THE NEXT DAY, I was still thinking about Lieutenant Felicia Stover and how she must be related—somehow—to Sierra Linden. It beat thinking about Landon and the kiss that wasn’t. And I thought about rumors: who was saying what about my mom and how you dealt with that.
It had never been an issue for me. Black Earth High had so many drama kings and queens—an entire court’s worth of royalty—that a stealth girl like me could navigate the halls unnoticed. Until today. I threaded my way through the cafeteria and felt the pinprick of collective gazes on me. I resisted glancing over my shoulder. That looked guilty. And I wasn’t guilty of anything, I told myself. Besides, you couldn’t see rumors—they just floated around you.
“Hey, MacKenna!” My name boomed across the cafeteria.
Landon stood in the doorway; I was at the far end, near the “better for you” salad bar. Between us, a really long stretch of linoleum. I didn’t look left; I didn’t look right. I didn’t have to. This was rumor mill uranium and the Geiger counter had pegged the second he called my name. When I passed the synchro table, I weathered a deadly blast of radiation. It was, quite possibly, the longest walk of my life. When I reached Landon, he leaned back against the cafeteria wall.
“You want to talk here?” I made a conscious effort to avoid his eyes and then his mouth. I settled on his neck.
He glanced around, waved at someone, then shrugged. “Why not?”
Oh, for a million reasons, the most practical being that it was loud. Dishes clattered, screeches and squeals bounced off the walls, various words from crude jokes reached my ears if not his. Landon didn’t move, didn’t speak, but he swallowed—hard—and his Adam’s apple bobbed.
“Did you call?” I asked.
“No.”
So that was it. “Then—”
“Didn’t have to.” He held up the cell phone he had cupped in his hand. “Got a voice mail. My dad personally canceled the order.”
From what little I knew of Mr. Scott, that had to be bad. “Hell.”
“Yeah, something like that.”
What was I going to do? What would I tell Constance? Never mind that. How on earth would I report this to Patti, especially after yesterday? “I’m in so much trouble.” I sighed and tried to calculate just how much trouble and what it was going to cost me.
“How much money do you have in the budget?” he asked. To his credit he didn’t even twitch when I told him.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought ... I was only trying to help.”
“It’s not like you did it on purpose.”
He gave me that smile, the one that didn’t reach his dimple. “I’d like to try to help fix it. Thing is, I kind of cashed in all my chips—the few I had. There’s no way I can put in another print order.” He tilted his head upward as if the answer to this could be found within the acoustic tile, his exposed throat incredibly vulnerable. “But my dad can.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
He returned to staring just past my shoulder. “A trip to Scott Industries after school.”
“I have practice.”
Landon raised an eyebrow. “Skip it.”
Did I have a choice? My best—and only—option was going along with Landon’s plan. “Okay, what are we going to do?”
“Talk to my dad. Let him think you’ve just taken over as publicity chair—”
“We don’t have—”
“Just taken over for the previous chair and you’re in a bind. I’ll get us that far, then I’ll turn it over to you.”
“And I’m supposed to say what?” I asked. He was making this difficult.
“I was going to leave that up to you.”
Okay, he was making this impossible. “What on earth could I possibly say?”
“Whatever it is, it’ll be better than anything I could.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. Meet you by my car after school. I’m in the overflow lot.”
No doubt parked across two spots.
He pushed against the wall, but made no other move to leave. All he did was inch us closer together. “You hungry?” he asked.
“I lost my appetite.” About the time Landon had said canceled and order.
“You should eat.”
“So should you,” I countered. “So should everyone.”
“I don’t swim my ass off every day.” He raised a hand and touched not my cheek, but the tender spot beneath my eye. “I don’t have these dark circles.”
Despite the cafeteria buzzing around us, despite the fact Landon had just touched me—in front of everyone—I laughed. “You don’t get rid of dark circles by eating.”
“Have you tried?”
“I have a Power Bar in my locker. I’ll split it with you if you tell me what to say to your dad.”
“And if I can’t tell you what to say? Does the offer still stand?”
If I looked at it, hard and cold, I wouldn’t be in this mess if not for him. But I couldn’t wish him out of Black Earth, or out of my life. Something deep inside me—something fierce—grabbed on to Landon. This time, I wasn’t going to let him go. But I didn’t answer, didn’t say a word.
