13 to Life (13 page)

“Who doesn’t?” Amy asked, leaning around me to address Sarah. “I saw him first,” she said with a devilish wink.

Sarah huffed dramatically.

“You seemed more curious about Pietr’s brother, Max,” I pointed out to Amy, “And you’re dating Marvin and, technically—” I added, but Amy jumped in.

“Yeah, technically Jessie saw him first.”

“But Jessica says she doesn’t want
Pietr,
” Sarah pointed out. “She’s still all knotted up about Derek. So he’s fair game,” she declared.

I flopped forward, fingertips brushing the tops of my sneakers, willing Sarah to be correct. I did still want Derek—didn’t I? I mean, just because he wasn’t returning my feelings, just because my crush was—

“Jessica’s just dealing with
unrequited
love,” Sarah said, patting my back.

Yeah. Unrequited. It didn’t negate my crush’s existence. My heart still ached over Derek.
Stupid heart. Stupid girl.
And things could change, right? My head hurt just thinking about it all. Hope was getting harder and harder to hold on to.

And then there was Pietr . . . Strangely distant, annoyingly arrogant, utterly straightforward, twitchy, witty, and yes, slightly argumentative Pietr. There was plenty about him that got under my skin.

I peered down the rows of bleachers separating us. Ugh. Handsome Pietr. I had to admit that, too. My stomach churned.

Well below us he had turned to glance up the bleachers. He looked directly at me and nodded. Smiling lopsidedly as if we shared some secret. Surely he couldn’t have heard us. . . .

Sarah and Amy waved at him. Inviting him to come join us.

I sat up, smacking at their arms. “
What
are you two doing?” I demanded under my breath, smiling at him the whole time as if my reaction had nothing to do with him. Maybe he’d think I was swatting away a sudden onslaught of late-season mosquitoes. Not that I was absolutely flipping out at the idea of sitting beside one handsome guy I shouldn’t be attracted to while watching another who might not be attracted to me . . .

“We’re inviting him up,” Amy said, giving me a look that showed she was being as obvious as possible—what didn’t I understand? “Look, I managed to erase an important phone message from the school to your dad today,” Amy said. “Let us have some fun, okay?”

“I’m all about fun,” I insisted, my stomach twisting as I watched him consider their offer.

Luckily he shook his head.

“Too bad,” I said, although my tone was totally transparent.

Then he motioned at the open spaces beside him and signaled to us.

“What?” I pantomimed not understanding, cupping an ear with my hand.

His brows lowered in frustration.

Amy sighed. “God, Jessie. You can be sooo—”

“Daft,”
Sarah snapped, standing and snagging my arm. She nodded and waved back to him.

“Come on. He’s got better seats for actually seeing the game, anyhow,” Amy pointed out. “Don’t you want to
see
the action?”

But it didn’t matter. Whether or not I wanted to see the game’s action and Derek’s involvement didn’t matter. Whether or not I wanted to sit near Pietr didn’t matter.

I was pushed and pulled by a force far stronger than my own will: the force of two giggling girlfriends.

Amy sat to Pietr’s left, Sarah on his right. I shrugged. “Guess I’ll go back up,” I motioned the way we’d just come.

Pietr looked at me with an unreadable expression. Amy’s and Sarah’s expressions, though, were absolutely clear. I should have been frightened by what I read in their eyes. It was obvious they wouldn’t tolerate my attitude much longer.

Pietr pulled his feet off the bench before him. “Sit,” he said.

I looked at Amy and Sarah. They stared back. I could nearly hear Amy thinking up ways to get back at me, so I swallowed my frown and decided not to ruin their evening. I sat, my back warmed by the nearness of Pietr’s knees and shins. It was absolutely impossible to ignore his proximity.

Mercifully, the announcer began introducing the starting lineup, his voice booming and crackling from the speakers. Madison’s Bulldogs broke through a painted banner held by scantily clad cheerleaders who seemed incapable of controlling impulses to kick up their heels and punch skyward with tiny pompoms. I didn’t bother to hide my disgust at their short-skirted display, frowning. I tried not to focus on the fact that the cheerleading squad managed, with their every hop and split, to utterly undermine the hard-won feminine power that generations of women had struggled so hard to achieve.

