“Yeah.”
“You shower after the game?”
“Yes!”
“Come over after, then. Basement door.” Her smile grows. “They’ll all be drunk by then and no one will even notice. We can hang out … or something.”
Like I said, no point in being subtle.
“Okay.”
She finishes her soda, hops off the stool, and reaches across the counter to tickle my wrist. “See you then.”
“Don’t forget to unlock the door this time.”
She giggles as she goes. I watch her walk out the door, because it’s always worth it, watching Naomi walk away, but once she’s gone, my shoulders drop. I rub at my neck. I’m tired and my muscles are stiff, and all I really want to do is go home and sleep. But … when a girl like Naomi pretty much throws herself at you, well, you don’t look that gift horse in the mouth.
Before the door can even close behind her, it’s being opened again, the three guys walking through it taking their sweet time to look over their shoulders and check her out. I recognize all three of them from the Spring Falls varsity team. Especially since I struck out two of them less than four hours ago.
The sight of them reinvigorates me some. I lift my arms up and smile smugly. “Really, boys? You’re going to subject yourselves to my pretty face two times in one day? After the way we shut you down?”
“Suck a dick, Abrams,” one of them says, pulling a chair out from the nearest table and sitting down. He shrugs. “There might be a few pussies on our JV squad, but at least no one on our team has an actual, ya know, pussy.”
The girls who followed them into the restaurant giggle like he’s the most hilarious thing they’ve ever encountered.
“That’s pretty fucking lame, Johanssen,” I tell him.
He shrugs again. “Whatever. It’s true.” Then he turns his back on me.
They’re a big group, too big to fit at the counter, so I’m spared having to actually wait on them. They stay for a ridiculously long time, though, because apparently no one from Spring Falls has anything better to do with their weekends than hang out where I’m getting paid to be. Losers.
I ignore them, going back to the counter crowd, which finally starts to thin out around eight thirty. Dinner’s pretty much over, and the nine o’clock movie crowd is on its way out. I’m changing out the register drawer when the bells on the door clatter and I look up.
Eve Marshall walks in with Marcella. She’s in sweats, and the first thing I notice is that she looks as tired as I feel. Marcella’s holding on to her arm, talking close to her ear, a mile a minute. Does that girl ever stop talking?
I watch Eve’s face as she nods, feeling … nothing.
For the first time, ever, I feel nothing.
No rush of resentment, fury, loathing.
Tonight, nothing happens when Eve walks in the door, and maybe I’m just that tired, not getting worked up over her existence like I usually do.
I’m not sure if they even notice me as they head toward a corner booth, but I’m still observing them from the corner of my eye, trying to make sense of it.
Before, any time Eve appeared on the scene, it felt like a match was automatically lit inside of me, dangerously close to something flammable. But then that day I blew up at her, told her the truth about why I resented her so much … some of the pressure inside of me got released, and it just hadn’t built all the way back up afterward.
Even when she unleashed on me.
Plenty of girls have yelled at me. But never like that. No one’s ever left me speechless.
Then there was the game we won, together, without either of us blowing up, something of a miracle.
And then there was today. Today was rough. She had a lousy-ass start and got pulled from the game way earlier than anyone had expected. Any guy I knew would have been behind the dugout, head in his hands, kicking the cement or throwing helmets. She sat there, chin up, revealing nothing. She didn’t come close to crying or anything. She congratulated me on the win before getting back on the bus. And I didn’t even feel like gloating or saying something smart.
It was weird.
I stare at them another minute, and then I realize I’m not the only one staring toward Eve and Marcella’s booth. I notice the staring, and then I’m aware of the change in the tension in the room. The guys from Spring Falls: they definitely recognize her, too, and they’re nudging each other, making comments under their breath that I can’t quite catch.
Eve doesn’t notice any of it. She and Marcella are huddled into that booth, faces serious.
