Authors: Courtney C. Stevens
The real stress is at lunch, but I’m relieved when no clandestine Hayden meetings occur before then. I’m in fourth period before the question hits me.
What if Captain Lyric is a football player?
Does our rule apply to him?
“I know what you’re thinking,” Heather says as we walk toward our seats. “And he’s not.”
“What? Who’s not what?”
“Captain Lyric. He’s no football player. So it’s safe to keep your little word-lover.”
Safe is exactly how I like things, but I give Heather my best grin. “He’s not my word-lover.”
“What-
ever
.”
“Okay, he is.” And to my surprise, even though it’s Monday, and he’s never managed it before, I see a new set of lyrics printed on the desk.
I KNOW YOUR STORY
GOT ONE OF MY OWN
YEAH, I KNOW LONELY AND ALONE
HAPPEN IN A CROWD, HAPPEN IN A KISS
BUT I KNOW HOW TO CHANGE ALL THIS
And below the lyrics, a message.
YOU LOOKED HOT FRIDAY NIGHT
My heart beats a tattoo against my rib cage. Because . . . he knows who I am. I’m no random Desk Girl to Captain Lyric.
“Maybe it
is
a football player,” Heather says. “Do you know the rest of the lyric?”
“That last part’s not a song,” I say, feeling like someone Tasered my brain.
“I know that. But dang, Captain sure made it one today.”
I take out my pencil, control the quiver in my fingers, and print just below the actual lyrics:
and change is never a waste of time
I think for a moment and then erase his additional message. No need for another desk dweller to know the Captain raised the bar. I’m sure we’re their own personal soap opera.
He knows who I am.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
“LADIES,
please. Your discussion doesn’t sound like Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs,” Mrs. Tindell says from her desk.
“Oh, it is,” Heather murmurs without moving her lips. She’s smirking like an elf at Christmas.
“Sorry, Mrs. Tindell,” I say for the both of us, and nudge Heather with my elbow.
Heather manages to whisper, but I can almost hear the squeal she’s muffling. “I can’t take it anymore. You have
got
to arrange a meet.”
I’d rather ride every roller coaster at Disney than meet the Captain face-to-face; and I’d rather peel my toenails off with a spoon than ride a roller coaster. “But that might ruin everything.”
“Are you crazy? This guy’s your own personal Romeo,”
she argues. “Not some Jack
A
. Like Collie.”
“But what if he is?” This question escapes me as Hayden’s meet-the-parents performance comes to mind. Because anybody can fool anybody for a while. Life—and love, if that’s what this is—is easier to take when it’s written on a desk.
I’d never have to tell a desk no. A desk would never
hurt
me. A desk would never . . . R . . . me. I exhale. The
R
word is abrasive, even in my mind.
“You’d rather have words on a desk than a Romeo in the flesh?” Heather asks.
She won’t understand, and I can’t explain why I’m afraid the mystery is better than the man, so I paste on a smile and lie. “Of course I’d rather have him.”
“Well, then. I’m going to do you a favor and figure out who the Captain is.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t already,” I say.
The bell rings, but not before I have cursed the minute hand for moving at the speed of a turtle in quicksand.
Bodee’s not at his locker, so I dump my books and head to the cafeteria without enjoying one of his smiles. When I get into the cafeteria, I realize I’m batting 0 for 2. Hayden’s sitting in my usual seat at our lunch table. I choose the longest line—nachos—and plant myself at the end.
Hayden stands and walks up to me. “Can we talk?”
“Rather not,” I say.
“Well, you don’t have to. But I gotta say this.” He shoves
both hands in his back pockets and rocks from heel to toe, waiting for my permission.
I nod and look away. The quicker he talks, the quicker this is over.
“I was outta line. Way outta line on Friday,” he says very fast.
“Did Craig tell you to say that?” I ask as we reach the lunch lady.
“Black beans?” she asks without looking up.
“No,” Hayden and I say together.
“I want another chance,” he demands.
The lunch lady nods and adds another layer of melted cheese to the nachos on Hayden’s plate.
“You hear me?” he asks.
“Look, right there’s your extra cheese,” she says with a huff, and adjusts her hairnet with the back of her hand.
“I was talking to
her,
not you,” Hayden says to the lunch lady.
