Almost (17 page)

Instead of prisoners, the place houses swarms of kids in lumpy hockey gear flanked by their personal parent-jailers. Each grouping of decked out, mini-athletes hauls some sort of strange, canvas, wheeled duffle that looks suspiciously like a body bag.

Intimidating hockey sticks take the place of machine guns.

I concentrate on avoiding the kids darting between the cars and scan for any signs of the indoor rinks. They are supposedly connected to the bowling alley and the parking lots by some long ‘intake tunnels.’ Gray had said to find the largest building, but I can't tell which one looks largest. Instead, I focus on the warped, plywood bowling-pin creatively—if not dangerously—attached to the metal rooftop and drive toward it.

Apparently, this crumbling bowling pin was not part of the recent renovation budget.

It's just past 6:20. I'm a little late, but proud for having the courage to come at all. I turn off the engine and I can now hear, in addition to
feel,
my heart's incessant, painful pounding. It's been doing that since I backed out of our driveway. I'm starting to sweat underneath the cotton, v-neck t-shirt Kika made me borrow. It's too tight. The lace on the matching white cami she insisted I wear underneath everything also itches like mad.

Thankfully, my
getting ready show
went as planned. Heck,
better
than planned!

Kika had been
delighted
to share her fashion knowledge and her closet full of clothes with me. Mom's antics had been comical during Kika's
wardrobe consult.
The woman pretended to stay out of our way and ‘not be involved or listening at all’ while she refolded the entire linen closet located in the hall outside Kika's room.

It's been a decade since anyone has cleaned out the linen closet.

I used the opportunity of Mom eavesdropping in the hall to plant the name,
Corey Nash
along with glowing descriptions of his blond hair and blue eyes. The family radar is fully activated. I imagine Kika and Mom are gushing over Corey's photo in the yearbook right now. To make the whole thing perfect, a text message titled ‘CNash’ came in on my newly adjusted iPhone while Kika and I were talking about
him
.

One that said:
YOU Coming soon? Can't wait to c u, QT.

Always the
QT.
I'm not going to lie, I really like when he adds that.

I blush now, thinking about how badly I'd blushed in front of Kika when the text came in. So much so, that she went wild with giggles on me. Giggles and squeals I'm sure Mom heard. Ah,
progress
again!

I avoid looking in the mirror because I don't want to be reminded of the eyeliner, mascara, blush—not to mention the squirt of some new glittery lotion my sister attacked me with. As much as I want to sweep my hair into a ponytail or up into my bun, I leave it alone. It took Kika a long time to brush it out. She curled each and every strand of my hair into (what I have to admit) are some cool looking loose curls. I must have been nuts to let a puny, giggling twerp be in charge of my outfit. But it had made Kika so happy…

I take a few calming breaths and focus on the fact that I have no other choice but to go inside. I've been dressed to assimilate. And assimilate I will.

After all the work and lies—and lotion—it took to get me into this parking lot, I'm not going home without more success to add to my list. Even if Gray and everyone I'm about to meet think I've gone overboard.

I step out of the car and feel the curls bouncing around my shoulders. I swallow the ball of dread at the back of my throat because I know it's going to take a lot more than a new hairstyle and a clone outfit to keep the natives of this planet from tagging me a ‘fake’.

I can do this. I can do this.

As I approach the door a flood of mini-hockey players and their parents rush past me, heading for the parking lots. I'm hit with a puff of cold, stale air as I work to get through the crush. For every step I take forward, the throng pushes me back. Just when I'm about to give up and retreat, a little kid dressed in hockey pads way too big for his small body saves me.

He stops, blinking up into my face, and holds the door open. I peek around him, wondering if I'm close, but I can only make out the green plastic-turf flooring and the bobbing heads of yet another stream of sweaty hockey kids and parents heading toward me.

“You going in?” the kid asks, probably because I'm blinking back at him like he's some sort of scientific specimen. Because…he is. Is this how Gray started out? Buried in padding, all freckles, red cheeks and missing front teeth?

I smile at the kid. “Uh yeah. Thanks for holding the door.”

“You're pretty,” the kid says, lisping. Still blinking.

“Josh!” A man, apparently the kid's dad, catches up. “Sorry. He's a lady-killer. Knows what he likes. Son, you can't blurt out things like that to women.”

“It's okay. He's pretty adorable himself,” I say.

“What did I do? She's pretty. But I'm
not
adorable, lady. Sheesh.” The kid's cheeks turn pink.

“Right. I'm not all the way a lady yet, either. So we're even. How about you call me a girl and I call you handsome. Deal?”

“Maybe.” He glowers.

The kid's dad smiles at me and shakes his head. “Take the compliment, Josh. This
girl's
way out of your league.” He pulls him off the door. “Let's go.”

Relaxing a bit after my first encounter with this alien race, I head farther into the tunnel just as the second swarm of kids and parents envelop every inch of space around me. I hold my ground until they pass. Then, without looking back, I march through this second hallway as though heading for battle.

If this place is an alien planet, then I'm entering the mother ship. Gathering my courage, I stop a guy who looks like he's my age. “Excuse me…” I say, watching his gaze skirt over me and then land on the floor. “You know where the snack bar is?”

“Up there, smack in the middle.” He flushes bright pink and rushes away.

Chapter Fifteen

Gray

It's impossible for me not to spot Jess. She's emerged through the rink's EXIT doors and seems unaware she's entered in the wrong direction.

“Would you look at her hair?” I pull in a quiet whistle. I've never seen it down. The shine—the
length
—almost hits her waist.

