Good morning.” My mom kisses me on my cheek as I reach in to get a bagel.
“Hey.” It's the best I can do. She's choosing to separate me and Moxie, so excuse me if I don't exactly feel like blessing her with some kindness. How come the Bible doesn't address this issue? Where's the chapter that deals with parents who throw your pet onto the street? Or daughters who see their stepdads sneak off in the wee hours of the morning?
“Good morning, new sister.” Robbie pours more syrup on his Eggo. “Did you know today is National Towel Day?”
“Um . . . no.” The collection of facts in this kid's head scares me.
“Well, it is. I thought we could all go around the table and tell why we're thankful for the bath towel.”
“Actually, Robbie, I thought we could discuss something else.” I wait until Robbie, Budge, and my mother are all looking at me. “Like why Jake's out of the house at four this morning.”
Mom's eyes widen.
“I'm sorry, Mom. I couldn't keep it to myself any longer. But I watched him sneak out of the house. Your husband is up to something, and we deserve to know what that is.”
Her face falls. “Oh, honey . . . I had wanted—”
“Things to be perfect? I know. I'm sorry. But they're not.” Far from it.
“I had wanted to surprise you.” She looks over my shoulder as Jake enters the kitchen through the back door. “Jake, it seems that Bella-”
“I know.” I shake my head in disgust. “I saw you leave this morning.” The jig is up, dude. “I think you owe my mom an explanation.” And then we'll be packing our bags and getting out of your way.
And then my stepdad . . . laughs. He laughs! “There's just no getting anything by you, is there?”
“No.” Okay, confused here. Now Mom is laughing.
“Come with me.” Jake gestures toward the back door. He sees my hesitation. “We'll all go.”
The whole family, minus Budge, walks outside.
And there in the driveway, the same dusty path that I watched Jake travel only hours before, sits a lime green VW Bug. With a giant red bow on top.
“Surprise!” My mom squeals and pulls me into her arms. “Isn't it great? Jake found it!”
“Yeah ... great.” I watch him through narrowed eyes. “So this is what you've been working on?”
“I've been a busy guy. We got it last week, but it needed a few repairs.” He pats my car. And a killer stereo system.”
Mom pulls me close, her mouth at my ear. “Don't you feel silly now—all that suspicious talk?” She giggles. “You always did have a big imagination.”
“These are all the notes you have?”
Luke paces in front of me, running a tanned hand through his black hair. The other newspaper staff members are busy writing, but me? I'm getting my daily dose of Luke harassment.
“Um, yes. Frankly, for two hours of swimming through trash bags, rotten food, and old boxes, I thought I did good to come up with that much.” Jerk. “What did you think I was going to find—the secret recipe for the cafeteria meat loaf? The formula for world peace? The whereabouts of Michael Jackson's old nose?”
He stops, lifting his eyes from my notes. “Very funny.” He leans in, his arms braced on each side of my chair. “Bella, if you can't take it here, you know where the counselor's office is. She would be glad to change your schedule again.”
I blink into his ocean blue eyes. “I sat in trash for you. I think I passed your stupid test, so let's get on with the real stories.”
“You've got one.” He rises up, crossing his arms over his chest. “Stick to it.”
“What are you working on? Maybe I could help?”
He coughs to cover a laugh. “My story is a piece I've been working on for two years. Our advisor is entering it into a national contest. I don't think I need your help, but thank you.”
Maybe he ought to do a piece on humility, the arrogant little—
“Luke, are we going to talk about the conversation I overheard at the Dumpster yesterday? That's the real story here. Not the shameful way the school doesn't recycle.”
“If I catch you pursuing anything but the trash article, you're off the paper. And within a few days, the only electives open will be Professional Weightlifting and Parenting 101.”
“But something is going on, and I—”
“No.” He thrusts my notes back in my hand. “This conversation is over.”
Your oxford shirt is so over. Ohhh, he makes me so mad!
A few hours later, I slip into the cafeteria, my lunch bag under my arm. I think I saw a little too much in the Dumpster to risk school insults.
I weave through the tables. I catch a few glares, stares, and some stray insults.
“Hey, Bella.”
I sigh with relief when Lindy Miller calls out to me. Part of me thought she'd stand me up. That I would spend yet another day here at Truman High without friends. A total loser and loner.
“Bella, this is Matt Sparks.” I shake hands with her sandy-headed BFF, then introduce myself to a few more people at the table.
“You're the girl who wrote the bad blog about Truman?” Matt asks.
“Yeah.” I continue to stand, not sure I'm welcome here. “It was a mistake. It was a really bad time for me, and I . . . messed up.”
He considers this. “It's going to take awhile for them to warm up to you.” His eyes pan the whole cafeteria. “Not everybody's as forgiving as Lindy here.” He bites into a French fry. “Or me.” Then he smiles.
And I sit down. “So you play football?”
“Yeah, and Lindy here is a beast on the basketball court.”
She blushes pink. “I wouldn't say that.”
“Oh, I would. She could totally be WNBA material. Hey, Jared.”
