Well, nothing happened Brent-wise today, and it’s pouring and I don’t know what to do. Dad is off rehearsing with his band. Mom’s working some banquet at The Colonial Inn. Ray is staying over at Nick’s so they can stay up half the night playing the latest version of some demonic video game.
I don’t really want to walk to the school, since I don’t want to show up at the chess tournament looking like a cat coming in from the rain. I mean, I spent the entire afternoon getting ready, and it’s one of those times when the stars have aligned (behind the rainclouds) and my hair looks great and I have miraculously put together a sparkly T-shirt, blazer and jeans that make me look both professional (as in photographer) and slightly flirtatious (as in girl-in-love). I don’t want the look ruined by the wet stuff, as the local weather guy always calls it.
Thing is, this afternoon, when the sky was deceivingly completely blue, I once again turned down the offer of a ride from Colt. How could I have known there was a front coming in from the coast, bringing with it a seventy percent chance of rain? Other than checking the forecast, that is. So now I’m too embarrassed to make good on his offer to call “just in case” I need a ride.
Even though it’s raining, not to mention dark and cold, here I sit staring at my phone trying to decide what to do. I can’t wait much longer or I’ll be late. There must be some power in staring, because suddenly my phone rings and it’s Colt.
“Hey, Becca. Just checking in. Sure you don’t need a ride?”
“Funny you should ask …”
“Be there in about ten minutes.”
“Thanks. See you then.” I can almost hear Colt’s I-knew-you’d-need-a-ride grin.
I go downstairs, slip into my rain jacket and try to figure out if there’s a way to pull the hood up over my head for the short walk to Colt’s truck without mussing my hair. Before I figure it out, the doorbell rings. I grab the camera (Colt decided to give me custody for the rest of the school year). At least that is in a waterproof case.
I open the door and there’s Colt standing on the porch holding a huge black umbrella. Leave it to Mr. Practical to come prepared. Not that I’m complaining.
“Hey, Becca.” Colt gestures for me to step under the umbrella with him.
I do, and my hair stays remarkably muss free all the way to the truck.
Mr. Strand nods hello in response to my greeting. It’s a tight squeeze with three of us, so I’m elbow-to-knee with Colt for the short ride to school. I make the most of it by pretending he is Brent.
Once safely inside the school, Colt and I check out the scene in the cafeteria. Kids are lined up at a registration table.
“Might as well get some shots of that,” Colt says, “since otherwise most of the action is going to be cerebral.”
“Good idea.” As I snap a couple of pictures from across the room to show how long the line is, I look for Brent. Ah. There he is. I can’t focus on only him, of course, but I do take a telephoto shot of him, which will definitely make it into my personal collection, if not the To Be Frank-lin. I see no sign of Claire. If she doesn’t show, maybe I can ask Brent to give me a ride home or something! I know Colt wouldn’t care.
As kids finish registering, they find their places at the tables, then wait to play. There are a few official announcements before the matches begin. I take some shots of the kids poised to play, then move on to take a picture of the refreshment table and the trophy table. The only way to get close-ups of anyone playing chess is with telephoto, as we’re not supposed to disturb anyone by getting in their face, which makes sense. I get what I think is an adorable shot of Brent, lips pursed, eyebrows slanting down, the perfect image of concentration.
I hope to find some more drama in others’ facial expressions. One boy chews his lip. A girl wraps her hair around her finger. A small cluster of players waiting their turn giggle nervously.
Colt and I mill around the cafeteria. Chess is not exactly a game filled with dramatic motion. Even between games it’s mostly just sitting around. When there is a break for refreshments, Colt and I pounce on the opportunity for a few “active” shots.
“Thank goodness for food,” Colt says. “At least there’s some movement, even if it is only chewing.”
I elbow him, but I have to stifle a laugh. Then I get a really cute shot of Brent eating a piece of pizza with a string of mozzarella hanging between the slice and his lips.
After that, it’s mostly just sitting and waiting. Colt and I don’t talk much, because even whispering sounds loud in the otherwise quiet cafeteria. Finally, the competition ends. Colt and I ready our cameras to capture the winners.
There are individual trophies and medals, starting down as low as tenth place. There’s a trophy for the best group showing for the combined scores by a school. Then, at last, the First Place winner—Brent!
I get a great shot of him, but why blow my chance to talk to him? I wait until the crowd thins out a little, then approach him. I do wonder why Claire isn’t here, but, hey, my good luck, right? “Hi, Brent,” I manage to say without stuttering or tripping, even though my heart is bouncing all over my rib cage. “Can I get a shot of you with your trophy over by that wall?”
Brent meets my question with a smile. “Sure, Becca!” My name! He knows my name! “Claire said you’d be here taking pictures for the paper.” His smile fades. “She couldn’t come, because she had to help her mother address some thank-you notes to people who attended her great uncle’s funeral.”
