There are plenty of reasons not to swim in the dating pool that is high school. But the root source of my reluctance to dive right in has always been avoidance of the questionable warm spots in the water.
It’s not so much that high school boys are stupid or even immature. It’s just that they’re, well, high school boys.
“Which is exactly why you are the obvious choice.”
“It’s a terrible idea.” I turned to Mr. Blake. “I’m not comfortable with this idea at all.”
Mr. Blake, my hero, my mentor, the English teacher who taught me to think and the journalism teacher who taught me to think for myself, rubbed the silver whiskers on his face and betrayed me. “Sometimes a good reporter needs to challenge her comfort zone. Break out. Question her world.”
Lucifer waggled his eyebrows and gloated.
“I can’t believe you are taking his side,” I whined.
Mr. Blake nodded toward the staff. “I suggest you get your newsroom back under control so you can hammer out some details.”
It’s amazing what the right motivation coupled with caffeine could do for a staff of my peers. They took the cover shoot and twelve blind date ideas and ran as if they’d been handed the Olympic torch. While I was pleased that, only two weeks into the school year, several of them were beginning to show leadership and organizational skills, I was a little miffed that nobody was even a little worried about my safety. Or sanity.
Under Foster’s direction, my role in the calendar had been eliminated completely. Ordinarily, the release would have been a relief. Since I had to date these guys, though, I wished for at least veto power.
I tried to get out of the Twelve Dates of Doom; really, I did. When I realized I was scared to do it, I stopped arguing. Backing down from a challenge is so not the girl I am. Here I was fighting to save a newspaper that didn’t exist; a dozen dates should be easy in comparison.
After everyone but Foster and I filed out of the room, I slumped into my seat and appraised the newsroom. For three years, this room was my magic place. The Follower lived and breathed here. The paper, iconic to our school and town, always forged ahead of its time and without regard to those that would stifle the truth. Sometimes controversial, always relevant, it meant something to be on staff—a mark of character and integrity.
Now the magic place festered in bureaucracy and constraints. No funding, no class time, no paid advisor. Foster and I had agreed on one thing in all the years we’d served the paper, and that was that we would do whatever it took to keep it alive this year. We’d been handed fistfuls of nothing, but we had no intention of failure. The school let us have the room but commandeered the working computers and anything else it could salvage for other classrooms. It was like starting over, only worse because we had so much to live up to.
It made a girl tired.
“Your car still in the shop?” Foster asked me.
I nodded.
“I can give you a ride.”
I so didn’t want a ride but resigned myself to it anyway. “Thanks.”
Foster handed me the messenger bag I’d flung over my chair. “It’s going to be great, you know.”
“Huh?”
“The paper. This year. I can tell you’re worried about it, but it’s going to be great. We’re going to make this work.”
I wanted to believe him. “Sure.”
He threw himself into my path, halting me. You think I’d be used to it, literally and figuratively. It’s what he lived for—stopping me from forward progress. “Logan, you need to trust it or it won’t happen.”
Not for the first time since the powers that be yanked out the rug, tears formed and stung the back of my eyes. Not shedding them had become one of my personality quirks. Some people snap gum; I fight tears.
“Trust? That’s a little oxymoronic for good reporters, isn’t it?”
“Layney Logan, there are two things in this world you don’t need to question. One is gravity.” He tilted my chin to force me to look him in the eye. The sudden intimacy shocked me. “The other is Layney Logan. If you want this bad enough, you’ll make it happen.” He dropped his hand but didn’t move away.
My stomach flipped like one of Mom’s Sunday morning pancakes.
The devil was his most dangerous when he wasn’t being devilish. I had to remind myself of that during the weird beat of time that stood still while we remained anchored in place and far too close to each other.
Desperate to say something to break his wicked spell, I went with exactly the wrong thing. “I really want this to happen.”
He blinked. “Me too.”
The dimple in his top lip drew my gaze like a swinging pendant held by a hypnotist. He swallowed and I tilted my head so that I was looking up at him through my eyelashes. Like I was…flirting?
I stepped back quickly. “Great. So we’re on the same page about the paper then.”
He nodded and then cleared his throat. “Yeah. We’re on the exact same page. We should go.”
“See? I was thinking the same exact thing.”
He handed me his keys. “I’ll meet you in the lot. I forgot something in my locker.”
His hand brushed mine as my fingers clasped the key ring and I realized he had to be messing with me. Nothing happens naturally when you are dealing with the king of deception. Everything he’s ever said or done to me was planned in advance and carried out with stealth.
Foster almost fooled me that time. I turned out the lights and closed the door behind me.
He wouldn’t get a second chance.
CHAPTER TWO
Mr. January
TURNS out Maryanne was a stellar add to our staff. Her father owned the pawn shop on Main and Cedar, so we added two gently used computers to our inventory. Elden, the sophomore whose name I had previously forgotten and the only boy on staff (because demons don’t count), and I were trying to network the computers and clean off all the porn. Poor Elden’s face couldn’t have gotten any redder.
Me, it didn’t bother so much. I’m still trying to figure out what that says about my personality.