I turn around, and behind me stands Jared Campbell, the first person who spoke to me at Truman. Before the Great Disaster.
“Hey.” His gaze drops to me before focusing on Matt. “Just wanted to remind you to bring your physics notes to practice.”
I scrutinize his every word, trying to see if he sounds like either of the two voices I heard yesterday. It's so hard to tell.
“Jared, do you know Bella?” Lindy asks.
“Yeah.” His face is a neutral mask. “We've met.”
His words contain no heat, and I'm encouraged. “How are . . . things?”
“Fine.”
I decide to push my luck and keep talking. “How about that pop quiz in English, huh? I did not see that coming.”
“Jared, come on.” Brittany Taylor arrives and links her arm into his. If looks could kill, I would be splattered on the wall. “I have a seat for you over here.”
He throws up a weak wave, then allows Brittany to escort him away.
I break the awkward silence. “I'd love to see the team practice sometime. I kind of missed out on the whole football thing going to an all-girls school. Maybe Lindy and I could watch you guys today?”
“What?” She chokes on her water. “Why?”
I kick her under the table. “Because we want to support the team.” Andyour cause, Lindy. Not to mention, it will give me a chance to watch the football players and see if I can learn anything more about the conversation I overheard. See if I recognize any voices.
“Um, yeah. Watching practice would be . . . fun.”
“You girls—anything to watch some sweaty guys, eh?” Matt laughs.
“Well, maybe for me.” Forgive me, Hunter. “But I think Lindy here has already got her eye set on somebody.” I nudge her with my elbow.
“You do?” Matt frowns. “You like somebody and didn't tell me?”
“Uh . . . u h . . .”
“A girl has to keep some of her secrets, right?” My fake smile is bigger than the Oklahoma panhandle. Lindy only stares and nods.
“So Lindy and I thought we saw you at church last Sunday.”
My mind reviews last Sunday. I didn't really notice anyone. Well, except the creepy bald guy in front of us. “Really? So you guys go to the Church of the Holy High School?” As soon as it's out of my mouth, I want to stuff it back in.
But Matt only laughs. “Yeah, nothing like coming to school six days a week. We should be in our new building sometime next year.”
“Is that where your family is going to go to church?” Lindy offers me a fry, and I take it.
“Actually, my stepdad and his kids are from here. Just my mom and I are from New York. Do you know Budge Finley? He's my stepbrother.”
“Oh.” Matt and Lindy bob their heads. “He's like a computer genius, isn't he?”
Um, he's like a social moron.
“Yeah,” Lindy says. “He's on the student team of techies. It's pretty elite—students are trained to fix the school computers and stuff”
“Bella-”
I'm mid-bite as Luke approaches our table. I swipe my hand across my mouth and come back with a mustard-coated finger. Great. Mouth full. Yellow mustache. “Hmmm?” Chew, chew. Swallow.
“I forgot to mention that I'll need you to resume your research today.”
“What?” Pieces of sandwich shoot out of my mouth. He motions me over to a nearby wall, out of earshot.
“I am not climbing in that Dumpster again.”
“Of course you're not.”
That's what I'm talking about. He needs to recognize I have my limits.
“You'll be in the one on the opposite end of campus. Near the gym.”
“No! I'm busy. And I think I can still smell myself from yesterday.” Even though I spent half the night in the shower to degunkify.
“How are you going to write an article on the contents of school trash if you don't look at the school trash?”
Jesus, I'd like to ask for a little restraint. Because I'm about to tell him I think I might be looking at school trash right now.
“Look, I said I would do the article, and I will. But your hounding me at my every step isn't helping.”
“I have college recruiters watching our paper. Ivy League.”
“Yeah, I think you've mentioned that.”
“So get serious about the paper or get lost.” He does a perfect heel spin and walks away.
“Wait—“ I catch up as he exits the cafeteria. “I need more notice, okay? Believe it or not, there's more to my life than garbage watching. I have to be somewhere after school. I'll do it tomorrow.” He looks skeptical. “Seriously.”
He exhales loudly and I smell his cinnamon gum. “Is there anything you take seriously, Bella?”
I inch closer to him, closing the distance. “Your lack of faith in me is so encouraging. Tell me, Luke, is this how you treat the rest of the newspaper staff? Is this how you boost morale—by constantly letting them know how little you think of their abilities?” I am so channeling Oprah right now.
His eyes darken. “I won't let my paper go down the toilet just because some prissy socialite got stuck in the class. I care too much about my staff and the integrity of the paper.”
Have I ever noticed he's like a cross between a preppy Jake Gyllenhaal and that Superman guy from TV? Wait, did he just say “prissy socialite”?
“Even though I think this assignment is a total scam to get me to bail, I will dive into every Dumpster in the county if I have to. You're not getting rid of me, so get used to it.” Plus I don't want to take that class where you have to take home a computerized baby. I need my beauty sleep, thank you very much.
“You want my faith, Kirkwood, you gotta earn it.” And Mr. Dismissive marches down the hall, out of sight. Hunter could so give him some lessons in manners.
