided their way through my head. Random blips of ugly things I wanted to forget threw themselves into my path, throwing me off-kilter. The smell of whiskey…the heaviness of a hand…the spinning of the room. Things I hadn’t thought about in a long time.

  I stood up quickly, forgetting I was on skates. Dean rose also, righting me as I slipped. “Thanks. Um, you better go get your skates. I think there’s a rule…”

  “Everyone has to pay for skate re
ntal. There’s no rule that you have to put them on your feet. Besides, we can’t really get to know each other here. Let’s go for a drive. C’mon.”

  My gut twisted and I grew light-headed. I’d never had a panic attack before, and I sure didn’t want to start in a skating rink. My world spiraled to a pinpoint of light and my hands grew clammy.

  “Are you okay? Do you need some air?” He reached for my hand, but I shook him off. “Okay, okay.” He held his hands in mock surrender. “We’ll stay here.” Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a flask. “Besides, I brought the party to us.”

  We can have a party right here. Just you and me.

  The rink pitched sideways as that voice from my past rang out in my mind as clear as the day he said it.

  No, clearer. Clarity was one thing I had lacked that night.

  My face flushed hot and cold and I fought the urge to throw up or run away. I couldn’t be scared. I don’t do scared. I stared at a candy wrapper on the floor until the world leveled again.

  “Put the booze away, Dean.” Hugging my arms to my chest, irrational fear and anger coursed through me. Pride, perhaps my biggest flaw, was also the only one that kept me from falling part all these years, and I’d be damned if I lost my sense of self now, after all this time.

  He pocketed the flask and his face pinched into a worried look. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look kinda pale.”

  He grabbed my elbow, but this time he held on when I tried to shrug out of his grasp. Having all these feelings was sort of foreign to me, and having him clutch at me sort of popped my cork. I yanked my arm wildly, and when he saw the look in my eyes, he released me immediately, causing me to reel backward on the stupid wheels on my feet. Dean reached for me again to stop my fall, only he got slammed from behind by another skater who came out of nowhere.

  The skater pushed Dean into the wall, pinning him in place. “Sorry, man,” he said but didn’t back off. “I lost my balance.”

  I grabbed the bench and steadied myself again but recognized the voice. “Foster?” What was he doing here? “What are you doing here?”