I sensed evil before I felt Foster crouch between our chairs. “See, Elden.” Foster pointed to the naughty woman on the screen. “If Mommy wore outfits like that more often, Daddy wouldn’t spend so much time at the bar.”
“Yes, well, if Daddy didn’t spend so much time at the bar, he’d know that Mommy wears outfits like that for the milkman every night.”
Poor Elden’s eyes widened even larger beneath his Coke-bottle glasses. He didn’t know what to make of either of us. It’s not like I sat around trying to find ways to traumatize the more innocent members of our staff, but I’ll admit I found it a perk.
“Elden, it’s Friday night. Go home.” Foster swiped Elden’s seat after the kid shot out of his chair obligingly. “You ready for your big date?” he asked.
“As ready as I intend to be.”
“Is that what you’re wearing?”
I looked at my cargo pants and long-sleeve tee. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
Satan shrugged. “Nothing. Some guys like that look, I guess.”
“And what look is that?”
He perused me slowly with his gaze. “Salvation Army meets Bohemian pixie.”
I snorted. “I am none of those things.” Well, okay, my jacket came from the Army Surplus store, and I am short. I don’t consider myself Bohemian, though. My wardrobe lacks the creativity required to pull that off.
“You ready for you assignment?”
Ugh. No. I’d rather go undercover at cheer camp and spend a week pretending I cared what the secret to school spirit is. That’s how desperately I wanted out of this assignment. “Lay it on me.”
He pushed a pink note across the tabletop. I unfolded it slowly, willing my shaky fingers not to give me away. Unfolded, the “assignment” was in the shape of a heart.
Very funny.
Dessert and coffee at Mick’s.
Reservation
in the name of Love.
6:30.
I couldn’t summon spit if my life depended on it. My mouth dried out like I’d swallowed desert sand. “Who’s paying for this date, anyway?”
“The marketing department has been working very hard at soliciting corporate sponsors.”
Since we didn’t have a marketing department, even during the good years, I pursed my lips and waited for a better explanation.
“Misty and Rachel are getting the local businesses to donate cost of the date for the free advertising. Don’t forget to mention the tiramisu at Mick’s when you write up your story.”
Great. Product placement. I’d already sold myself out and I wasn’t even eighteen.
“Is your car running today?” Foster asked.
I hated my car. It worked three out of seven days, and the other four were sketchy. “Maybe. It wouldn’t start again this morning. It might be fine now.”
“You need to get rid of that piece of junk and find something reliable.”
“I had to quit my after school job to get the paper off the ground and I’m not touching my college money. I can hoof it.”
“I’ll give you a ride.”
“You’re going to drop me off for a date? That’s not weird or anything.” I reached between us to power down the computer, careful not to brush his leg with my arm. But not careful enough, I noticed too late, to stop him from looking down the scoop neck of my shirt.
He picked up my cell and pushed my hand away when I tried to grab it away from him. “Just making sure you charged it.”
Plucking it from him, I pocketed the phone and shot him a dirty look. “Why the sudden concern?”
“A good chief is always worried about his tribe. And before you get all pissy, yes, I know we’re co-chiefs. And yes, I’m aware that I’ve probably gotten all your feminist hackles on red alert. Not to mention your politically correct ones. Frankly, my dear…well, you know the rest.”
“So, who am I meeting tonight?”
He waggled his finger at me. “Nice try, tricky minx. You know I can’t tell you that. It would be against the rules.”
“Did he sign the contract?”
“Of course.”
The contract was the only concession I had been allowed. It stated in no uncertain terms that:
There would be no physical contact.
There would be no attempts to communicate after the date unless both parties were agreeable. And then only after the calendar hit the stands.
The date would last exactly sixty minutes and no more.
The date would remain confidential until the story was published.
There would be no physical contact. (I made sure they put that condition in the contract twice to punctuate the seriousness of the clause.)
”You sure you don’t want to change clothes before the date? We have time.
Did I have time to wipe that smirk off his face with a heated iron? “You’re one to talk. Charlie Brown called. He wants his shirt back.”
He wiped invisible dust off his shoulder. “Well, he’s not getting it. The shirt looks much better on me.”
Foster’s clothes reminded me my grandfather’s closet, and I wouldn’t be surprised if some of his camp shirts were vintage ’50s. Somehow, it didn’t make him look as stupid as if anyone else tried to pull it off. I mean he had bowling shirts and argyle sweaters, for God’s sake. Normal high-school students can’t get away with dressing like Richie Cunningham.
We reviewed our notes about possible web hosts and story ideas for the next forty-five minutes. Then, with feet of lead, I followed him out to his reliable Ford Escort. The ride to Mick’s was fraught with danger. I couldn’t let Foster smell my fear or I’d be as good as carnage. He would zero in on any perceived weakness and exploit the soft spot until I turned into one giant bruise.
I decided he must be after my total annihilation with this whole date thing. He probably didn’t want to go halves on the editor-in-chief position. If he broke me, he wouldn’t have to share the job.