I don’t think Claire is the kind of person to lie to her boyfriend, but her excuse sounds kind of flimsy. However, it leaves the door open for me, so I try to sound sympathetic as I say, “Oh.” I pause for a couple of seconds, so it won’t seem as if I am disrespecting Claire’s thank-you-note writing, then I smile gently and say, “About that picture of you with your trophy? How about over there?”
I point to a nice empty spot where I can ask (or at least strongly hint) for a ride home in private.
Brent’s face brightens. He clutches his trophy. “Okay!”
I adore his boyish enthusiasm. When we get to the selected spot, I touch Brent’s arm as I say, “A little to the left.”
“Here?”
I nod. I don’t know where I dredged up the nerve to just reach out and touch Brent’s arm, but I’m seriously glad I did. I feel that is major progress on my part, guy-wise. “Hold the trophy a little higher. And smile.” I didn’t really need to add the “and smile,” as Brent already has a smile as wide as a lunch table, but it gives me a nice sense of control in the situation.
I take about a dozen pictures of Brent, each time directing him to turn a little bit this way, or hold the trophy a little more over that way. Through it all, his smile does not diminish by even one centimeter.
Finally, I decide it’s time to make my move about a ride home. “Um, Brent—”
“Hey, Becca, my Dad’s here.” It’s Colt. He points to the doorway. There’s Mr. Strand, holding the big, black umbrella. “We can go.”
My heart drops to the pit of my gut. It feels as if it’s treading water or digestive juices or whatever’s in stomachs. My plan to ask for a ride is shot down before I can even launch it. My vision of walking close to Brent, huddled under an almost-but-not-quite-too-small umbrella dissolves. I try not to sound too irritated as I say, “O-kay, Colt.”
Colt raises one eyebrow in a questioning slant.
I feel a quick shadow of a blush run over my face. I mean, Colt has no idea he ruined my plan.
“Thanks for taking my picture,” Brent says in this adorably excited voice. His gorgeous blue eyes are so full of sparkle that he looks almost like a four-year-old at the county fair. “Gotta go, guys!” He spins and is gone in an instant.
“Did I interrupt something?” Colt’s lips twitch, as if he’s trying not to grin.
“Certainly not.” Gah, I sound way too defensive. “Um, I mean, I think I got some great pictures tonight. How about you?”
“Well, getting good video of a chess match is probably even more challenging than getting good stills of one, but I think I managed.”
I’m glad to see a glint of humor cross his face. I do like Colt as a friend, and I don’t want to mess that up by being snippy just because he unintentionally messed up my plan to leave with Brent.
We hurry out to the truck, managing to stay dry even with three of us under the umbrella. Just as I’m getting my imagination in good enough working order to pretend it’s Brent’s knee and elbow I’m squeezed against instead of Colt’s, Mr. Strand says, “I’ve got to swing by the drug store to pick up a prescription. My darned arthritis is acting up.”
Before I can think up an excuse to ask him to drive me home first (other than the real reason, which is to dream about Brent), Mr. Strand is pulling into the Willamette Food & Drug parking lot. “It may take a few minutes,” he says, as he hands a couple of bills to Colt. “You two get a soda or something while you wait.”
I think about just staying in the truck, but before I can say anything Mr. Strand has run around to the passenger side of the truck with the umbrella and Colt has hopped out and is holding out his hand to help me down. I don’t want to be rude, so I take Colt’s hand. I have kind of large hands, but mine feels almost tiny in his.
There’s a counter with red stools where my Dad sometimes bought me a soda or a sundae or a grilled cheese sandwich when I used to go on errands with him when I was little. The menu looks pretty much the same as it did then. I order a small cherry cola, which comes not only with cherry flavoring, but with a maraschino cherry too.
“My favorite,” Colt says. “Make that two.”
The waitress, who looks familiar enough that she probably has been working here since back when I was little, seems to bring us the colas almost before we even finished ordering them.
“A toast.” Colt raises his glass.
I pick up my cola. “Okay. To what?”
“To us being such good partners. Biology lab, study, photography and now Pride and Prejudice.”
Yikes, I hadn’t even realized we collaborate on so many things, but we do. “Partners,” I say as we click glasses. As I savor the cold cherry-cola taste, I think how convenient it is that we work well together. I guess it’s because he’s a guy friend, and, him being a guy, he doesn’t get into all the personal drama stuff that girlfriends do that would distract us from actually getting any real work done.
Just as we finish slurping up our sodas, Mr. Strand appears. “Ready?”
“Yup.” Colt takes my hand to help me down from the stool, not that I need help, but Colt is nothing if not polite.
It’s still raining hard when we stop at my house, so of course Colt insists on walking me to the door.