I glance back at the Spring Falls table. They’re quieter, much quieter than they were before, and instinct tells me I should alert her to their presence, but … guess that’s not my place. And I mean, they’re not even doing anything really.
I turn my back on all of them, find the broom, and start sweeping the floor behind the counter. There are at least a hundred french fries back here. People are disgusting.
I take a tub of glasses to the dishwasher and refill the ice bins for the late-night crowd. I’m finishing up when someone impatiently clears her throat at the register.
It’s one of the girls from Spring Falls, and when I glance toward her table, I realize most of them have left. But she’s clearly raided the freezer by the door—she’s got a few quarts of ice cream, cans of whipped topping, and a jar of cherries on the counter.
“We decided not to order dessert here,” she explains, even though I don’t ask her to. “We’re going to have it at home.” Her eyes are sparkling as she grins at me, and for a second there, I think she might be offering some sort of lewd proposition.
But finally I just shrug. “That’s cool.”
Across the restaurant, Marcella stands up, reaches across the booth to give Eve a big hug, and then takes off out the side door.
Eve stands, too, but instead of following her out, drags herself to the counter instead.
I look at her sweats again. What does she do on a normal Friday night, anyway? Who does she hang out with? I know Scott was hanging out with the team tonight, and Marcella, she’s constantly doing the PDA thing with that dude from South.
She drops down onto a stool and looks over at me, unsmiling. “Hey,” she says.
It’s obvious she’s too tired to get herself all riled up over nothing. Which isn’t a terrible thing. I’m almost too tired to fight back if the situation called for it.
“Hey.”
“My mom wants me to bring her a sundae back. A CMP.”
“A what?”
“Sorry. That’s chocolate-marshmallow-peanuts. Not a big seller, I guess.” She rolls her eyes. “And I’m almost embarrassed to say this out loud, but she made a big thing about making sure the peanuts are crushed. She knows it’s usually just whole peanuts here, and apparently, that ruins the whole thing. I don’t even know. She just asked me to ask if someone could crush a few peanuts.”
“She must be as big a pain in the ass as you are.”
It slips out automatically, but I’m half smiling as I say it.
But she doesn’t react; she doesn’t fire off a zinger in return, not up for our usual banter.
The smile quickly fades, my gaze dropping to the floor as I stand there, confused. When did it become banter, anyway?
When I glance back up, Eve’s staring at me. “Can you just put the order in?”
“Okay.” I shrug. “I’m going.”
“Thank you,” she says. Begrudgingly.
I pin the order up at the ice cream station and go into the kitchen to chop the damn peanuts myself. I take a handful of whole peanuts and bash them to bits with the bottom of a metal shake tumbler.
When the sundae’s ready, I dump the exquisitely crushed peanuts over the whipped cream and put the plastic lid back on, then hand deliver the bag to Eve. She thanks me one more time and drags herself off the stool.
When I turn around, I notice that the trash can is overflowing. Again.
It m
akes me angry. Without singling anyone out, I call to Jenn and Laura, who are working the counter with me. “Nobody else capable of taking the trash out?”
Laura actually has the nerve to be leaning against the counter, playing on her phone. “You’re a guy, Jamie. Help us out.”
“Whatever,” I mumble under my breath. “I’ll do it. Again.”
I carry the heavy bag out the kitchen door, into the parking lot, and stop in my tracks.
Just a few steps behind where Eve has stopped in her tracks. She’s frozen now, paper bag dangling from her hand, staring in confusion at the hood of what must be her car.
The words are artistically spelled out in whipped cream and even decorated with rainbow sprinkles.
Dyke in Spikes.
They’re huge, covering the entire hood, except for the space they left next to them. There, boobs are sculpted out of mounds of whipped cream, complete with cherry nipples. There’s a smiley face below them.
It’s immediately obvious to me who was responsible—the douchebags from Spring Falls; the girl they had do their dirty work. But Eve is still confused, because she doesn’t know who the enemy is; she didn’t recognize them inside. For a second, I wonder if she thinks there’s any way I was responsible.
