Varsity Heartbreaker, page 9
“You do, and it’s so . . . hypocritical. What I do with Ava, whether she’s my girlfriend, whether we break up, whomever I decide to be with and however far that goes? None. Of. Your. Business.” He leans back against the door and gives me the full heat of his stare. My pulse races to keep up with the arguments forming in my mind—all the things I know—that could devastate him. I was only defending myself. None of this was about him, not completely. And how can I be a hypocrite when I’m still a virgin?
“You missed most of everything I said, Lucas. I wasn’t talking about you. That rant—it was about me.” His face is stone cold and still. I don’t know why I expect my childhood friend to break through this hard exterior that’s swallowed him whole.
“I heard you. And you’re right, every person you fuck becomes a part of your story.”
I swallow at how bluntly he sums up my point.
“But people write themselves into our stories lots of ways, June.” He shakes his head and lowers his gaze to his lap as his hand slides down the dash with a heavy exhale. The last evidence of his boyish youth is dusted along his cheeks and eyelashes in golden freckles and highlights picked up by the moonlight. Even those are seemingly disappearing before my eyes.
The crack of the door opening behind him breaks my hard stare, and in one smooth movement he steps from the passenger side and bends down to level me with his cerulean eyes. I wrote to Crayola once when we were younger because I wanted them to make a crayon I could use to do his eyes justice. What a foolish crush I’ve had.
“We’ve never fucked, but you sure are part of my story.” I wince because that’s not a compliment. “I can’t delete you, but I sure don’t need you taking up any more chapters. Stay the fuck out of my business, and go find yourself a boyfriend who can be all of these things you think are real.”
He pauses for a brief moment, long enough to grin with half his mouth and puff out the smallest laugh at my expense. He slams the door as he backs away, and I don’t bother to shift my position to watch where he goes. Like he said, he’s none of my business.
Except as far as stories go, he’s always been a major plot line in mine. Not sure life gets a rewrite the way fiction does. At the very least, I don’t think I’ll be hiding my feelings in the Buick again for a while.
Chapter Nine
I’m not sure I’ve slept since the party Friday night. Maybe my brain has shut down a little here and there, but I’m pretty sure my eyes focused on various points in my empty house for every single second of the last forty-eight hours. My head is pounding, deep dark circles look like charcoal under my eyes, and my mom should be home any minute.
I’m going to have to play sick.
I’m going to need my strength to get through Monday morning, sitting in front of Lucas without falling into the temptation to engage. Maybe it’s delirium, but the more I think about everything he said, the harder it is to reconcile his arguments with his behavior. He pushes me as much as I push him. The fact we have to share proximity at home— At school? That’s neither of our faults. But when he opens his mouth to speak to me, he makes a choice, and he chooses every word he says. I need to become the bigger person and ignore the temptation to participate in this tug-of-war we’ve entered into. Even if I have the power to win by dropping a bomb on his happy home life.
I hear the familiar whirl of my car engine in the driveway, so I get into position, wrapping myself in my favorite quilt and turning the TV low on the home improvement channel while I bundle myself on the couch for my mom to discover. It takes her a few minutes to get her things together and make her way through the side door, but when it opens, I call out to let her know where I am.
Time to perform.
“I’m on the couch,” I yell, coughing at the end of my sentence. I saw a movie like this once where a kid faked sick so he could ditch school and run amuck all over Chicago. I only want to avoid prying questions over my emotional state.
“Hey!” She sounds beat, her bags banging into the wall as she rounds the corner to where I am. She stops just behind the couch, dropping her bags. “Oh, someone not feeling so hot?”
“Cold, I think. Started not feeling well after the party.” This lie has to have some truth to it. I’m not good at lying to my mom. I don’t do it, ever . . . much. Fuck, I’m doing it now.
“Fever?” She reaches over the back of the couch and presses her cool hand to my forehead. I don’t have one, but that feels good. Lack of sleep might feel a lot like a fever.
