Chapter 6

Zoe

When I peeled my eyes open Sunday morning, the first thing they focused on was the lamp Zack gave me, glowing in the beams filtering through my curtains. It painted a purple, jewel-like streak across my hardwood floor, stretching halfway to the door. I rolled onto my back and took in a deep breath. It was funny how sleep always seemed to wash away my sadness and anxiety. Things always looked better in the morning.

I'd felt hurt the night before when Zack said he "couldn't believe" Nick wanted to ask me out. I didn't get why guys could be so clueless about how hurtful their words can be. I turned my head back to look at his gift. And at the same time, they could be so incredibly sweet.

And the whole Nick not coming out with us bummed me out, too. But today was a fresh start. Zack was probably right; Nick would come around eventually. I decided it was important I act as if nothing had changed between us at school on Monday.

Most people hated Mondays, but not me. Monday was the first day of the week when I was almost guaranteed to run into Zack. His locker was like ten up from mine. When I rushed in, breathless from being late again, a smiled stretched my face. Zack's body was turned in the opposite direction, but he was yanking things out of his locker. I scrambled to get what I needed and slammed my locker shut. Maybe I'd get to chat with him for a few minutes before the bell rang. As I walked toward him, I told myself I was being stupid. But I couldn't help it. He made me happy.

He closed his locker and I stopped dead in my tracks. Blocked from my view before, Hillary Cantrell was leaning with her head against the locker next to Zack's, her back arched, and her eyes shining as brightly as her thousand-watt smile. Heat crawled from my core to my face, leaving behind a bowling ball in my stomach.

How does she get her teeth so friggin' white?

When I turned my gaze on Zack it was like the air was sucked out of the room. He was leaning against his locker. The body language was all wrong. He was buying whatever it was she had to sell, and I was pretty sure I knew what that was.

Oh, no. Not Hillary. Anybody but Hillary.

I broke my feet out of the block of ice they were stuck in and moved toward them, smearing a counterfeit smile onto my face.

"Hi, Zack."

But I was still too far away for him to catch my voice in the noisy hall. He straightened and Hillary slipped her well-manicured hand between his arm and his body, latching on like a lamprey. I'd learned about lampreys when we were on vacation in Door County, Wisconsin. They were bloodsucking creatures that attached themselves to fish and eventually killed them. The similarities to Hillary were unmistakable.

I shuffled along behind them, the pathetic loser I was, watching her turn her head toward Zack and laugh at something he said. While my feet were lethargic, she bounced around beside him, seeming lighter than air. He was chatting her up, his face animated. Seeing Hillary made me hot. Seeing Zack react to her made a cold, emptiness wash over me.

My feet stopped. People bumped into me.

"Watch where you're going."

Someone shoved me.

"Come on. Move."

I glanced around. Tears welled in my eyes. I had to suck it up. Someone would notice. I took a deep breath, lowered my head, and curled my body around my textbooks, taking a side hall to my classroom. Once there, I slid into a seat on the front row, which would have been a clue to something being up, if anyone cared, as I always sat in the back. But they didn't care, so it went unnoticed. I stared at the top of my desk.

I tried to mentally prepare for this day, crying myself to sleep on a number of nights. I thought if I did that, it would somehow hurt less when Zack was with another girl. The reality was so much worse. I flashed back to Hillary sliding her arm through Zack's, her perfect brunette hair coming just past her shoulders and curling invitingly there. She was the anti-Zoe. She always had it together. Like today—short, dark tan, leather jacket, jeans so tight even WD-40 wouldn't slide her out of them, long boots, laced to mid-thigh, the same shade as the jacket. I glanced down at myself. Long gray sweater, too long in fact. I was swimming in it. Black leggings and gray Converses. Sad thing was, it was one of my favorite outfits.

But it wasn't even the clothes. We could be wearing the exact same outfit and Hillary would still look more put together than me. And get this, the girl was a model. How was I supposed to compete with that?