They did look perfect, though.
Crap.
Even I had to admit that.

The announcer droned on, listing team stats and some upcoming Madison games. Recognizing a name in the enemy lineup, I shivered at the introduction of Bryce-the-Breaker Branson. He was easily six feet tall and 250 pounds,
but he moved more like a panther than the clumsy bull I was hoping for.

“Are you cold?” Pietr’s breath in my ear made me jump.

“What?” I crossed my arms. “No.”

“You shivered,” he observed, his words soft and warm, his breath tickling my ear and neck.

“I’m just worried,” I admitted, mistakenly leaning back against his legs to intimate the fact. I shivered again, this time at the complete contact with his strong legs, a bolt like lightning racing up my spine.

I was freshly aware of his nearness, of his easy strength, and my not-quite-in-control curiosity. I pulled forward, hunching over my knees and trying to focus again on our cheerleaders and banner. Our marching band struck up the alma mater, trailing it into a rhythmic chant of “Burn the Bulldogs! Burn the Bulldogs!”

Kurt Anderson led the charge, tearing through the flapping banner as if it were tissue paper.

I heard Amy enlightening Pietr: “It took the art class three full periods to complete that thing.”

“Hmm,” he said.

A jacket flopped across my shoulders and over my back, heavy and warm and smelling of pine-filled forests. “What?” I turned in my seat to face them.

Pietr leaned back and, looking quite smug, stated, “You shivered. Twice.” He shrugged.

“And you?” I glanced pointedly at his thin shirt, looking for a gentle way to return the jacket.

Amy and Sarah scooted closer to him, grinning. I tried ignoring their willingness to be Pietr’s personal space heaters.

“I’ll be fine. Besides, I can’t have my guide getting sick, can I?”

I groaned and shrugged free of his jacket. “I think you and I need to have a talk.” I stood. “Now.” I held the jacket out to
him. Silently he took it, slinging it over his shoulder with a nonchalance I envied.

“Lead on,” he said, his voice low.

If Amy and Sarah hadn’t been my best friends, I think they might have seriously contemplated committing an act of violence against me as I stole their prize away for a reprimand. Yep, looking back over my shoulder at them, I knew I was a dead woman.

My knees felt weak as I jogged down the bleacher stairs, the metal flexing faintly beneath the bounce of the traffic, most of which was headed in the opposite direction I was going. I didn’t even pause to see if Pietr still followed me. If there was one thing I did know about Pietr by now, it was that he would follow or find me whether I wanted him to or not.

Jostling down the stairs only made my stomach lurch even more. It had to be that, I assured myself, not some emotional distress. I was still holding it all together. I could
keep
holding it all together. Just because everyone expected me to break didn’t mean I
had
to.

I bounded down the final three steps and headed to the left, nearly slamming into a family in my single-minded advance. “Sorry,” I muttered, dodging through the bunch of them. Free of the streaming crowd, my feet quickened the pace, leaving me wondering what I was running from.

He grabbed my arm, tugging me into the shadows at the edge of the bleachers, just outside the soft glow of the opening concession stand. “Jess.” He moved in front of me, blocking the light, his powerful silhouette shadowing me. “If you want to talk, talk.”

“Don’t you need to check the time?” I asked.

“No. That doesn’t matter right now.”

We stood there, together, silent in the dark. The sound of his steady breathing was even more deafening than the marching band’s drum routine as they processed off the field. I had
missed Derek’s big entrance, but somehow it seemed an afterthought.

“Have I done something wrong?” he asked. The silhouette shifted. His head seemed to hang.

“No. Yes—” I groaned in frustration. “I mean . . .” My eyes roamed, trying to find an easy answer.

And then he kissed me. My mind blanked. My spine loosened, and my lips moved, kissing him—impossible Pietr—back. For a moment there was nothing else. My world was forgotten. . . .

“No.” I forced my hands between us and encountered the firm warmth of his chest. “No,” I insisted, more to myself than to him because he was already drawing back.

He stood, as still as stone—reminding me of that moment in gym class when the boys had spotted his strange saber tattoo.

“I can’t . . .” I tried to explain, but words failed me. Like always.

