Rule #9 (7 page)

Blake walks in front of me. “I don’t know how many times or how many different ways I have to say I’m sorry. But I’ll do it. However or whatever you need me to do, I’ll do it. Just talk to me, Massie.” He puts his hands together like he’s praying.

I swear if he gets on his knees I’ll smack him with my skates.

Then there’s a part of me that wants to fold into his arms, but I can’t. I remember the tears I shed. I remember the tears my mom shed. Blake is no different from my father—once a cheater, always a cheater. I walk past him toward the door.

“You might regret this one day, Massie.”

“Or not,” I say without looking back. I walk past the front desk. Mr. Linebacker with the nametag Jack is no longer there. Good thing. I don’t want him to think I’m leaving because I’m a dateless loser, which I am.

I text Natalie and find out that she left because she caught Colby with his tongue down some freshman’s throat. I try to get her to go out with me.

8:30 text to Natalie:
meet me at Pollywog’s?

Pollywog’s is the local coffee shop. This is always where Natalie works.

8:45 text to Natalie:
we can go to my house

8:52 text to Natalie:
I can hang with you

She finally texts back as I walk out the door.

8:58 Natalie text to me:
no you stay I’m fine

8:59 text to Natalie:
u r killing me I don’t wanna stay

When I get to my car, Colby is leaning against his Mustang, which is now next to mine. “Need a ride?”

I consider kicking him in the nads but he’s too strong and he hasn’t done anything to warrant the attack. Colby’s the poster child for why football players shouldn’t take steroids. He’s the Hulk without morals. Colby swears he doesn’t use, but high schools don’t test for muscle enhancers. College will wake him from his supervillain world. The first time he tests, he’s done. Without the roids he’s useless.

I dig into my purse. Shit, I can’t find my keys.

“We should go out sometime.” His hazel eyes hide beneath his bent-out-of-shape baseball cap. His blond curls shoot out the sides.

“Just get in your car and go home.” I keep digging in my purse. I look down but I keep an eye on the pig beside me. It’s not good enough to hear him squeal, I need to know his every move.

“You know you want me,” he says.

The rattle of keys behind me makes me turn. Mr. Linebacker with the nametag Jack stands behind me. He’s glaring at Colby but talking to me. “Missing something?” Jack dangles the keys in the air.

“I’d stay away from her, dude. She’s a tease,” Colby says.

Jack stiffens and his hands close into fists. “I suggest you shut your mouth before I slap the fire out of you.”

“You can have her.” Colby slithers into his Mustang. He roars the engine before burning rubber on the way out of the parking lot.

Jack towers over me. My keys seem tiny in his hands. I feel a little stupid. I could have been jacked, no pun intended. I always know my surroundings. I always have my keys before I leave a building, and I never text in dark parking lots. My mom has drilled this into me a hundred million times.

“Thanks again,” I say.

Mr. Linebacker with the nametag Jack doesn’t respond. Instead, he hits the button on the remote and my car unlocks. He opens my door and waves his hand for me to climb in. Once I’m in and my seat belt’s fastened, he hands me my keys.

“Don’t get into any more pissing matches with skunks, ya hear?” he adds before he shuts the door to my car.

Great! Gorgeous. Smart (I’m almost sure of it). Strong, confident, and—maybe nice.

He still could be a crazy football player. He did punch that SUV.

He stands, waiting for me to leave. Now I look like a helpless moron. I shove the key in the ignition, start my Camaro, and put it in gear.

CHAPTER SEVEN

When I turned sixteen, my dad bought me my dream car. I didn’t deserve it. The battle for my love with my mother had begun. Only my mom didn’t play. She didn’t feel the need. She still doesn’t.

My father’s girlfriend ended up walking out on him. He tried to come home but my mom wouldn’t take him back. That’s when he started trying to outdo my mom. Mom wanted to buy me a used Corolla—it would serve its purpose and the insurance was cheap. Instead, Dad showed up with a 2010 yellow Camaro with black racing stripes. I named her Edna after my great, great grandmother. (I would never name a child Edna, but a car, that’s a different story.)