I glance up as she pulls her hand away, and I must look rougher than I imagine because my mom flinches at the sight of me.
“I haven’t slept very well,” I say, adding to the hard sell.
Her gaze lingers on me for a few long seconds, and I sense she’s running her bullshit meter. I might not be passing.
We both startle when the front bell rings. I sit up and run my fingers through my tangled nest of hair while my mom rushes over to look through the side window. I’ve been wearing the same sweatpants and unicorn shirt since I left the Buick, but anyone who comes to our door wouldn’t care, so I get to my feet in case it’s something my mom needs help with.
“It’s a . . . boy?” She says that as if she’s not sure, so I move a little closer.
“Like, one we know?” My response sounds amused.
“Well, the only one I know lives next door, and this isn’t him, but he looks like Lucas. Maybe one of his friends?”
Shit.
I glance down at my unicorn shirt with a new perspective. There’s a chocolate ice cream stain right where the horn is, like magic popping out of the magic unicorn tip. I don’t have to peek through the window to know, but I do anyway, just as Tory cups his eyes and peeks inside. He laughs when our eyes meet, then waves.
“Friend of yours?” My mom lifts a brow, teasingly. I don’t get male visitors. I’ve had one boyfriend, and he was from my Montessori school and lived more than twenty miles away. We either met in the middle at the mall, or my mom dropped me off at his house.
“He’s in my fifth hour,” I say, moving past my mom to answer the door. “I’ll get rid of him,” I add, opening the door and hoping Tory didn’t hear me dismiss him like that. I’m not out to purposely hurt feelings—at least, not everyone’s feelings.
Only a few people’s feelings.
“Getting rid of me, huh?”
“Sorry.” I wince. “I didn’t want my mom to get all . . . nosy?”
He smirks at my response.
“No, no, I’m not flirting.” I stop any ideas he might have about a me and him, expecting him to laugh it off with me. When he doesn’t, I shrink my chin into my chest and back up toward the door, a little freaked out.
“Why would that be so bad?” He leans into the post of our front porch, thumbs hooked in his front pockets, hair combed to the side and one eyebrow raised. Basically, he’s a character from Grease the way he stands in his letter jacket.
“Tory . . .” A nervous giggle is the only thing I can seem to get out after his name.
He stares at me long enough for my anxious laughter to subside, then moves down a step and sits, gesturing for me to sit with him. I do, resting with my back against the guardrail so I’m as far from him as I can be while sharing a step. He laughs at my invisible wall, mocking me a little by moving close enough to his side of the wooden stair to cling to the post. I relax a little when he does it and shrug off my overreaction.
“Look, I’m not saying date me. I don’t date,” he begins. I puff out a laugh.
“How romantic.”
He glares at me with straight-lined lips.
“I can be very romantic. I promise you, romance is all over this body,” he says, running his hand around his chest. I laugh genuinely at his expense.
“Fuck off,” he says, standing and walking down my walkway.
“Tory, I’m sorry,” I say, feeling guilty. He stops and turns a few yards away, facing me as he exhales.
“I like your company. And honestly? I could use a friend who isn’t . . . your jackass neighbor. Or my twin. Or some other jock who thinks and acts like I do.”
I wait him out for a beat, surveying the nuances of his expression, but they never betray his words. I think he honestly just wants to spend time with me.
I look down at my shirt and pull the unicorn out from my chest. “Even if I decide to go somewhere with you while wearing this?”
His eyes dip down and his mouth hangs open.
“No, on second thought, forget it. I mean, I was digging your vibe and all, but then I noticed that little chocolate stain and—” He pauses, stepping closer and pointing at my shirt. I look down and he flicks his finger up at my nose, a joke my mom’s brother, my uncle John, does every single freaking time he sees me. I roll my eyes and stand to face off with him.
“Come on, let’s go get burgers. Drive-thru, clearly,” he says, waving an arm up and down at my appearance. I laugh, but I also want to go. I want to get out of here, out of my funk.
“All right, let me get some shoes and tell my mom,” I say, padding up the step and back to the door.