After school, I walk across the street with Lindy to the football field. The boys are already in their practice uniforms and in motion. I have no idea how this game of football works, but apparently it involves lots of sweating, grunting, and drinking water like thirsty dogs.
It's kind of hot.
“Lindy, you have to show interest in what Matt does—like his sports.” We take a seat midway up on the metal bleachers. “When's the last time you watched him practice?”
“Never. In a few weeks I'll be at practice myself, so that's not really an option.”
“Do you go to the games?”
“I'm the water girl.”
“Oh.” I guess she couldn't get any closer to him on the field if she were a cheerleader. The hot Oklahoma sun beats down on my head, and I swat my limp bangs away. “Hey, I was thinking . . . I'm getting away this weekend to Manhattan... Would you want to go?” Nerves spike my stomach. “You don't have to. I totally understand if you'd rather not. You don't know me that well and all, and I haven't really—”
“Are you serious?”
I see nothing but excitement in her face. “Yeah, totally. We could get our hair done. Shop. I could show you the sights.”
Lindy is speechless for a few seconds. “I would love to. It might take some work talking my dad into it.”
“Perfect.” I smile. Maybe I'm really making a friend here. “So . .. I was wondering what you could tell me about Truman High. You know, any gossip? Any stories? Any scandals I should know about?” Like something to do with the football team last year?
Lindy swats a bug off her Nike t-shirt. “Can't think of anything.”
This is getting me nowhere.
“How did the football team do last year?” I watch Matt throw the football to Jared Campbell.
“We went to the state play-offs. That hadn't happened in a long time. Truman used to be known throughout Oklahoma for our football team. So last year we finally made it to state. We played our archrival, River Bend. The game went into double overtime, but we lost in the last minute.”
“What happened?”
“Reggie Lee, our kicker, missed.”
As in the Reggie? The one the guys at the Dumpster were talking about?
“Between that and some other stuff that happened last year, he's never quite been the same.” She points across the field to one of the padded players. “He's a senior this year. He's got recruiters watching him.”
Apparently everyone does.
“What do you mean he never got over it? It's just a game.”
The head coach blows his whistle and calls for a water break. “That's Coach Lambourn. His son, Coach Dallas, is an assistant.” Lindy then does her best to explain the basics of football. The girl is a walking Wikipedia of the sport. About ten seconds into it, my eyes are glazing over and my attention goes elsewhere.
I spy a lone football player heading toward the field house. Reggie Lee.
I interrupt Lindy. “Where's he going?”
“I don't know. Probably to use the bathroom in the locker room.” A couple other football players head in his direction.
“I need to grab something out of my car. I'll be right back.”
And I make my way down the bleachers, my flats proving to be a good choice today.
I walk toward my Bug, then keep going, following Reggie and the other players at a distance. I have no idea why. I'm kind of new to this investigative reporting stuff, so it's not like I know what I'm doing.
They pass by the field house entry and keep going, walking around to the back of the building.
I stop at the corner and dare a quick peek around.
The tree-sized guy on the left punches Reggie in the shoulder. “Your allegiance is with the team. Are you in or not?”
Reggie bows up. “Back off, man.”
“Don't make this hard for us,” the other player says.
“Hard for—“ Reggie spits on the ground. “You have no idea what it's like to be me—to live with this.”
“Can I help you?”
I jerk my head back and flatten myself to the wall. “Um ...” It's one of the coaches. I read his shirt. Dallas Lambourn. Guy looks young enough to be in high school himself.
Coach Dallas lifts a brow and waits.
“I was just trying to find a bathroom.” That's somewhat true. A girl can always use a bathroom.
“Really? Because it looks like you were following my boys here.” He gestures behind me, and slowly I turn around.
There stands Reggie Lee and his two teammates. They don't look happy. In fact, I think they have their tackle faces on.
“I'm new here.” I smile prettily. “I'm a friend of Lindy Miller's. We're just watching practice. I come from an all-girls school, see, and Lindy was teaching me all about football.” Am I still talking?Why can't I shut up? Stop talking!
“I don't like anything to distract the team from their practice. Do you understand, Miss—?”
“Yes, I understand completely,” I blather, not bothering to fill in the blank with my last name for the good coach. “I'm sorry, I just got a little lost. But hey, Coach, your team looks great.” My eyes widen. “Er, not necessarily these three. I didn't mean they're hot and I'm stalking them or anything.” One behind me growls. “Not that you're not hot. No, totally fine and all that. Well, the pants might be a little too tight, but I meant the whole team”—I make a swooping gesture toward the field—“looks very professional . . . and, um . . . “ I back up slowly. “I'm just going to take my seat with Lindy now. We should actually be going, now that I think about it.” I continue retreating. “Good-bye.” I wiggle my fingers at Reggie Lee. “Good work.” I toss a wave to boy number two. “Go team!” to guy three.
And I speed-walk back to the bleachers. I barely contain a sigh as I resume my seat beside Lindy, who keeps an eye on Matt below.
She tears her focus away from him. “Did you get what you needed?”
I glance back to the field house where Coach Dallas still stands with his players, all eyes on me.
“I'm not sure.”