Coach Reilly blows her whistle and strolls to center court. “Circle up, girls! Our tournament slot was posted this afternoon. Let’s review the schedule.”

My stomach rolls around like a ball circling the rim, waiting to drop. The boys’ team got their schedule last night. Will we play down in Virginia Beach with them? Maybe if Chris and I can get away from our normal routine, he’ll see me differently. Maybe if we could hang out in a fancy hotel lobby, sipping hot chocolate by a roaring fire while the sound of ocean waves crash outside the door, he’ll gaze deep into my eyes and see past the eight-year-old tomboy who taught him how to skip rocks and shoot a slingshot and peel hard-boiled eggs into one long twirl and—

“Malloy.” Coach throws a ball at me, and I snap to attention just in time to catch it. “Focus, Malloy! What’s up with you lately?”

I stare down at the red-white-and-blue Grand View Patriot face painted on center court. That’s the same thing Chris asked me last night. “Nothing, Coach. I’m listening.”

Coach drones on for a solid ten minutes about the importance of the tournament and how even though we’re favored to win our game, we should treat the other team as a viable opponent, and how we need to come together and support each other and play our best and blah, blah, blah. Finally, she pulls out her clipboard and flips to the schedule. “We play early Saturday morning, which means we’ll travel down Friday after school. We’ll be taking the bus down to …” She squints at her sheet while I hold my breath. “Virginia Beach.”

Yes! I drop the ball, sending it skittering across the gym floor. My cheeks flush, but I’m not sure if that’s because Coach and the entire team are staring at me or because I can already feel the hot chocolate and the fire—and Chris’s gaze—warming me.

Coach shakes her head and continues. “The boys play Saturday night, so you have two options. Our bus will return to Grand View immediately after our game. However, if you want to stay and watch the rest of the tournament and cheer on the boys, you can take their bus home Sunday morning. Assuming you have your parents’ permission and we can get enough chaperones.”

Sweet. I bite my lip as I flash back to the hotel lobby and Chris’s eyes. For the rest of practice, I light up the court, making all four of my three-pointers and eleven out of twelve of my free throws. Watch out, Virginia Beach, and watch out, Chris Broder. It’s time for the President and CEO of Boyfriend Whisperer Enterprises to open a case file on herself.

 

 

Abi Eisenberg was my first case, before I even had cases, before Boyfriend Whisperer Enterprises even existed.

One day at the beginning of the school year, she walked up to me in the lunchroom. “We need to talk.” She says that a lot.

I glanced around to make sure her demand was directed at me and not at Chris or Massey or one of the other guys at our table. “Me?”

“Yes, you. It’ll only take a minute.”

I shrugged. “Okay.”

“Not here.” She crooked her finger and turned. “Follow me.”

I rolled my eyes at Chris as I stood. This was pre-crush, when Chris and I were strictly friends. I mean, we still are, but back then I was fine with it. In fact, I probably would have been weirded out if anyone had suggested we date.

I followed Abi into an empty science lab. “What’s up?”

“Roland Briggs.”

“What about him?”

“You two are friends, right?”

“We hang out.”

“Does he like me?”

I shrugged. How would I know? We didn’t exactly compare love lives between games of pool and pick-up basketball. The closest any of my guy friends came to discussing the opposite sex was the occasional comment about some “hot” girl who sat next to them on the bus or said hi in the hallway.

“I need him to like me.”

“What?”

“Let me clarify. I need you to get Roland Briggs to like me.”

I frowned. “Why? And how am I supposed to do that?”

Abi gave an exasperated sigh, as though I was being incredibly dense. Which perhaps I was. Romance wasn’t exactly my forte.

“Because I like him. And I don’t care how; I just need you to do it.”

I sat down on a stool at one of the lab tables and considered this. Clearly, Abi was used to getting what she wanted. “What’s in it for me?”

She squinted her eyes and tapped her chin. “I can pay you.”

“Pay me? What do I look like, some sort of pimp?”

“What? No! I’m not asking you to set us up in a hotel room. I’m asking you to …” She waved her hands in the air. “Play matchmaker. Coach me on how to get Roland to fall in love with me. You know, like that Cyrano guy we learned about in English lit. I’ll be your student, and you’ll be my … Boyfriend Whisperer.”

And so it began.

Turns out romance is my forte. Or at least, I know how to attract a guy’s attention. Four months later, I’ve set up almost two dozen couples—a ninety-five percent success rate—all while managing to keep my identity a secret. Boyfriend Whisperer Enterprises is the talk of the school, and my price per match is $125, cash only.

Some days I look around at all the couples I’ve brought together and feel like Cupid himself, but deep down, I know the truth. I’m a fake, an imposter, an emperor with no clothes. Because when it comes to whispering my own crush, I’m a total fail. Stuck in the friend zone with no clue how to escape.