Dad on staying silent: Sometimes, princess, the best thing to say is nothing at all.
I doubted Dad had this scenario in mind. I walked to the cafeteria door. At the threshold, I glanced over my shoulder and smiled at Landon. Then, I left.
He followed.
We ended up sitting in the junior class hallway, our backs against the lockers. I pulled out the promised Power Bar. Landon added dried mangos, a pesto club sandwich on sourdough, and a single bottle of water.
In that moment, I saw us on the playground again, our backs against the bricks of the school, Landon coming to my rescue, a stash of something edible between us. I turned my head until the cool metal of the locker touched my cheek.
I didn’t say it was like old times. Neither did he. We were too old for that. But when I caught the green in those hazel eyes, and the dimple in his smile, I wondered if maybe it was the start of something new.
Thanks to Dad’s endless stories about Mr. Scott, I knew I couldn’t wing it this afternoon. In between classes, I thought about what on earth I might say. I walked into English in a haze, only jolting back to reality when Josh plopped down at his desk. I swiveled, feet toward the aisle. He wore his black and white drama club T-shirt, the one that said: Black Earth High Drama ~ The Play’s the Thing.
I plucked the sleeve of his Tee. “Did you get those done at Reynolds?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Sweet, aren’t they?”
I nodded. Reynolds Shirt Shack had printed our Dolphins hoodies, and custom-made fleece jackets for the swim boys. “Did you guys get a deal?”
“I guess. I only paid five bucks for this.” His forehead crinkled. “What’s up?” he asked.
“I was just ... thinking.”
“I’ve been trying to get Landon to join drama. Did you know he could sing?”
I cast Landon, who sat on the other side of the room, a quick look and shook my head. Just one more mystery about the boy who used to be my playground savior.
“But he won’t,” Josh said, “he keeps saying—”
I never learned what Landon kept saying. At that moment, Patti’s voice cut through the room, silencing not only me and Josh, but the random paper rustlers and nose blowers.
“Excuse me, Ms. Meyers, Mr. Wylie? Would you care to join the rest of us?”
The rush of blood to my face felt like a slap. I turned, tucked my feet under my desk, then flipped through my notebook. The pages blurred in front of my eyes, a teardrop landing in the exact center of the first blank sheet I found. If Patti called on me, I wouldn’t be able to speak. As it was, I could barely breathe.
Stupid, I thought. I shouldn’t care so much. A week ago, I would’ve blown this off, laughed about it with Josh after class. But today it felt personal. And when Patti didn’t call on me for the second class period in a row, I knew it was.
In a move that was either half brilliant or all crazy, I ran to the locker room after last bell. I needed to grab my Dolphins hoodie, needed to do that before the rest of the team filtered in after class.
I charged to my locker, spun the combination, and grabbed my hoodie. I whirled, ready to race outside, and crashed into Constance.
“Whoa. Going somewhere?”
“I—”
“We swim the duet.” Her gaze moved to the wall clock. “In thirty.”
I deflated, went from charged to crushed, all with six words. No way we could drive to Scott Industries, talk to Mr. Scott, and get back in time.
“Constance, I can’t—”
“Can’t what? Think? Talk? Swim?”
Pretty much all three at the moment. “I’m trying to get us some posters.”
“Wait.” Her eyes narrowed. “We don’t have any?”
“Landon’s dad canceled the order he put in.”
“Shit.” She stared past me, toward the showers and the entrance to the pool. “And you need to ...?”
“Landon’s driving me to Scott Industries. We’re talking to his dad.”
Her gaze darted back to me, sure and sharp. “I hope you’re the one doing the talking.”
“That’s what he said.”
“What do you know? For once, he’s right.” She blew out a breath. “I’ll cover for you, but I don’t know how long I can keep it up. Patti was pretty cold toward you at yesterday’s practice.”
So. Constance had noticed. But then, she noticed everything. My cheeks flared with heat. “It’s ... got something to do with …” I trailed off, not sure what it was about, not really. “School,” I said at last.
“It’ll be about swimming if you don’t get your ass back here.”
I fled, past the softball girls, past Nissa, Jodi, and Sierra—who, I belatedly realized—must have been listening in. Nissa threw me a look so cutting I swore I felt it against my skin, but I couldn’t stop.
