Who's Your Daddy? (11 page)

“He’s in charge of new recruits.”

“I’m not a recruit! Recruit implies that someone talked you into WANTING to join. I’m doing this under extreme duress!”

Dad just ignored me. “Either way. Fm assigning you to work side by side with Lt. Sebring for the next several months. He’ll show you the ropes and give me weekly reports on your cooperation and progress. Now, skedaddle.” He winked. “We need to get you a uniform by next weekend.”

I was afraid to ask. “Why?”

Dad looked at me like I was completely obtuse. “Well, so you can work the White Peaks football game, of course.”

ACCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!

Not only was I a junior narc, but I was chained to
Dylan from now until next year, or until my brain exploded, whichever came first. AND, I had to wear that heinous uniform in front of The Whole School at the next football game.

It was BEYOND the worst punishment I could have ever imagined. It was a life-destroying punishment. I’d have to seek THERAPY when I was thirty, thanks to this cruelness.

My ears felt clogged and my nose was running. The torrent of tears had swelled my eyes into fat little sausage slits. And now, Dylan Freakin’ Sebring would be at the front door in LESS than fifteen minutes. I spun on my heels, desperate to hit the makeup bag for some much-needed touch-ups, but my dad’s words stopped me:

“One more thing.”

What else? I thought. NOTHING he could tell me could be worse than the junior narc bomb he’d dropped. Feeling surly, I turned back to face him and cocked one eyebrow in question.

“You’re still grounded.”

“Shocker.”

“
And
… no spending time outside of school with Meryl and Caressa for two weeks.”

“Dad!”

“Their parents already know, so don’t try your sneaking-out scam again.”

Great, now I didn’t even have a support system, and my two best friends’ parents thought I was a hooligan. He might as well have killed me. No. On second thought, killing me would’ve been preferable to THIS.

It was official: My universe had come to a grinding, moaning halt … right on the proverbial railroad tracks.

Dear Lila
—

I’m going to make your life an utter cesspool of misery, but someday you’ll thank me for it.

Love, Dad

Riiiiiiiight. And someday I’ll thank my skin for zits, too.

Let me tell you a few things I’ve learned in the past week and a half about men’s double-knit, Dacron polyester cop pants:

(1) They feel like you have a garbage bag tangled around your legs. And they chafe. And they go swish, swish, swish between your thighs every time you take a freakin’ step, almost as if you have the fattest legs in the universe.

(2) No matter how many different sizes they sell at that creepy cop uniform store, none of them fit you exactly right. Hence, they either make you look like (a) you’re walking on a pair of overly plump, blue sausages (too small), or (b) you had an accident, and you’re walking around with a giant pantload (too big).

(3) Anyone who wears these repulsive pants and isn’t getting paid handsomely to do so is a major tool. (Apparently, myself included, even though I’m wearing them under duress.)

(4) They shouldn’t give weapons to the people forced to don these freak-show pants, because wearing them makes you instantly suicidal (or homicidal).

I swear, if I ever find out who invented double-knit Dacron polyester and then thought, Hmm, this would make a GREAT pair of pants, I will hunt him down and kill him. I may revive him just to have the pleasure of killing him twice. And, yes, it HAD to be a HIM. No woman would invent fabric this WRONG.

The very WORST thing about these Satanic, beastly, vomitous pants we junior nares are forced to wear is the fact that they actually make Dylan’s butt look BETTER than it does naturally. On me, though, they have that unappealing my-butt’s-so-huge-it-needs-its-own-zip-code effect. ARGH!!! Just when I thought life couldn’t get any worse, I’m officially a junior narc AND I have a HUGE ROUND ASS. Perfect.

And that’s JUST the result of the pants.

I have not even TOUCHED on the rest of this abhorrent
eunuch-form. But since I’m on a fairly decent rant, here goes:

(1) Ugly, western-style, light blue polyester shirt with fake buttons hiding a ZIPPER, for God’s sake. It’s on par with Velcro tennis shoes. I mean, really.

(2) Shiny, high-cut, Michelin Man parka, circa 1950, with a gigantic faux fur collar that would make an Eskimo cringe.