“Meet you in my car,” Tory says over his shoulder.
I wave in acknowledgement as I step inside. My mom is waiting right where I left her, probably overtly watching out the window.
“Don’t stare like that,” I say, walking by her and toward the sofa, where my flip flops have lived for two days. I’m doing my best to combat her gooey, mushy boy-crush eyes. My mom has long had hopes for some normalcy in my coming-of-age story. It’s never been about being a busybody, or a matchmaker, but more that she’s afraid her story has changed the course of mine. I’d never tell her this, but I think maybe it has.
I toss my hoodie on over my makeshift pajamas, my phone and wallet tucked in the pocket, and slide back toward the door in my flipflops. My mom halts me with a stiff arm, though, before I get to the door.
“So, we’re not feeling sick now, huh?” Her brow arches . . . again. It’s been doing that a lot.
“I haven’t been out of the house in two days, and someone wants to buy me a burger. It’s a free burger,” I say, shaking my head.
She turns her head just a fraction, side-eying me, and says “Uh huh.” “Midnight,” she adds, with a stern nod.
I nod back, though it is weird for her to give me a curfew. She’s never given me one before, but that’s probably because I literally don’t go anywhere. At least, I haven’t gone anywhere during these risk-laden teenage years. My hunch is that Tory’s slick look has something to do with this. He does put off a bit of an “I’m gonna head to some drag-races with your daughter in tow” kind of face.
The front door doesn’t close behind me until I’m almost to Tory’s car, and the only reason I know it finally does is because of the hysterical laughter Tory bursts into as he rolls down the passenger window of his Toyota.
“I’m sorry. My mom—”
“Is being a mom,” he interrupts. “Mine is just as embarrassing.”
I laugh lightly as I slide into the seat and buckle up, but when I turn my head away, I’m sure the scowl is harsh on my face. His mom. Lucas’s dad. Best friends with this secret I know happening behind their backs. I swallow and turn back to nod that I’m ready while clutching my phone and wallet in my lap.
“Two-fers?” he asks, shifting into drive and flipping around in front of Lucas’s house.
“Sounds good,” I say, a little rush of nerves tickling my chest. Two-fers is pretty much the place for high schoolers in our community. They sponsor every Public football game. But they also have the best crinkle fries in the county, so having to sit in the D’Angelo car in my jammies in front of people who have always intimidated the hell out of me is maybe worth it. Plus, the drive is short.
I glance to Tory’s phone screen, his cell sitting in the cup holder while it streams to his speakers. He’s listening to old-school R&B, and I don’t know why that surprises me, but it does.
“What? I don’t strike you as a Wilson Pickett fan?” He turns the volume up and mouths the words along with the song. It takes me a few lines of the song to notice he’s making his version up.
“You’re such a bullshitter!” I take his phone into my palm and sift through the songs, all of them as choice as this one. Then I note the name on the playlist.
HAYDEN’S SHIT
I smack at Tory’s leg and set his phone back in the cup holder.
“You like this stuff?”
I nod, singing along with the correct words. My voice, however, is terrible. This song in particular occupies space within me. Lucas and I sang this in a talent show at his parents’ house, along with a few of his cousins and my parents and some other family friends. That was back when those backyard chairs that now collect dust had people in them.
We pull into the crowded Two-fer’s parking lot and into a scene that looks a whole lot like the party I endured Friday night. Tory must sense my unease because he turns the music down and nudges my arm with his fist.
“We’ll stay in the car, do the drive-thru and park out of the way,” he says.
I smile and breathe a sigh of relief.
The drive-thru line is surprisingly short given the crowd around the joint, but most people go to the walk-up window then hang out. Two cop cars sit facing each other near the last two parking spaces. There tend to be a lot of fights at Two-fers, so the police have started filling out their reports here. I’m pretty sure they get free food.
“So, are you a dog or burger kinda girl?” Tory asks, leaning his arm out his window, waiting to give our order.