I burst from the locker room, flew down the steps, and broke into a sprint before the school doors shut behind me.
Landon had the Corvette running by the time I made it to the overflow lot. The windows were rolled down and the almost-but-not-quite vintage Corvette blared almost-but-not-quite vintage Green Day.
Way to make a statement.
I doubled over, sucking in huge gulps of air before struggling into the hoodie.
“Dressing for success, I see,” Landon said.
“I have an idea,” I replied, adjusting my pigtails. “Unless you’ve come up with something to say to your father, I suggest you keep quiet.”
He raised both hands in mock surrender. “All I’m saying is my dad likes the Junior Achievement types and they never wear sweats.”
“That’s part of the plan.” I didn’t elaborate. If Landon had secrets, then I could have a few of my own. Besides, we’d both find out soon enough whether my so-called brilliant plan would work.
Landon held open the door for me. I must have given him an odd look because I caught a flash of dimple before I slipped into the Corvette. Or, I slipped in for the first second. I was used to my Jeep or Dad’s Blazer. Gravity took over. I plummeted into the leather seat, which, any lower, would scrape the asphalt. The Corvette felt tiny and vulnerable. But pretty fast and hot. We shot from the parking lot, fishtailing for good measure, and bumped onto the road that led to the onramp.
Scott Industries sat on the outskirts of Black Earth, surrounded by what had once been acres of farmland. Now sub-divisions—like the one Lukas Jakobitz lived in—sprouted where corn and soybeans once grew. The housing areas sprawled, each year edging closer to the trailer park, and further down, the nature preserve, duplexes and split-levels growing like weeds.
Landon zipped into a reserve parking place right by the front entrance. Apparently being the owner’s son came with perks.
Landon threw open his door and I climbed from my side into spring air and warm asphalt, my heart pumping like I’d been caught trespassing.
“Wait!” Landon paused outside the main doors. “Your dad. He’s a manager here, right?” He grinned like that fact made all our problems melt away. “This is going to be better than I thought.”
I barely heard him. My heart stopped. So did my legs. So did any brain function. Dad.
Crap. If Dad finds out . . .
I couldn’t finish that thought, so I simply banished it from my head. Besides, no one did stealth like I did. Dad never had to know. What Dad didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him—or me.
Inside, mirrored walls caught our eyes and splintered my pigtails into four, eight, twelve. Landon gave the security guards a mock salute, and we breezed through to the elevators. We were whisked to the top floor and exited to tinted windows and carpet so thick it swallowed our footfalls.
My bulky, hoodie-clad reflection followed my every move and I wondered what I’d been thinking. I wondered if I’d been thinking at all.
In the reception area outside Mr. Scott’s office, Landon went immediately for the woman who sat behind a gleaming wood desk. He leaned in for a quick kiss on her cheek. “Hey, Nan.”
Nan of the reception desk brightened as if Landon were her only son. “Oh, honey, we don’t see enough of you these days.”
Landon made a face. “There’s a reason for that.”
“If you were here more often, it might help.” She gave him a sly, motherly sort of look.
“This,” Landon said, ignoring the comment and the look, “is MacKenna Meyers.”
Nan blinked, then a warm smile lit her face. “Paul’s daughter, right?”
So much for stealth. Of course she knew Dad. He wasn’t a VP, but he was a senior manager. My stomach fluttered, but I told it to shush.
“Yes, ma’am,” I managed, after a deep breath.
“That military influence.” She raised an eyebrow at Landon. “So polite.”
“Hey,” he protested. “I’m always polite.”
Nan rolled her eyes, and I liked her for that.
“Well, mostly,” he amended and nodded toward the door. “My dad free?”
“You can go in. He’s expecting you.”
“He always is,” Landon muttered.
More thick carpet swallowed my footsteps. More tinted windows turned the surrounding countryside a strange blue-gray. I still looked bulky, even next to the huge, dark wood desk that dominated the room. The few scattered chairs seemed specially designed for discomfort.
Mr. Scott was on the phone, jotting something on a legal pad in front of him. He waved a hand at us, the message clear: Be quiet and wait. On his desk, a golfing trophy nearly eclipsed a family portrait. In that moment, five years disappeared. The photo was that old. I knew Landon at twelve, better than I knew the boy who stood next to me now. I’d cried against that plaid shirt, stared into those hazel eyes, ran my finger along that dimple.