"Ms. McCord!" I glanced up. Why was my teacher yelling at me? "At least try to look like you're following along." She gestured to the pile of books on my desk.

"Oh." I took a book from the top and opened it, giving Ms. Aberton a weak smile.

"That would be perfect... if we were in history class, not algebra."

Everyone laughed. My face had to be flaming because the heat crawling up my neck was about to make me break out in sweat. I retrieved the right book and followed along for a bit, but my mind drifted. Maybe it wasn't as bad as it seemed. Maybe he wasn't interested in her at all and was merely annoyed when she took his arm.

No. Body language doesn't lie. Hers spoke slut fluently and he wouldn't need an interpreter to figure out the message she was sending. My heart began to race. I knew this would happen someday, but why did it have to be Hillary Cantrell? Miss Perfect. I didn't stand a chance. He'd already checked out and was set to ride the Hillary-Go-Round. The taste of acid climbed up my throat.

I have to think of something else. Distract myself. Pick up a new hobby....

Something told me sewing wouldn't cut it this time.

Female laughter rang out in the hall. I cringed. Was it them? Then Mrs. Walters' class filed past with Mrs. Walters shushing them the whole time. She didn't have any classroom control. A couple straggled at the end. Amber Nafzinger crossed the doorway with her hand locked in Jonas Burton's, her boyfriend du jour.

Not to be mean, but if Amber Nafzinger could find a boyfriend, all gangly, bucktoothed, ratty-haired six-foot of her, surely I could. She wasn't even a nice person.

That's it. I need a boyfriend. That'll take my mind off Zack.

Some part of me knew it was futile, but I couldn't stand around and do nothing. Having decided a course of action, I felt a smidge better. I slammed my book shut and began to rise from my seat, but halfway there, Ms. Aberton's voice cut through the haze in my mind.

"We are not finished here, Ms. McCord. In fact, we've barely started." Snickers cackled from behind me. She sighed.

She was exasperated. They were amused. And I was thoroughly embarrassed.

* * *

By the time the last bell of the day rang, I was ready to crawl into a bomb shelter and never come out. I'd said, "Zack," in History when Mr. Pfifer asked who won the Battle of Fort Sumter. I tripped over my own feet in English and almost went sprawling. In Biology, I discovered my leggings had a rip in a very uncool place. I'd managed to get through Art relatively unscathed as I claimed the picture I painted was Abstract, not me painting at random while I wondered who might like me enough to go out with me. Driver's Ed, I nearly did a face-plant again, but this time I was pretty sure William McSomething—I couldn't remember his last name—put his foot out to trip me.

After class was out, I ended up going back to my teachers' rooms and apologizing, claiming my cat died. I even worked a tear up for poor Ginger. All of the teacher's bought it and let me copy the homework assignments from the board I'd missed the first time around.

When I'd made my rounds, it was almost four and—except for the brown piece of paper towel floating in the breeze from the open doorway—the hallways were deserted. Distant shouts drifted to me, intermixed with whistles. I moved toward them, in a trance. Across the teachers' parking lot, football players were scrimmaging. Light glinted off the silver hawks on their helmets. That was Lincoln Southwest's mascot. As I got closer, it got louder and more distinct. The crash of helmets mixed with groans of pain, which was usually followed by someone standing over their victim and taunting them. I stopped at the edge of the track circling the field. A kid with a clipboard sat on the front row of bleachers, about halfway down. No one else was around. I set my pile of books on the bench, and he glanced over, then looked away. I shook my head. I couldn't even get a second look from the water boy, or whatever he was.