“Well, of all the—,” the lady says as her eyebrows disappear into the hairnet.
“Rude,”
she mutters.
“Thank you, ma’am,” I say for Hayden before I turn to him. “No way.”
“Going to change your mind,” he says with a patented smile, the kind arrogant guys use to impress girls. Apparently, he’s dusted off his confidence and brought it with him to lunch.
Bodee would never say this to me. I can’t believe Captain Lyric would either.
“Um.” I stall, and take my nachos. I want to say, “You can’t” or “My mind’s made up,” but those words don’t come.
“Look, Alexi, I . . . well, all I’m saying is I’m sorry . . . I plan to make it up to you.”
The sudden lack of defensiveness in his voice catches me by surprise. There’s fire in his cheeks and even a little drag to his step. I seize on the vulnerability. “Hayden, if you really want to make this up to me, then don’t sic your football buddies on Bodee because of Friday night.” Hayden stops. Liz and Heather are already at the table, and I get the feeling he doesn’t want them to hear us. And I guess that’s a good thing. Neither of us wants to know what they’d think.
“What is it with you and that Kool-Aid freak anyway?” he asks.
“You’re lucky that ‘Kool-Aid freak’ stepped in.” Repeating Hayden’s words hurts on two levels. One, that Hayden sees Bodee as a freak. And two, this is too close to the way I used to see Bodee.
“If he hadn’t stopped you . . .” I say it with hesitation, but I know exactly what would have happened.
“We’d have both been sorry. Sorrier,” Hayden says.
Sweat beads on my upper lip. I nod.
“Tell you what, Lex, I’ll forget about him and his Mike Tyson moves”—he tilts his nonbruised jaw toward me—“if
you’ll agree to give me another chance. Say you’ll go out with me again.”
I know this rock. And I’m intimately acquainted with this hard place.
“Why?” I manage.
“Is it so hard to believe that I like you?” When I don’t answer, he pushes. “Look, you know the guys on the team aren’t going to let Friday night go? Kool-Aid punched me. But if they saw us together, they might
forget.
I’ll tell them to if you’ll . . .” He hooks one finger around my pinkie, pulls me and my tray toward him.
“But . . .” I stare at our joined fingers. He apologizes one minute and threatens me the next. Do they teach this disarming tactic to boys at summer camp or in football practice?
“The guys should have already. It’s practically a rule of the team,” he says quickly. “So what do you say? Give me another chance to show you I’m not just a guy who likes to drink and take. I can be”—he leans in and whispers in my ear—“sweet.”
Why can’t I talk to him as if he were Kayla? It seems too simple to say, because he’s a guy, and my “no” is broken, but it’s the truth. I am powerless around men. Most men.
“Okay.” I agree to a date, knowing that even if I could say no, I won’t be able to take it if the football team, with Hayden in the lead, goes after Bodee the way his father did. I know Bodee won’t understand when I go out with Hayden again.
Maybe he’ll get angry or disappointed with me and I’ll hate that, but that seems easier to take.
And all I want is for Bodee to stay safe.
I walk the five steps to our table and sit down. Instead of reaching for a nacho, my fingers fly to my neck, searching for the grooves. I force myself to relax. Will the scabs not to itch, not here at school. I can control myself for two and a half more hours, because even the promise of pain, where my fingers curl beneath the curtain of my hair, helps me cope with saying yes to Hayden when I wanted to say no. Again.
“Hey, you okay?” Liz asks.
“Just a headache,” I say.
Heather shoves a french fry into her mouth and says, “Nope. It’s the Captain. He knows who she is. Stressing her out.”
“It’s not the Captain.” Liz puts her arm around my shoulders for a quick squeeze. “She was trapped over there with Hayden. You’re pale, Lex. What’d he say to you?”
“That he wants a chance to make up Friday to me.”
“Oh, Lex . . .”
“Don’t ‘Oh, Lex’ her. I wish Collie would say that to me,” Heather says. “The jerk.”
“What happened to your No Football Players rule?” I ask.
Heather twists one of her braids into a circle and swipes at a tear. “Oh, I don’t know what I want. I need him. I hate him. But I need him.”
“You don’t
need
him, you want him,” I say.