“Dog, all the way,” I say, catching the instant snicker on his lips.
“Please don’t make a dick joke,” I sigh out.
“Doggy style?” He shoots me a crooked smile but quickly apologizes. He orders two double-dog deals with Cokes and pulls around to the window. We’re a few cars back from the front, and a new quiet has settled in.
“I’m not a prude,” I say. Not sure why that’s the word I choose, but I don’t want him thinking I’m someone I’m not, or that I’m actually offended by his lame jokes. I just sometimes need a break from them.
“I’m not sure how to respond to that,” he says through a nervous laugh.
I blush.
“I don’t mean, like, well—” I stammer.
“I know what you mean. I talk a lot of shit and I’m loud and obnoxious, and fuck, can I get lit at a party!” Guilty laughter tumbles out of him. “I guess it’s a little bit my crutch, if that makes sense? Like, that’s my part that I play. I’m the douchebag.” He swings his fist from right to left to accentuate his sarcasm.
“You’re not a douchebag,” I reassure as we move up another space.
He turns his head and tilts it to rest against his seat, a wry smile playing at his lips.
“Come on, be honest. You wouldn’t have said that a week ago.”
I fess up quickly and nod.
“Oh, absolutely not. You were a douchebag then, but that’s only because I didn’t really know the other identities of Salvatore D’Angelo.” He cringes as I use his whole name.
“And what are those other identities?” he asks.
I twist my lips and look up, blowing at the loose hairs that have fallen loose from the messy bun I twisted my hair into while he was ordering.
“I think maybe . . . yeah . . . damn, I’m about to say this.” I level him with a serious look. “You’re part gentleman.”
He stares at me, unflinching, dead serious—for about three seconds.
“Get outta here!” He shoves at me playfully and waves a hand, brushing off the compliment. I let it go there because that’s his way of saying thanks. It was a rather back-handed way to say something nice to him anyhow, and that’s because I’m uncomfortable. That trust thing with me, it’s a tough nut to crack.
I flip through a few more songs on his brother’s playlist until we get to the window for our food. I notice he gives me the box with more fries, and I almost point out how that’s one of his gentlemanly qualities, but a black Nissan cuts off our path, pulling into one of the spaces to our right. It’s Lucas.
And Ava.
“We can leave,” Tory offers.
“No,” I hum, my gaze stuck on Lucas’s form as he maneuvers his truck in backward. Tory hovers near the exit for a second but lets me make this call, pulling his car into a spot almost directly across from them.
I do my best to focus on my fries after that, searching for the perfect one with slightly burnt tips and golden grooves. I lick the salt from my fingers and mumble out, “This is good” as I take a bite that clears out nearly a third of one of my dogs. I go in for a second bite, and Tory halts me, handing me a packet of ketchup. I look at it with my mouth agape and flit my eyes to him.
“Nobody, I mean nobody, puts ketchup on a hot dog,” I say, putting on the best raspy voice I’ve got. I play serious for a few more seconds, waiting for Tory to laugh, but he just shrugs and goes on drenching his food in that tomato shit.
Lucas would have gotten that joke. One summer, we watched every Dirty Harry movie Eastwood made. His dad had the collection on Blu-ray. He probably still does, last relevant Blu-ray collection in America, I bet. We liked the swearing and the violence—me, mostly because my parents didn’t let me watch that stuff at home, and him, I think, because he was the one sneaking it for me. We couldn’t eat hotdogs without laughing, but we never said the line out loud in front of our parents for fear they put it together.
That memory hangs heavy in my chest, and my eyes glance out the front window for the first time in a while. Across the way, Ava is talking out the passenger window to a few other girls, and Lucas is eating his fries one at a time, looking anywhere but at her.
I bet he’s bored. That’s me, wishing.
“Hey, don’t you work at Eight Lanes?”
“Huh?” I stir out of my trance and turn to find Tory’s eyes, his mouth full from his last bite. He glances out the window to Lucas then back at me with a muffled laugh from cheeks filled with bready bun bits.