I lumbered up to the top row so I could get a better viewpoint. Number twenty-two. I usually could pick him out of a crowd because he was generally considered tall. But all the football players were at least six-foot, except for Danny Burly, and he was sitting on the bench. And they all looked the same with their helmets on. My gaze bounced from a group of huddled figures to the guys hurtling into those things Zack called sleds. On one part of the field, linebackers squared off across an imagined battle line. I winced when one got through and sacked the backup quarterback. He was a new kid I hadn't been introduced to yet. My gaze flitted from player to player, checking names and numbers on jerseys. It roamed wider, taking in a couple by the chained link fence and darting away. A few seconds later, my attention snapped back to the pair. A football player on one side of the fence, a cheerleader on the other. I walked toward them.

I knew it was him. He had his helmet off. I'd recognize that head of hair anywhere. But when a coach yelled something and he turned, the twenty-two confirmed it. Even though I was still off at a distance, I could tell it was Hillary wearing the cheerleading getup, her hair drawn into a ponytail. Her coach came to the top of a small rise to the west of the playing field and stood with her hands on her hips, shouting. Zack and Hillary stepped away from the fence a foot, but didn't stop talking.

"Come on, Issaacs."

I was close enough now to make out the words. Zack leaned a shoulder into the fence, ducking his head, then looking back at her. I felt like a voyeur, intruding on something meant to be private, but I couldn't look away. Zack straightened, flipped his helmet in his hands, caught it and put it on, tightening the chin strap as he walked backward toward the field. When he hit the sidelines, he turned and zipped away.

Hillary's coach must have given up and gone back to her squad. Hillary stuck her fingers through the chain link and curled them as she leaned forward. They reminded me of eagle talons. She was smiling. She turned to go, but stopped midway and spun back, her gaze locked on me.

"Hey, Zoe," she said in a sing-songy voice. She nodded toward the field and my gaze followed. "Zack's looking particularly hot today, isn't he?" I glanced in the direction she indicated, but when our gaze connected again, her eyes had turned cold and calculating. She held her hand up, bending her fingers in toward her palm, then straightening them several times. "Bye-bye." She bowed from the waist, sweeping her hands out to each side and taking a few steps backward. She winked, then trotted off to her practice.

The wind picked up and I wrapped my arms around myself. She was taunting me, like the victors on field. And I felt as bad as I would have if a helmet were planted in my midsection.

* * *

Zack

I washed the dirty tabletop, even used a wet rag, in comparison to my coworkers, who only used their aprons to knock the crumbs onto the floor. They called me an overachiever, while they didn't seem interested in achieving at all.

Besides, it made the shift go faster.

The bell over the door rang, and I raised my head to greet the customer. "Well, hey, Ben. How's it going?" I left the rag on the table, wiped my hands on my apron, and shook his hand. Ben Oatam played football his freshman year, until a torn hamstring sidelined him. He looked out of shape.

"Good. Good, Issaacs. You up for the Battle of the Souths?"

I blinked, trying to figure out what he was talking about. Our Civil War unit test? "You mean Mr. Pfifer's class?"

He laughed and clapped me on the back. "No. The game with Southeast. You know. Lincoln Southwest versus Lincoln Southeast. The Battle of the Souths."

I laughed. "Oh, yeah. I never heard it called that." The Knights were the Silver Hawks' biggest rival.

"Dude. You need to get out more." Ben made his way to the counter and I trailed him.

I snorted. "No doubt." I caught the attention of the barista behind the partition. "Get him whatever he wants, on me."

Ben's eyes widened. "You don't have to do that."

"Nah. It's no biggie. Employee discount and all that."

"Cool. Thanks." He addressed the barista. "I'll take a dark roast, two shots of expresso, no sugar, nonfat foam on top." Turning back to me, he added, "So. You ready to whoop those Knights?"

"Hell, yeah. We'll annihilate them. Big Jimmy's back from his elbow surgery."

"No, way." Ben became more animated. "Well, all-l-l right! They don't stand a chance." He nodded to the barista as he took his cup, running his gaze over her body when she turned away. He licked a finger and pressed it in her direction. "Ooh. Ouch." He shook his hand as if he was burned.