Landon’s posture shifted. His shoulders slouched and he jammed his fists into the front pockets of his jeans. His face was slack, except for the jaw that tensed and twitched. If I hadn’t known him as my playground savior and Black Earth High’s golden boy, I would’ve said he was a slacker, a stoner, someone who routinely avoided living up to his potential.
Mr. Scott hung up and stared at Landon. If Landon resembled his dad at all, it was in the jawline. Mr. Scott was tensing his own. Again, I was reminded that guys did a lot of talking without actual words.
“So, Landon,” Mr. Scott said. “You needed to see me?”
“Dad, this is MacKenna Meyers. She’s the ... new publicity chair for the Black Earth High synchronized swimming team.”
I winced at Landon’s hesitation, but Mr. Scott only gave me a cursory glance before hitting Landon with a well, what of it sort of look. Clearly, he was unimpressed—by both of us. Landon nodded at me. I opened my mouth and hoped for the right words.
I explained about the lack of posters. My voice came out reedy and false. If you recorded it, you could use it as an instructional example: Now, children, this is what a lie sounds like.
But Mr. Scott’s face was placid; he was obviously not outraged at the girl spewing untruths before him.
“Can I ask you something, Miss ...?”
“Meyers, sir. MacKenna Meyers.”
“You expect a gratis print job on posters for your show when we have a very generous school discount program?”
“We don’t have a very generous budget, sir.”
“And that’s my problem, how, exactly?”
I drew in a deep breath and glanced toward Landon. He fidgeted, moving from foot to foot and refused to meet my gaze.
“Well, sir. It might actually be your problem.”
The room took on a silence thick enough to swim through. Mr. Scott didn’t speak, but he inclined his head, barely a millimeter, letting me know to continue.
I stepped forward, held out my arms, and announced, “This is our team sweatshirt.” I turned around to show off the back. “Every year, we have new ones made, and everyone on the team gets a sweatshirt with their name on the back.”
From behind me, it sounded like Landon was choking on his own spit. I ignored him.
“The dance team has new yoga jackets this year, the boys’ swim team always gets custom embroidery.” After I’d talked to Josh, I spoke to every jock, every club member, anyone who ever wore a custom-made shirt for a sport, club, or extracurricular activity.
Beyond confirming the fact I’d hoped to be true, gathering the information brought me in contact with the entire social strata of Black Earth High, from the chess club to the cheerleaders. Nobody blew me off, and everyone wanted to add this or that tidbit about Reynolds Shirt Shack.
“The drama club, the gymnastics team, even the football players order practice jerseys. Do you know what they have in common, sir?”
“I imagine you’re going to tell me.”
“Reynolds Shirt Shack.” I pulled a piece of computer paper from my back pocket. In a stealth move, I’d asked for a library pass during social studies under the guise of “research,” which actually wasn’t a lie. I’d printed out an entire sheet of what I hoped was pretty compelling research.
“This is an estimate.” I handed Mr. Scott the paper. “Of the wholesale cost and the discount cost of the various shirts Reynolds supplies the teams and clubs at Black Earth High. As you can see, it’s pretty good business.”
“This might be compelling information, Miss—” Mr. Scott looked directly at me. His eyes widened. For a fraction of a second, he smiled, and I caught the hint of a dimple. “Meyers. As in little MacKenna Meyers. Paul’s daughter.”
Crap. Black Earth really was too small.
Mr. Scott stood, rounded his desk, and advanced. “Why, the last time I saw you, you were.” He waved his hand somewhere around his knee.
I tried not to flinch, and stepping back would ruin everything. Still, we were three seconds away from a hair ruffle or cheek pinch. I needed to rethink the whole stealth thing, since it so wasn’t working. Mr. Scott chuckled, although whatever he found funny was lost on both me and Landon, who swayed slightly, looking as shell-shocked as I felt.
“I’m going to have to give your old man a hard time for not bringing you around,” he added.
Oh, God. No.
“So, Miss Meyers.” Mr. Scott stressed the Miss. And yeah, if I’d been six, that would’ve been cool. “What were you going to tell me? I’m not sure I see how Reynolds Shirt Shack relates to Scott Industries.”