Eve hasn’t moved a muscle. She hasn’t turned around to find me behind her.
I leave the trash bag at my feet and turn back to the store. I grab a couple of clean rags from the pile and return to the parking lot.
She’s moved now; she’s attempting to wipe off her car with one of those little tissue-packet things grandmothers always have in their purses.
I walk up beside her, swiping the boobs away and onto the pavement with the rags. “Those tissues aren’t going to do shit.”
She ignores me. She keeps going about her business, going through her tissue pack, even though they practically disintegrate upon contact. But she keeps trying.
“I got this,” she finally says out the side of her mouth. Her expression is blank but her voice is strained in some way, sort of breathless as she still attempts to ream me out. She blows a strand of loose hair out of her mouth. “I don’t really do the whole knight-in-shining-armor thing, but thanks.”
I just shrug and wipe at some more whipped cream. “Good. Neither do I,” I inform her.
She doesn’t make any further attempt to send me on my way, so we finish the job in silence. Then I duck inside to get a bucket of water to rinse the whole mess away so her parents don’t see any trace of it in the morning. I mean … something about that would just make it suck even more.
Eve finally stands up and takes in a huge breath of air as the water rains down off her car. She stares at her car as she says it. “Don’t be nice to me just because I had a shit game.”
“What?”
“You know what I mean,” she says tersely. “When you see me as an actual threat, you hate me. It’s only when I have a lousy game that you’ll consider being somewhat human to me.” She shakes her head. “I don’t need that.” She lifts her chin. “It’s demeaning.”
I stare at her, eyes narrowed. What? I was being nice because when it comes to other teams, it’s us versus them, and in this case, it was us versus those jackasses who were too weak to even harass her to her face.
I wasn’t being nice because she had a lousy game. I was being nice because she took it without so much as a tear, because she took this crap without a tear, and it was pretty damn impressive, coming from a girl.
Or … anyone.
But apparently that’s not how she sees it.
Her whole body sort of collapses, and she tells me wearily, “You win today. Okay, Jamie? You win.”
Really?
I mean, I hadn’t even felt like battling today.
But I’m sure there’s no point trying to convince her of that.
I throw my hands up instead. “Fine.” I gather the dirty rags and the empty bucket. “Let me know if you need anything else to clean up.”
She’s out there another ten minutes. During which it occurs to me to grind up some more damn peanuts and make another sundae, because the one she has is clearly ruined. And I didn’t go to all that effort to remove traces of the incident only to have a melted sundae give it away.
I’m not sure she even notices when I switch the bags.
She’s on her way after that, and I clock out fifteen minutes later. I change my shirt, douse myself in some body spray, and try to muster up the energy to go see Naomi.
Chapter 11
March 17
Eve
As soon as I give my mom her sundae—which appears miraculously intact considering my holdup at the restaurant—my parents let me escape up to my room. They only talk briefly with me in soft voices, avoiding words like baseball, pitching, and game altogether. They know the drill after bad games and let me go to brood in peace.
I walk upstairs, close my bedroom door behind me, and stand before it, staring at myself in the full-length mirror screwed to the back of it. I look past my image, reflecting on the week instead. The missed Crucible assignment and lost points. The resulting fight with Jabrowski. Being sent to detention. Being sent to detention with Jamie. This afternoon’s loss. And, the literal “cherry on top,” the defacement of my car.
I screw up my face. At least next week can’t possibly be any worse. I manage to laugh out loud for about five seconds before my laughing turns to crying and my face goes into my hands and my body folds up on the carpet. I cry for a few minutes, as silently as possible, before wiping my snotty nose on the back of my hand. What a shitty week. The fact that Jamie Abrams found me pathetic enough to be nice to me … I shake my head … that right there illustrates exactly how crappy everything was.
I sniffle a final time as I get myself back together.
He was so decent.