I glanced over to check if she heard, uncomfortable. She spun around, crossing her arms over her chest and frowning. Ben leered. I steered him toward a table. "Hey, Ben. Why don't you take a seat?" I looked back at the girl, sighing and raising my eyebrows in apology. "I'm gonna take my break, Dix."

"Fine." The word came out like a dart. Yeah, she was pissed all right.

"Man. Must be nice working with a sweet little piece of ass like that. I'd never get any work done."

I stared at him. He'd changed. He wasn't an ass freshman year.

Ben continued to gaze at Dixie over my shoulder, so I shifted to block his view. He looked at me, and his jaw tightened, as did the hand around his cup. After a long pause, he tipped his head to the side and seemed to relax a fraction. "So, how long you been working here?"

"Since I was fifteen. I got a work permit."

"Cool. Cool." He twirled his cup around and around on the table. "Say, Zack. I was wondering about Zoe McCord...."

The hair on my neck stood up as I studied him, my stomach muscles tightening. "What are you talking about?" I said carefully.

"You know." He looked at me meaningfully. "You tap that?"

Every muscle grew rigid as stone, and I had to work to move my jaw to speak. My voice didn't even sound like me when it came out. "Don't talk about her in that way."

"Oh, wow." He chuckled. "I guess you are getting some of that."

I pushed my chair away from the table, scraping it across the floor, and stood. Customers turned to stare, but I didn't care. A white-hot anger filled my chest. "I think you need to leave."

Throwing his arms out in front of him, he stood. "Whoa. Down boy. I can respect when a guy—"

I didn't want to hear whatever was about to come out of his mouth. I took a step to the side to avoid the table and moved toward him.

"Okay. Okay. I'm leaving." He swiped his drink off the table. A drink I paid for. "Man. You get the Q.B. position and suddenly you're above everyone else?"

Other customers had risen to their feet. A uniformed cop who came in every day was among them. He nodded at me. I checked around. They were all boring holes into Ben. I took another step toward him. "You don't want to ever mention Zoe's name in front of me again, Ben."

"All right. All right. Shit, Zackie. You lose your sense of humor to her along with your virginity?"

I lunged, but a pair of strong hands grabbed me, holding me back. Officer Tatum. "You don't want to lose your job over this punk. Or gain a record."

I shook my arms out of his hold.

"You need to leave kid," he said to Ben.

Ben licked his lips, his free hand clenching and unclenching. He was begging for a fight. A fight I couldn't give him. Right now, anyway.

He held the cup in his other hand up and deliberately loosened his fingers to drop it. "You can take your damned coffee." It splashed everywhere and patrons jumped back, shouting. A nice older lady had dots of it all over her tan pants.

"Hey, asshole," a construction worker growled, moving forward. The police officer put an arm in front of him, and in front of me as I was ready to pulverize the creep.

Ben walked out the door and tried to slam it shut. He rattled the bells for sure, but the door was weighted so it wouldn't slam, ruining his exit.

* * *

Zoe

I sat at my desk like a good girl, my history homework in front of me. But while I had book and pen and paper, I wasn't getting anything done. I stared at the red curtains covering Zack's window. He usually threw them open in the morning, and didn't close them until he went to bed. We'd sometimes get a glimpse of each other and wave. Not today.

It was another sign things had changed.

I didn't turn when Dani came in, though I caught her reflection in the window. She lugged a huge stack of my clothes, fresh from the laundry room. I could tell by the way her head was rotating she was taking all of my mess in. Jeans and tops were scattered around the floor. I'd ravaged through my backpack for the pen, so books and spiral notebooks fanned out to the left of my desk. My gray sweater was looped over my brass bed's footboard post. A baseball cap lay on the bed next to Mr. Barely, my naked stuffed bear. He had several sporty outfits he could wear, but who knew where they were.

"How's the homework going?" She was still looking around the room as she set the clothes on my unmade bed. I knew she wanted to say something about the pigsty, but she was showing remarkable restraint.

I lifted a shoulder and grunted.