Okay, so sure, Reynolds had a tiny space in the mall, but they’d been in business forever. “Sir, am I right in thinking a company’s brand is more than the products they put on the shelf?”
Mr. Scott hitched a trouser leg and sat on the edge of his desk. “Continue.”
“Every fall and spring, the school play needs programs and posters. Does Scott Industry print those?” Since I knew the answer (no, according to Josh), I kept going. “Did you know the boys’ swim team puts together an entire retrospective of the season, including team and individual stats, and pictures. Does Scott Industries print those?”
Thanks to Sam Avery, I knew the answer to that as well. No. “So, I have to ask you, sir. Why have a school discount program if it isn’t generating any business or good will?”
Now I did take a step back. That was it. All I had. Now that I’d said it out loud, it didn’t sound like much. My pulse pounded in my ears, the roar so loud, I was afraid if Mr. Scott spoke, I’d miss it. His scrutiny went from me, to Landon, and back again. I worked to breathe. If something didn’t happen soon, I’d faint.
“Jesus.” Mr. Scott exhaled, but he didn’t look upset. “Like father, like daughter. All right, Miss Meyers, you’ve made your point. Let’s talk good will.”
In the end, we reached an agreement. For one small line of text, four little words, hardly a sentence, the team could get colored posters and the bonus of matching programs—for free. All we had to do was add Sponsored by Scott Industries at the bottom of each.
And sure, there was the Not setting a precedent here and Other teams can’t expect this sort of deal, and I had to promise to steer all my contacts to the new and improved school discount program once it was online. Various thoughts followed me to the door—too good to be true and far, far too easy.
Before we could leave, Mr. Scott called out.
“MacKenna, could I speak to you? Alone.”
Of course. Nothing was that good or that easy. Landon’s eyes went dark, his skin a little waxy. This did not fill me with confidence. The door clicked closed, and I was left with that eerie silence and the feel of my pulse beating against my throat. Mr. Scott sat at his desk now, fingers steepled, not angry, but clearly skeptical.
“So Landon is actually helping you with this show.” It wasn’t so much a question but a statement of disbelief.
Oddly enough, Landon was helping. Even I thought he’d get bored; Constance definitely did. But each night, he made us a playlist, loaded it on his iPod, and sent new songs through the underwater speakers for our endless conditioning laps. Snippets of his narration filtered through the pool area. He’d try out a line, revise on the fly, then try it out again, each time making it sound fresh. He tinkered with the electronics along with Josh, and helped build the limited scenery we used.
How did this compete with hitting home runs in Little League? How did you explain to someone that his son was like glue? We were holding it together this season in a large part because of Landon. And sure, maybe we were showing off and swimming harder since he’d been around, but even Patti admitted that everyone’s form had improved.
“He’s like glue, sir.” After saying the words out loud, I realized that they made no sense and added, “You have every reason to be proud of him.” I considered whether Mr. Scott was the ogre Landon—and Dad for that matter—made him out to be. After all, I was walking away with a free print order.
“Thank you, sir, for everything.” Without waiting for Mr. Scott’s reaction, I turned, slipped through the door, and shut it gently behind me.
When we left the reception area, Landon took my hand, his fingers interlocking with mine. We were quiet through the sole-sucking carpet and tinted glass of the corridor. Not a word while we waited for the elevator. Only when the doors whooshed closed, did Landon lean against the elevator wall and burst out laughing.
“I’ve never actually seen anyone do that to my dad before.” He closed his eyes, a blissful expression on his face. “I’m never going to get tired of thinking about it, either. You did it.”
“We did it,” I corrected.
Landon pounced then, yanked me close. He kissed me, fast and hard, left cheek, right cheek. He let go as suddenly as he grabbed me. Breathless, I stumbled into the elevator’s wall. It was seventh grade all over again.
“You’re my hero,” he said.
“You’re my playground savior.” The confession took us both by surprise. I’d never told him that before; it was always something I’d held locked inside me.
But when the elevator doors opened, and gold lit his eyes, I knew it had been the perfect thing to say. He took my hand and together we ran from the building, dashed to the car, our laughter chasing us. When the spring sun touched our faces, I felt the last five years melt away.