Not, for the record, that I was on the verge of crying when I found my car covered in obscenities and whipped cream, which I assumed was the handiwork of someone from Spring Falls. Their words didn’t hurt me. But their actions made me angry. Not angry that they did it, but pissed the hell off that I’d had such a lousy game. If I’d had a good game, at least I’d have given them a reason to attack me. This felt like a sucker punch, harassing someone who’d performed as poorly as I did. I’d feel better about the whole thing if I’d given them a reason.
I’ll give them a reason next time, that’s for damn sure.
Using the corner of my bed, I pull myself back up to standing and dig my phone out of my back pocket. The text message from Scott is the first on the list.
You want to Netflix and chill? Ya know, for real?
This brings a small smile as my fingers tap in reply. Thanks, but I think I’m in for the night.
Don’t wallow. I’ll make cheese fries.
Thanks, but I’m good. Not wallowing.
A second later, another text comes in. Crap, now I have no reason to make cheese fries. We running tomorrow morning?
Scott and I often run together on Saturday mornings, long, lazy runs on the river trail, and I’m halfway done confirming when and where we’re meeting up when I remember something.
I have to take a rain check.
How come?
I stare down at the screen for a minute, totally clueless as to how to respond. Certainly not with the truth. I end up ignoring his question and go back to the index of messages instead. Jasmine’s also been in touch.
Hey. My brother’s band is playing at O’Brien’s. If we go before ten we can get in.
I picture the scene—a loud, crowded restaurant-slash-bar jam-packed with college kids spilling beer.
I’m not in the mood for a scene.
You’re not used to not being on top of your game, my basketball cocaptain teases with a winky-face emoticon. Come out! You’ll feel better.
Nah. I repeat what I told Scott. Thanks for the invite, but I think I’m in for the night.
I put my phone away, before Scott or Jasmine can follow up. I change
into my pajamas and sit atop my bed. Then, out of habit, I stare across the driveway. Marcella’s window is dark. My stomach sinks and suddenly I feel uncomfortable in my skin.
I stare into the darkness. Tonight her window seems farther away than it used to, like there’s some new distance between us.
* * *
She made me go get dinner with her, even though I tried to turn her down. She’d been waiting for me, hair looking uncharacteristically unkempt, limbs jittery, outside the girls’ locker room. I’d taken a long time getting changed after the game, because I’d wanted to avoid as many people as possible. But apparently, Marcella was insistent on finding me.
She practically pounced when I emerged. “I need to talk to you, Eve.”
My shoulders slumped. “Is it something that can wait? I have to warn you, I’m in a lethal mood right now.”
“Please.”
Marcella said the word quietly, flatly. She wasn’t begging me, but there was some kind of panic in her eyes I was entirely unused to seeing. Just like that, I was less concerned with my problems and more concerned with hers. She grabbed my arm. “Dinner. We can go to dinner. My treat.” Then her eyes went to the ground. “I mean … I need my best friend right now.”
“Okay,” I answered immediately. “Of course.”
“I have to babysit the Lindemans till eight. Meet me at the Burger Barn. Like, eight thirty,” she said, immediately whirling on her heel before I could rethink it.
With a sigh, I nodded. A few hours later, I found Marcella in the parking lot, pacing, but for someone who was visibly upset, she greeted me with talk about the unusually starry sky, the seasonal ice cream being advertised in the window, and the near accident she’d witnessed on her way there. Even as we walked inside, as she held on to me, she was yakking in my ear, still talking a mile a minute.
I barely even noticed Jamie behind the counter.
She led me to a corner booth and hid behind her menu while waiting for the server to appear and take our order. Then, after she did, Marcella went right back to it. “I mean, I think I’m being a wonderful sport, all things considered, but the class president can’t fight me on everything just to make a point. We started prom planning way before they did, apparently, and this whole fashion thing is actually going to be fun, and useful, so I’m really not understanding the pushback and why—”