“Because of Derek?” he asked, nearly growling the name. The accent that only occasionally ghosted around his perfect American English became suddenly pronounced. Rich and powerful. “Don’t you get it, Jess? You and he—it won’t work. It can’t be any good for you.”

“God!” I was suddenly so mad at him. Why did he always need to state the obvious? “That’s not even it!” I raged, realizing I was telling him the truth. “Sarah likes you.”

He grunted. “The new kid always gets a lot of attention.”

“Seeing what I have, I agree. But it’s not that simple,” I insisted. “Sarah’s my best friend. She’s been through a lot recently.”

“From what I understand, so have you.” I didn’t know how his eyes could seem to glow in the dark of the bleachers, but they did—seeking to spear straight into my soul.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to close out the sound of his outright concern. “She was in a horrible accident. She nearly died. She was in a coma for almost a week.” I paused, remembering. “She had to learn to do everything all over again. There’s so much she still doesn’t remember. . . .”

“That’s terrible,” he agreed. “But—”

“No. There can’t be a
but,
” I explained. “She hasn’t shown an interest in anything except words—she hasn’t cared about anyone. . . . And now she likes
you.
”

“And I like
you,
” he stated.

“Aaargh! You don’t even
know
me!”

“Sarah doesn’t really know me,
either,
” he argued.

“Please,” I begged. “I just
can’t
. . .”

He moved, looking toward the concession stand. I knew he was thinking. And I knew he was hurt. “Do
you
like me?” Handsome, bold Pietr whispered the question.

I knew what he wanted to hear and I knew the truth. And I knew what I could say to fix things. My lips moved to form the right words, even as they tingled from the jolt of his kiss.

But my heart froze even as my mouth moved to say the necessary words to him under the bleachers. My mouth has always been under
just
my mouth’s control—there’s normally little interference from my brain. But this time I thought the words before I said them. Then I thought them each again as I voiced the phrase “I don’t like you like
that.
”

I was amazed I’d gotten the words to sound even halfway convincing.
Liar.
Surely he’d call my bluff, remind me how I’d kissed him back a brief moment before. . . .

“Oh.”

What?
Where was the sentence he was supposed to say—the sentence that would make me admit I was lying to protect poor
Sarah’s freshly forming feelings for him? Where was the raging male ego at being told he wasn’t “all that”?

My head was spinning. Why didn’t he call me out? Why didn’t he point out the obvious
this
time, too? Tell me I kissed him back like I
liked
him—
really
liked him. . . . I shoved my hand into a pocket and grabbed hold of the worry stone.

He put his jacket back on.

My heart sank. Maybe he wasn’t saying it because every girl he kissed responded that way. What did I know about kissing, after all? I mean, it wasn’t my first kiss—that honor had gone to mush-mouthed Marvin Broderick in fourth grade. What an illustrious introduction to one-sided love
that
had been! A few awkward kisses each year thereafter, a grope or two (resulting in well-aimed slaps), a lengthy dry spell, and here I was, seven long years later, bewildered.

He liked me. I liked him. And it still wouldn’t work.

“We’d better get back,” he said, “before they get the wrong idea.”

I nodded, eyes stinging. “I’m going to get some snacks for the girls,” I said, stepping into the light. He must have heard the way my voice cracked.

He looked at me, searching my face, concern like a wound in his bright eyes.

But I stayed stoic, dying a little inside. “I’ll see you up there.”

He nodded, a curt dip of his head.

We went our separate ways, and before buying chips and sodas, I detoured to the bathroom and wiped my eyes with toilet paper, promising to pull myself back together before returning to my friends. And I did. Because although I didn’t often lie, I found I had a developing talent for it.

And no, that didn’t make me feel any better. About anything.

It was a good game (according to my limited understanding of football). It didn’t help that Amy told Pietr I knew nothing about football and he spent several painfully awkward moments trying to explain the finer points of the game to me. He seemed to know a decent amount about it and was obviously trying to bridge the chasm I’d just torn between us.

He spoke; I nodded, listening to the sound of my stupid heart breaking as much as listening to his every word. He admitted grudgingly to a couple of fine plays that Derek made.

Sarah tucked her book away to watch the game. Or Pietr.