Don't Kiss Him Good-Bye (4 page)

“I’m going to the coffeehouse at my church tonight,” I told Penny.

“Brilliant—a coffeehouse at church,” Penny said. “Not that I’ve ever been to one. We don’t go to church much. Ever, actually.”

I knew I should have invited her right then. It was an opening, and I, as a Christian, was supposed to be looking for those things. But it felt weird. I didn’t want her to come when I was still as geeky as a newborn calf there. Once I knew a lot of people and felt at home,
then
I’d invite her. “I’ll let you know how it goes,” I said. “Want to do Fishcoteque after school tomorrow? I won’t be at lunch, so I’ll be good and hungry.”

“Why won’t you be at lunch?” she asked.

“I’m meeting with Rhys to help him with his paper.”

Penny slowly crumpled the protein bar wrapper, got up to throw it in the dustbin, and silently sat next to me.

“You have a great way of showing your disapproval without saying a word,” I noted. “He’s a new kid. He needs help. He hangs out in the library during lunch just like I used to because he hardly knows anyone.”

“Wherever did you get that idea?” Penny said. “He’s been here longer than you, and you manage fine. And he hangs out in the library during his fourth period because he’s on academic suspension. I know because he’s in my maths class. He has second lunch.”

I shrugged it off. One of the things I prided myself on was being a fine judge of character. After all, I’d picked Penny, hadn’t I? I, too, could neatly and quietly fold up my protein bar wrapper and then throw it into the rubbish bin without a word. It was the first time I’d been really irritated with Penny. But I felt justified.
Really.

On the way out of the cafeteria, I walked by the newspaper table, and Melissa stopped me.

“Here, Savvy,” she said, handing over a beautiful, leather-bound Wexburg Academy
Times
notebook. It wasn’t quite a pen—those were saved for writers with bylines—but it was definitely a sign of acceptance. “Since you’ll be an information stringer with Natalie for the May Day Ball, I thought you deserved this to take notes in. Jack agreed.”

I looked over at him, and he grinned. He knew I deserved one for the Asking for Trouble column. “Thanks, Melissa.” I hugged her, amazed at how she could always find a way to do something kind.

“You can meet Natalie before you deliver the papers tomorrow morning,” she said. Her smile disappeared. Even Hazelle looked away at that.

Chapter 7

My dad was going to drive me to church that night, which was fine, although I probably would have been less nervous if it had been Mom, but she was going to a book club meeting with our next-door neighbor Vivienne. Not that Dad did anything wrong. Moms were more reassuring in situations where you felt unsure of yourself, didn’t know anyone, or just needed an emotional pat on the head. But maybe I needed a little push into the pool, and Dad was better for that.

“You coming?” he called to Louanne. Once again, she was mooning around by the back door. It was odd. Had she suddenly acquired Mom’s interest in gardening?

“Um, no. I think I’ll stay here. Giggle might need me.”

Dad and I both looked at her quizzically before I spoke up. “Church is only like twenty to thirty minutes away. Growl probably won’t move from the back of the couch.”

“Still,” she insisted. We locked her in and took off.

“Nervous?” Dad asked.

“Oh, a little,” I said. “I know Supriya, though, and I can just hang out in the back and do nothing for a couple of months until I get to know more people. Lie low. You know.” I sounded more reassured than I felt.
“Fake it till you make it,”
Grandma Trudy used to say.

Pretty soon we pulled up in front of the church. It had taken us a few church visits and mishaps before we’d found a place we felt comfortable. We’d been going Sunday mornings for a couple of months, but it was a big church, and I felt lost in the crowd. I was hoping to make a few Christian friends, and Supriya had told me it was easier to do that on Wednesday nights. As Madame Antoinette, my French teacher would say
, “Et voilà.”
Here I was.

“Go get ’em, Tiger,” Dad said.

I smiled weakly. I was not in the mood for geek encouragement.

I walked into the building and headed toward the youth group area. I could smell the coffee—not tea, like they usually had in this country, but coffee.
Thank You, Lord, for a little encouragement.
My former hometown, Seattle, was known for its coffee. I had felt confident and welcome in my church there. The nutty roasted perfume floating through the building reminded me of that and gave me a boost.

I walked into the room and stood there for a minute getting my bearings. Almost immediately, Supriya spied me from across the room and came running over. She didn’t have on a sari, which she often wore on Sundays. Her purple sweater over dark blue jeans was perfectly suited to her creamy skin, and tiny diamonds sparkled from her nose and ears. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s find a good seat before everyone and their cat arrives. The best seats are on the soft couches.”

She pulled me over to a corner where a few people were already drinking coffee. One guy clowned around and let the foam from his latte make a white Colonel Sanders mustache. Supriya introduced me to everyone and then ran off to get a refill on her coffee. I held our places; I’d get a mocha when she got back.

“Hi, Savvy, my name’s Joe.” One of the youth leaders held out his hand, and we chatted for a while. Turned out he was on the praise team—I remembered seeing him up there playing the guitar.

“I play guitar too,” I offered.

“Really? What do you like to play?”

“Oh, some worship music. And Taylor Swift. I like her because she writes her own stuff. And because she writes about stuff that I can relate to and understand.”

He and I talked music for a few minutes before he said, “Would you ever consider playing guitar on the worship team?”

How could he have known that was a dream I’d had? “I’d love to!” I said. I didn’t normally like being in the spotlight, but I figured when you’re up there with the whole worship band, it’s easy to melt into the whole group.

“Great,” he said. “I’ll keep it in mind next time we’re thinking about adding a guitarist.”

After that our conversation drifted off. I felt someone sit down on the couch next to me. I turned to tell Supriya that I would get my coffee from the barista at the cart in the back. But when I looked, it wasn’t her. “You’re not Supriya!” I realized how idiotic it sounded as soon as it came out of my mouth. But the guy sitting next to me didn’t make fun of me.

He smiled and shook his head. “Nope. Sorry to disappoint.”

Chapter 8

I almost blurted out that there was no way I was disappointed, but I stopped the words just in time. I replaced them with a cool, “Hi, Tommy. I never noticed you here before.”

“You sure do know how to build a lad’s confidence.” I was pretty sure there was a touch of playful teasing in his grin.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m pretty new here.”

“And it’s a big place,” he said. “I understand. Don’t like coffee?”

I looked around, and everyone else was holding a mug or a takeaway cup. “I love coffee. I’m originally from Seattle, the birthplace of Starbucks. I was just saving a spot for Supriya until she got back.”

“I’ll get one for you.” He stood up. “What do you like?”

“Mocha?” I said hopefully. “No whipped cream,” I added. Drat those Aristocats. Their diet rules had even infected my coffee habits. But it was too late to take it back. Next time, extra whipped cream. Even if it showed up as a slight muffin top later.

“Sure,” he said.

As Tommy left, Supriya came back. “You know each other?” She nodded at his retreating back.

“We go to school together,” I said as coolly as I could. “And I met him at one of my sister’s dog shows.” The truth was, every time I’d bumped into him at school, we talked a little longer and I liked him a little better than before.

“You’re red in the face, Savvy,” she teased. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you fancied him.”

I prided myself on avoiding little white lies lately, after my share of missteps in this area. So even though I wanted to deny it, I said nothing.