(3) Two-inch-wide, shiny, basketweave leather belt with a tacky “hi-ho!” pirate buckle.

The only good part of the uniform is the cool set of sh**kicker Rocky boots, but even THEY aren’t cool enough to make up for the rest.

1. Wanted. To. Die.

Truly.

Not only was I a rookie narc with a Big Giant Polyester-encased Ass, but I had to wear that grotesque get-up in front of The Whole School. In less than thirty minutes, as a matter of fact. And I thought I had trouble getting dates two WEEKS ago. HA!

So there I sat in the briefing area we’d set up in one of the classrooms, a miserable fashion violator draped in double-knit and defeat. I was barely listening as
Dylan—whom I had to refer to as LIEUTENANT SEEKING when we worked (choke)—went over the evening’s “strategy” with me and the rest of the narc squad.

Gimmeafreakinbreak—strategy?

Everyone acted like we were pulling top-level security duty for the First Lady, or for Brad and Jennifer—important people like that. COME ON, it was a stupid football game! And the team sucked anyway. We were solidly LAST PLACE in the league.

Our entire purpose at the games is (1) to rip tickets at the gate and (2) narc on anyone who is having more fun than we are—which is basically EVERYONE. How could it not be? We’re charged with standing around looking like a bunch of geeky buttwipes, while at the same time alienating our peers. Woohoo! What a deal. I mean, let’s face it, even the MARCHING BAND has cooler uniforms and more peer support than we do.

Here’s the other thing I was cranked off about as I sat there in the bogus briefing: Dylan. I’d spent more time with the guy in the last ten days than he’d spent with his own girlfriend, and I wanted to despise him. I really did. But, he was making it verrrrry difficult, and that was supremo aggravating.

Dylan was absolutely everything I did not want in a guy … and yet, the more I hung around him, the harder it became to ignore his major hottie factor. Plus, he could be sort of nice, and he wasn’t totally the cookie cutter guy I’d imagined him to be. SIGH. Get this: he actually has a tattoo of that cool striped monster from
Where the Wild Things Are
on his shoulder. I don’t know WHY I found that overwhelmingly sexy (other than the fact that I’d gotten a glimpse of his bare chest, back, shoulder, and abs the same time I spied the tatt), but I did. I mean, what a sweet choice for ink!

Tattoo aside, the whole situation with us working as a team was unfair and unbalanced. I was subjected to his blinding hunkiness and intimate knowledge of his coolio tattoo every day, while he merely had an up-front and personal view of my giant butt in the heinous man pants. FAIR?!? I think not. (I can almost hear my dad’s voice saying, “No one ever said life would be fair, Lila.” Yeah, tell me about it.)

I was absolute guy-repellent in my junior narc costume, and no one cared. Life was miserable. Having to look that horrid in front of one of the cutest guys in school was really more than I could handle.

From day one of my sentence, though, I must say Dylan had been nothing but nice to me, even when I went out of my way to be a hag (which I did every day). I can appreciate that in a guy.

Someone ELSE’S guy, Lila. Remember?

I had to remind myself of that a lot now.

His girlfriend was none other than the illustrious Miffany’s best friend and fellow cheerleader, Jennifer Hamilton. She’s petite and blonde, and I can guarantee her butt does not require its own zip code. She has this whole sweetsie-blecho persona going, but I don’t know. It seems more like a role she plays than who she really is. Sure she looks cute and bubbly at first glance, but she has this hard veneer you glimpse every so often when her guard is down. I mean, her
best friend
is dating my brother, and yet Jennifer’s never even made direct eye contact with me. Not once. If we do pass in the hall, or whatever, her gaze moves over me as if I were a fern or some wallpaper—just there, but not worthy of her time or attention.

Regardless of my feelings about her, though, she was Dylan’s girlfriend. So, no matter how nice he was to me, or how much time we spent together, no matter
how kickin’ his tattoo was in comparison to all the generic designs out there, Dylan Sebring was STILL Some Other Girl’s Guy. I’d be an idiot to even fantasize that the situation were different, not to mention that he is not, and would never be, the least bit interested in Lila Lawbreaker Moreno, of all people.