As I fumble in my pocket looking for the key, I say, feeling a little disloyal to Brent, “Well, chess isn’t the most photo-friendly game in the world, so we’re lucky we managed to get some good shots.”
“It’s interesting, though. It’s a situation where the queen has all the power.” Colt grins.
I don’t know exactly what he means, so I just nod.
“‘Bout tomorrow,” Colt says.” What time do you want to come over?”
Tomorrow? Come over? “Uh…”
“Pride and Prejudice. Paper for Language Arts.”
Doh! Right! “One?” I say, kind of picking a time out of thin air.
“Okay. We can get in a couple of hours work on the paper and still go for a leisurely ride before it gets too dark.”
I’d forgotten about the horses! “Sounds good.”
“Tomorrow, then.” Colt tilts the umbrella so our faces can’t be seen from the street, leans down and kisses the top of my head in a brotherly way. “Goodnight.”
“‘Night.” I wait to make sure Colt gets to the truck, and then I see that he waits until he sees that I get into the house okay. If I had a big brother, I think I’d want him to be just like Colt. He’s so polite and protective.
It’s kind of weird coming home to an empty house. I suppose Mom and Dad will be back soon, but I’m kind of tired. Besides, the sooner I get to sleep the sooner I can start dreaming about Brent.
I take a quick shower, slide between the cool sheets and I think I fall asleep just as my head hits the pillow. Funny thing though, when I wake up I remember I was dreaming about riding Thunder along side Colt on Lightning. Odd that horses would overrule Brent, but then there was always something special about my feet in the stirrups and my knees pressed against a horse’s withers.
It’s early, but I throw off the covers, ready to start the day and eagerly looking forward to going riding for the first time in a long time. I peek out the window. It’s one of those great big beautiful not-raining mornings in Franklin. I see purple blossoms starting to open on our flowering plum tree. A jay pecks at the hot-pepper suet cake. I open the window. There’s a slight chill, but I’m sure it will be much warmer by afternoon.
I check my phone to see if I have any messages, not that I’m expecting any, but you never know. I find there are several from Randi. They are all pretty much just, “Call me!”
It’s only seven-thirty. Randi likes to sleep in, so I think maybe I should just wait. She sounded sort of frantic, though, so I wonder if maybe I should go ahead and call her. Before I can decide what to do, my phone rings.
“Hi, it’s me!” Randi says. “Why haven’t you called back?”
I sit on my bed. “I was at the chess match in the evening and you know I don’t leave my phone on at night. What’s up?”
“I need to talk!”
Well, that’s obvious, I do not say. “Um, about what?”
“I’ve decided it’s gotta be in person.”
“Okay, I have plans this afternoon, so how about this morning?”
“Funky Coffee at nine?”
Whoa. Randi actually wants to be somewhere at 9 a.m. on a Saturday? This must be urgent. “Fine.”
“See you there! Don’t be late!”
I stare at my phone. I can’t think what Randi would need to talk to me about. I mean, yeah, way back in grade school she used to consult with me about spelling words, fractions and whether or not it was safe to eat the Tuna Casserole Surprise in the cafeteria, but since those days she’s been way ahead of me when it comes to just about everything regarding the human condition.
I quickly dress and head downstairs. Soft laughter and squeaky bed-frame noises emerge from Mom and Dad’s room as I tiptoe by. Ew, you’d think they’d behave themselves. I mean, who wants to overhear emotional parental motions?
I have a light breakfast because I want to have a muffin with my Funky Coffee. I’m not sure where I’ll fit in studying today, but I guess I’ll have all day tomorrow. Working on our Pride and Prejudice paper with Colt is definitely school stuff, though, so it’s not as if I’m totally slacking off.
Wait. Listen to yourself, Becca! It’s Saturday and you are worried about school? Stop being such a dork.
I do listen to myself, and, as I stick my juice glass in the dishwasher and banana peel in the garbage, I again wonder what Randi wants to talk to me about. She would never ask my advice about guys, so maybe it’s something about her mother. Or father? Maybe he’s moving back to Franklin. Nah. Even if he was, she wouldn’t ask me for any advice about that. My parents may have their ew moments, but neither one has ever taken off.
Well, I’ll know soon enough. I leave a note just so Mom won’t freak, grab a light jacket from the hall closet and head out. I kind of just saunter along, because, one, I’m a little early, and two, I want to savor the nice weather before the rains return, as I’m sure they will soon enough. I sort of wish I were meeting Brent, but being one-on-one with Randi, especially since she needs to talk to me, actually feels special. A little scary, maybe, too. I mean, what if I totally mess up the advice thing, or whatever it is she wants from me? I mean, she did say she needed to talk.
Although … maybe all I’ll have to do is listen.