“You’ve got the Captain. And evidently Hayden.” She looks
at Liz. “And I give you a week, and Ray’ll come back. And then what will I have? An ex-boyfriend who screwed somebody else and doesn’t love me anymore. Nothing.”
“You have us,” Liz says.
“But that’s hardly the same,” Heather argues.
“I don’t want Hayden, and I don’t have the Captain,” I remind her. “And I guarantee Collie still loves you; he’s just being a stupid man about this.”
“But at least you have Bodee. And he’s not a stupid man.”
“Don’t have him like you think,” I say.
“There’s something about him, Lex,” Liz says, searching the cafeteria for Bodee. He’s not in sight, so she adds, “I think he’s an old soul.”
“He is,” I agree. This doesn’t give too much away.
“So you like him. But you probably don’t know what to do with him. The guy’s an oyster in the desert. Plenty of sand, but no water.”
“What the hell does that fancy phrase mean?” Heather asks.
“She just means, I like him,” I say. “And of course, I
can’t.
So I . . . don’t.” Liz nods as if she understands. “So Bodee’s a friend,” I say firmly.
A
best
friend.
My honesty with the girls surprises me. But Bodee’s right where I love him. In the room down the hall and up the stairs from mine. Dinner instead of a dinner date. A hand to hold instead of lips to kiss. He’s my fort, my sanctuary. And I won’t do anything to jeopardize this.
“So you have a friend, a lover, and a pursuer. You’re a freaking diva.”
“Hardly,” I say, because it’s far more complicated than Heather thinks. What I have is my secret, someone else’s secret, and a . . . rapist (who I have trouble calling a rapist).
The rest of the day goes by in a haze, and little exchange of words. Except the ones from my iPod. Between classes, I forgo the grunge, letting James Taylor soothe my soul with his stories. Finally, the day ends, and we walk to the car. I go through the motions, putting one foot and one word in front of the other. How I manage to keep As is a mystery to me, when my mind is stuck in a purgatory of punishment and regret.
“I didn’t see you much today,” I say to Bodee as he climbs into the Malibu next to me.
“I saw you.”
His words are almost lost as Heather punches play to turn the car into a karaoke session. Sad girls need happy music. We all join in, even Bodee. I’m not surprised he can sing after hearing Ben, but I’m surprised he’ll sing along in a car with three girls.
“You want to go to the fort?” he asks after Heather drops us off.
“Sure.” I can wait another hour to punish myself for telling Hayden yes. Dumping our stuff just inside the back door, I skirt around the pool toward the woods.
“You like having a pool?” he asks.
“I used to.”
He doesn’t ask for an explanation; he just falls into step beside me. We reach the fort’s ladder in what feels like three steps. A spider has made a home in the space between the two bottom rungs. Bodee doesn’t disturb it, but instead takes a high step above the eight legs. I want to squash it, but I climb over the spider too, since he worked so hard to avoid it.
“Lex”—he looks over his shoulder at me as we climb through the opening to the highest level—“your secrets are showing.”
I am neither surprised nor horrified at the way he cuts right to my core. Maybe, in fact, I’m a little relieved. “I know. Weird day.”
We plop down with our backs against the wall facing the big creek, and Bodee says, “You can let some of them go if you want.”
For a moment, I am suspended in a vacuum where I’m blank with uncertainty; and then I hear the breeze rustling the leaves. The gurgle of the creek. Birdsong.
And Bodee’s sigh releases me from the silence.
“I think I might be in love,” I blurt out. It surprises him as much as it surprises me. “Well, maybe not, you know,
love.
But . . . there’s someone I like.”
Bodee doesn’t pop his ring finger or his pinkie, but I watch him bend the other three until the joints
crack, crack, crack.
“I’m glad that you, well, have a good secret.”
“But it’s not. You’ll laugh when I tell you the whole story.” I giggle. The nervous kind. Because I don’t have to edit my words before I speak. Bodee gets me raw. “The thing is, I don’t even know him.”
I wait for Bodee’s reaction, his disapproval or disbelief, but he smiles. “So.”
“It started on the first week of school in psych class. I’d had a terrible day, but when I sat down in fourth period there were lyrics written on my desk. Just printed in pencil. And I know you’ve probably figured it out, but I love music. All kinds of music.”