I sat up straighter in my seat. Too bad for him. I wasn’t going anywhere. There would be a feature story in this craziness. Maybe not the story he envisioned in his plot to overtake my position, but I’d find the real one. The one that made him sorry he ever messed with Layney Logan.
“What now?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You just did that thing you do whenever you think you’re going to win an argument with me, only we weren’t arguing.”
“What thing do I do?”
“You sit up all straight and thrust your chin out. I wasn’t even talking, so I don’t know what you could be mad at me for.”
“Gee, I don’t know, Foster. Maybe this whole ridiculous dating scheme you came up with? What do you possibly have to gain?”
“What do you have to lose?” He pulled up to the curb in front of the restaurant. “God, you act like it’s some kind of death sentence. I’m probably doing you a favor.”
“Excuse me?”
“Going on a few dates will be good for you. Get you out in the world a little.”
“I don’t need you to decide what’s good for me.”
“I’m just saying that you shouldn’t hold on to the past so much.”
It’s possible that the blood in my veins just came to a complete stop and then started flowing backward. “What are you trying to say?”
I knew exactly what he was trying to say.
“Never mind. It wasn’t important. We’re here. You should go warm up and stretch before the main event. You don’t want to pull a muscle.”
“What. Were. You. Trying. To. Say?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. I wanted to hit the bridge of his nose with a cement block. “Look, it’s just a little…sad…that you haven’t gone out with anyone since…you know.”
The roar of the ocean filled my head. “I can’t believe you went there.” I glared at him and then rolled my eyes. “Oh, wait. It’s you. Yes, I can.”
I undid my seatbelt so I could strangle him. “Do you honestly, truly, really believe that you are the reason I don’t date? Of course you do. What am I thinking? That was four years ago.”
“I know.”
“We were in the eighth grade.”
“I know. Which is why it’s kind of tragic.”
“I’m not having this discussion with you.” Just because Foster slept with half the female population didn’t mean I was less over him for not turning into a slut. “Besides, I have dated. Just not high school boys.”
“Sure.”
He said “sure” but he obviously didn’t mean “sure.” It would have been nice to wipe that patronizing look off his face. Instead, I had responsibilities to attend. “College guys are more mature than guys my own age, but that’s a discussion for a different day. Right now, I have an interview to go to.”
“It’s a date.”
“It’s an interview.”
“Whatever. I’ll pick you up in an hour.” He sat there looking smug. His broad smile, his relaxed pose—I wanted to kill him. And then revive him so I could kill him again.
“Don’t bother.” I slammed the door shut, closing my jacket in. I couldn’t tug it out, so I had to open the door again. “I mean it; don’t bother.”
“Toodles.” He waved and pulled away after I slammed the door again.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I looked at the caller I.D:
Prince of Darkness
“What?” I barked.
“Don’t forget you aren’t allowed to record the date.”
“It’s an interview, and if he gives me permission, I can.”
“No, you can’t. No notes either. You can doodle all you want after, but during the date, you have to act like a girl.”
Needless to say, I ended the call.
Act like a girl. He set me up so I’d be as flustered as possible. He wanted me to fail. Otherwise why would he have brought up eighth grade? As far as I’m conc
erned, eighth grade never happened.
I marched into Mick’s and stopped at the hostess desk.
“Good evening. How may I help you?”
My heart sank. The hostess was one of those women who make you feel uncultured and immature just by looking at her. Her makeup was flawless, her hair sleek and shiny, and somehow even her black skirt and white blouse looked high fashion.
I cleared my throat. “I have reservations at 6:30 in the name of…Love.” I tried to force a smile through clenched teeth. Name of Love. Seriously, who could blame me for wanting to send Jimmy Foster through a meat grinder at this point?
She smiled sweetly. “Of course you do. Right this way. Your party has already arrived.”
Great. I’d been hoping for a few minutes to pull myself together.
Mick’s is not a place most high schoolers go unless it’s their mother’s birthday or out-of-town relatives are visiting. Not that it isn’t nice; there’s just something about jazz and white tablecloths that make you feel like you’re twelve again. I clutched my messenger bag tightly in case it knocked over a water glass or candle.
She led me to a corner, thank God, and waited expectantly for my date to stand. Only he didn’t know that’s what she was waiting for. The uncomfortable twelve seconds passed more like ten minutes worth of painful silence. She finally realized neither of us knew what we were doing and pointed to my chair. “Enjoy your dinner.”
My mind tried to process the small details of my date’s face while I struggled to place him. I’d seen him before, but I didn’t know who he was. My biggest fear was that Foster would set me up with twelve trolls. This guy was actually cute. He had a little unfortunate acne, but nothing was glaringly hideous. Sandy brown hair, blue eyes, and he’d worn a nice sweater.
So far so good.
“Hi, I’m Layney.”
“I’m Chuck.”
When he didn’t follow that statement with anything, I realized I was going to have to use my interviewing skills after all. Open-ended questions were going to be my friends. If I relied on yes-or-no answers, we would never get anywhere.
I worked up my cheery smile. “I’m sort of nervous. I’ve never been on a blind date before. Have you?”