Which is fine, because I don’t want him.

[Sniff]

No, really. I don’t.

Sloppy cheerleader seconds? YEEEEEECH.

My dad’s robotic Mini-Me? Not so much.

My mission, hence, was to do everything in my power to show Dylan Sebring and the rest of the world that his charms did nothing for me, and I was not (even though I kinda was, but not
really
) crushing on him. Hiding my feelings would be a piece of cake, right? I have four pesky brothers. Snide disdain is an attitude I’ve raised to an art form out of sheer necessity.

Sound and movement suddenly burst all around me, yanking me out of my ruminations. I blinked up at the pandemonium in the “briefing room,” trying to figure out what was going on. Dylan had apparently finished his stupid gung ho cop speech, because the rest of the
narcs were scattering like happy little cockroaches, all bright-faced and pukingly chipper, ready to head out to Cougar Stadium.

I, on the other hand, stayed in my seat, actively practicing poor posture and apathy. Believe me, I had no urgency to get this party started.

“Excited about the game?” Lt. Oblivious-to-Body-Language asked, once we were alone in the room and he stood directly in front of me. He rubbed his palms together and smiled at me as though we had a rollicking good time ahead of us.

Of course, I thought the question had been a joke, but it looked like he really meant it. Cool tatt or not, that was one heck of a dumbass question. I glanced up with a death-glare expression. “What are you, high?”

“Aw, come on, Moreno.” He reached out and tugged on a lock of my hair, which gave me chills. “It’ll be fun.”

I made a show of pulling away from him, scowling as I stood up, but secretly it was kind of cool how he just felt free to touch me all casual-like. Still, I couldn’t let on that he affected me in any way at all.

Jennifer Hamilton. Jennifer Hamilton. Jennifer Hamilton.

That did it. My surliness quotient jumped a notch. “You have a twisted idea of fun, Sebring. What do you do for a date? Lock your girlfriend in the trunk of your car?”

He just laughed as if my fury were more amusing than a pile of puppies. Was he practicing to be my dad or something? Oh, yes. HOW could I forget? That’s EXACTLY what he was doing. HORK. My resolve to resist strengthened even further.

“Look,” he said, draping his arm over my shoulder as we headed for the door, “you seem nervous, but don’t sweat tonight.”

I shrugged his arm off, even though it had felt pretty nice there.
Step away from the Lila
. “Please,” I said, with a giant scoff. “Like I am.”

“Well, it is your first time on duty, so I thought—”

“Look, I prayed to the Virgin Mary about it before I got here, okay?” I said, in a sarcastic, and probably blasphemous, tone. “I think I’ll muddle through.”

Another laugh. To be honest, he was
annoyingly
unaffected by my venomous attitude, which was annoyingly reminiscent of my FATHER. Again. “Whatever,” he said lightly. “Just hang with me and I’ll walk you through everything.”

“Yeah, thanks. But I really don’t think I need a lesson on how to rip a ticket, Dylan. Oh, I’m sorry. I meant
Lieutenant
Sebring.” I viciously yanked up my ugly parka zipper, wishing I had a deep hood in which to hide my face.

His head cocked to the side like a curious puppy, and he studied my face. “You’re fun, Lila. You know that?”

My tummy jumped and got kind of warm, so I didn’t say anything. But I bit the insides of my cheeks to keep from smiling, then managed a huge “whatever” eye roll.

“No, really. Most girls are just sort of … nice. But you’re totally not. It’s refreshing.”

Huh?!?!? I wanted to take it as a compliment, and I’m sure he meant it that way, but he’d just told me I wasn’t
nice
. SWELL. I mean, sure, I wasn’t exactly trying to be nice, but still. “Gee, thanks, sweet talker.” I punched him in the vicinity of his
Wild Thing
tattoo. Hard. “With lines like that, I’m surprised you don’t have the girls banging down your door … carrying loaded shotguns.”

He laughed really hard at that one. “See?” he said, all happy-camperish, flipping his hands palm up. “You’re totally not nice. In fact, you’re practically like one of the guys.”