"That good, huh?" She picked up Mr. Barely and examined him. I turned halfway around, protective of him. She seemed to notice and set him carefully back against the pillows. She nodded in his direction. "What's the story with his head?"

* * *

I immediately flashbacked to that day, years ago, when Mr. Barely had a go-round with the neighborhood bully, who had since run away. Tommy tore my bear's head off and threw it in the sewer. When Zack came out and listened to my tearful story, he walked over to the curb and stood on the manhole cover above Mr. Barely's grave.

"Well, come on. Help me."

I smiled through my tears and his lips turned up, too. We had to take several breaks and hold some strategy meetings while we caught our breath, but together we lifted the lid enough to swing it to one side. Once the cover was out of the way, Zack didn't waste any time descending the rungs and getting the head back. I remember the way he held it high as he climbed and the first thing I saw was Mr. Barely. I filled Dani in on his near-demise.

I had to smile. "Zack got it for me."

"Ahh." She smoothed a wrinkle out of my quilt, although it was a lost cause. The sheets were a tangled mess. "He's a nice boy, that Zack." She lifted her head at the end and peered at me.

I shrugged. I was not in a sharing mood.

Her fingernails brushed over my bear again. "Did you sew this on?"

"Are you kidding? If I sewed it on it would look halfway decent. Dad did."

She arched her eyebrows in response and tilted her head, her eyes brightening and that funny little smile she always wore around Daddy stole across her face. I stood and crossed to pick Mr. Barely up. Big black stitches held it together, but stuffing peeked out from the inside. "He's not very good with a needle and thread, but I was only about five or six and couldn't fix it myself." The head wobbled. "I need to really repair this some time."

She smiled at me. "That's a nice story about Zack." She rested her hands on the ball at the end of the bedpost. "Same thing happened to me when I was younger, only I didn't have anybody to save the day."

"Someone tore the head off your bear?"

"My Mrs. Beasley doll." I must have looked confused, because she added. "She was this professorly doll with yellow hair and black rimmed glasses." I must have made some sort of facial expression, because she added, "I know. Doesn't sound like much to love, does it?" She sighed. "But I did love her. Jeff Barr didn't throw it down the sewer. He put it in one of those big mailboxes that are sometimes on street corners. Or do they have those anymore?"

I shook my head.

"Well, there was no getting it out of there and that was the end of Mrs. Beasley." She pushed off the bed. "Well, I probably should let you get back to your homework. What's the subject tonight?" She moved toward the door.

I groaned. "History."

She left, but before she closed the door, she paused to stick her head back in. "Good luck," she sang out.

I turned back to the window. "Yeah," I said aloud. "I'll need it."

Well, putting it off won't help.

With a sigh I opened my book to the correct chapter.

Okay, Mr. Pfifer. What do you want to teach me today?

I scanned the page. Battle of Antietam. Another freakin' battle. Were we going to read about every single skirmish that took place in the Civil War? At this rate, we'd be lucky if the slaves were free by March. I couldn't concentrate. My gaze flittered around the page until something caught my attention.

"Although at a nearly insurmountable disadvantage, in fact, outnumbered two to one, Lee's army faced the Union bravely. They were able to successfully retreat when Major General McClellan didn't press his advantage and pursue the Confederates."

Wow. It's a battle they should have lost, but they fought anyway. They fought because, sometimes it isn't so much whether someone wins or loses, it's about taking the chance, no matter the odds.

I raised my head and looked at Zack's window. Hillary Cantrell might have pouty lips, a keen fashion sense, and killer hair, but I had... well, I don't know what I had, but I would use all of it to try to make Zack look at me differently. I slammed my book shut and went to my closet. I shuffled through until I found a cute floral sundress. I smiled, took it out, and held against me in front of my floor-length mirror. With my free hand, I swept my hair up and held it, puckering my lips at my reflection. The result was less than stunning.

Great.

Where was General Lee when I needed him?