The rink's horrible, seventies fluorescent lighting never flatters anyone, but Jess seems to be glowing under them. She looks around, and I can tell by the set of her shoulders that she's tense. Her hands are also gripped into tight fists. When she glances toward the open snack bar area where the tables are, I detect a hint of disappointment in her expression. She walks around each table as though searching for something and I realize that something is not me…she's too focused on the tables. What is she doing?

I guess I'm glad she hasn't noticed me. I'm holding two giant-sized cans of ‘Pico Nacho Cheese Sauce’ like a dork. I also can't seem to shut my gaping mouth, which only opens wider now that I've caught sight of her profile as she draws closer, making a slow lap around yet another table.

I ditch the cans onto a table and step toward her.

“Holy crap and double
wow
,” I say under my breath. I can't move. My chest tightens and I experience a brief moment of panic. She's put on some sort of makeup. Her already remarkable eyes seem lighter and twice as large even at this distance.

And her lips! “Damn.”

I can hardly breathe as I hide myself behind one of the support pillars. Her lips have been transformed by some sort of intriguing lip-gloss or lipstick or whatever it is girls use in their attempts to freak out guys.

Yesterday, I thought I hated that junk…but now…I'm not so sure.

No. LipGloss is still the worst thing ever invented. I still hate it. I do. I do.

“You're losing it, dude. Calm down. You knew what she looked like well before tonight.” I decide on a new plan. I'll pretend I haven't seen her yet.

I quickly pick the cheese cans back up and head toward the half-door entrance into the snack bar. The snack bar will allow me three good feet of counter space between me and her. Then, I'll call her over. Call my girlfriend over. Yeah. My girlfriend. My
pretend
, unbelievably beautiful, pretend girlfriend.

Pretend. Pretend. Pretend.

I close my mouth just in time and paste on my game face as she spots me and heads me off. She's trapped me on the front side of the counter.

Way. Too. Close. To. Her. LIPGLOSS.

“Hey,” she says.

“There you are.” I cover my choking voice with a small cough.

Uncertain of where to look and where not to look, I concentrate on her eyes. On what she's feeling. Not on how she looks—not on how she's made my heart feel like it's in a horse race.

Her expression is wary. Somewhat hunted and very nervous.

As much as I want to play this cool and tell her this night is going to go perfectly, I can't reassure her because I've never felt this freaked out in my entire life. I have no idea how to talk to this amazingly beautiful yet vulnerable looking version of Jess Jordan. She's right. I have no idea who she is at all.

“Was the place hard to find?” I ask, hoping she doesn't notice the cowardly squeak in my voice. I skirt past her and dump the giant cans of cheese onto the counter and duck behind it. My senses are instantly overwhelmed by how she smells. Something is different. Not cinnamon anymore, but…

“Easy. I had a map.” She follows me to the counter and leans on it. She's pretending to study the cans of cheese.

I do the same. It's like the drawing of the smiling cartoon green-chili-guy on the logo is the most curious and interesting thing we've ever encountered. When she leans forward, her hair curls against the counter top and I realize the new smell is coming off her hair. Some sort of amazing shampoo. I move my hands away from the glowing curls. Too tempting. They look really soft—and cool.

“Why were you looking over the tables so closely? Is something wrong with them?” I ask, breaking the awkward silence.

“I was hoping for a table where I could sit with my back to the wall.” She looks up with her mask in place. Her little sassy challenge smile is also on high. “Since my back to the wall is not possible, tell me…where do you want me?”

Where do I want her? Where do I want her!
If any other girl came to meet me looking like
this
, asking me where I wanted her—I would've let loose on the flirting. But I can't even go there. I'm trying to honor her request. Plus I don't want her to feel more uncomfortable than she already seems.

My gaze drops to her lips. AGAIN. I take a quick breath and look away, hoping she hasn't noticed. I have to cross my arms to resist the temptation I have to touch her hair again. Her face, or her small, nail bitten hands. I bite my bottom lip to keep myself from saying the cheesy lines flooding my brain.

“Hmm, where
do
I want you?” I manage. And just barely.

“What? You're acting really weird,” she snaps. “Is this the wrong look, or outfit, or what? If so, I can make it out of here before the others show.”

“It's PEACHES,” I say, realizing too late, that I should not have said that out loud.

“What?” She raises an eyebrow.

“Do you smell faintly…like peaches?”

Or should I say you smell like peach cinnamon heaven?

“God. Yes, I—I think I do. I'm sorry.” She winces. A cute tinge of pink floods her cheeks. “Kika lent me some make-up stuff and slathered me with one of her odd fruit lotions. It's bad, huh? My sister is all about fruit-scented products.”

“PIE,” I say, and pull in a huge breath. “It's peach pie, isn't it? Like peaches with vanilla?”

“Uh…yeah. Guilty. But…is it really that bad?” She motions to her hair, then her face. “I can wash some of this junk off. Kika's in eighth grade and…well, she said all this stuff—this outfit—would be good for hanging out.” Her mask is wiped away and now I feel terrible, because her expression looks panicked.

I pull myself together and try to say something sane to erase the crinkle of doubt and worry creasing her forehead.

“No. No! I love it. I mean—it's great. You—how beautiful you look. It threw me off. And, you have no idea how much I love peach pie, a-la-mode. Sorry…sue me, dock my pay, but damn, girl. You've turned me into a stuttering fool.” I smile but cringe inwardly, knowing I've crossed over the edge of flirting with her again.

“Swear you aren't lying? I knew I'd mess this up by trying too hard. I'm paying you, yes. But don't blow smoke up my ass if this is all wrong. I don't want to be humiliated here.”

“No! Honest. I simply had no idea it was possible for you to look more beautiful than you look…normally. So…I sort of lost it there. And it's not often a girl shows up smelling like my favorite food.”