Now that my father no longer pays attention to me, my mom feels the need to play referee. I don’t want the gifts, I never did. I want him to give a crap. At least my mom listens, but now, instead of taking my side on things when my father is in the wrong, which he usually is, my mom’s always trying to fix it. Like today.

“Your dad wants you to call him,” my mom informs me as I walk into the kitchen to snatch a quick snack before heading off to school.

I grab a yogurt for breakfast. I look at the label. “Did you buy the sugar-free again? It has that nasty aftertaste.” I shove it back in the refrigerator, ignoring the conversation she wants me to engage in. I’m still mad at her. Nine more days and she’s shipping me off to the enemy. I shuffle through the top shelf, searching for anything that resembles real food.

She bumps my butt, pushing me aside and grabbing a regular raspberry yogurt from the shelf on the door. “Call your Dad. Since he got back you’ve barely spoken to him. He misses you.”

I roll my eyes. “I talked to him at school the other day. He’s got Alicia and football. He’s fine.”

“She’s not Di—”

“Mom,” I interrupt. My voice is firm and warning. I don’t want to hear that woman’s name ever again. It’s not allowed. I won’t allow it. My mom could care less, she’s over it. Not me. “You do just fine without him, why can’t I?” I ask.

“He’s your
dad
. I’d give anything to have had more time with mine,” she says.

Now I feel like shit. Her dad died when I was little. He was her hero.

“Unlike your dad, my father doesn’t care. And even if he did, I’m sure she won’t let him for long.”

“Alicia is not
her
,” Mom says.

“Just wait. She’ll turn.” I don’t have time for this today. I have to get to school. I head out the door.

“He’s still your dad and he loves you,” she hollers.

When my father first left, that skank hoarded his time and I rarely saw him. My mother’s excuse was, “He’s going through a selfish phase. He’s lost balance. Men don’t understand balance.” No shit, when you leave your wife for a skank you’re going to lose some balance.

I miss my dad. Not the dad he is now, but the dad he used to be. It’s not like I want to spend tons of time with him. I have a life. But I miss going to see my dad’s artwork on display. My father, successful accountant by day and artist by night (during the off-season, of course), used to love his hobby, before he lost what my mother calls “balance.”

My dad sketched birds, flowers, trees. Some of the birds looked like cartoon characters. One of his framed paintings hangs in my room, a blue ostrich with a long beak. The long legs make the character look like a unique stick figure. “You’d look like that if you were a bird, Massie girl,” he said as he hung the painting across from my bed.

“Are you saying I have a long nose?” I asked him.

“Your nose is perfect, string bean,” Dad said. “I love your pollywogs.”

I’d wanted to be just like him. “It’s you, Daddy. See, you’re the coach pollywog helping the football players,” I said, looking up at my dad with pride. I loved when we drew together. “I’m gonna draw a whistle on a lanyard too.”

“Just make sure the lanyard is royal blue. That’s Pine Gulch High School’s main color.”

My father stopped drawing when the skank entered the picture. The few pieces he displayed at the library and the event center dwindled to nothing. So did the time I spent with him. Between football and his girlfriend, there wasn’t any more time for art—or me.

What if Alicia doesn’t recognize that my dad possesses such talent? What if she tries to keep his passion for art in check? And if she finds out it is something my dad and I have in common, what will she do with that?

I’m so scared that we’ll never go back to the way it was that it’s just better to let it go. That way I don’t have to continue to miss it.

#

Five more long, grueling minutes before the bell rings for lunch and we are free. The room smells stale, like someone took off their shoes after football practice. Half the class is asleep, some with their eyes open. I’m not sure what is worse, the conversation with my mother this morning or sitting in Reeves’s class, struggling to start our assigned reading,
In Cold Blood
by Truman Capote. I don’t like fictional work based off of true stories, especially when they’re about murdering an entire family. There’s enough of that on the news and it’s depressing. I’d much rather read a romance novel about sweet baseball players who stick up for their girl, even though boys like that don’t really exist. Not that I like baseball players, because I don’t. I’d want them to be football players.

I wish I could find a boyfriend to confide in. Is finding a boy who can be my friend too much to ask for? I want a boyfriend who will listen to me. Really listen, not like my dad used to listen to my mom, with one-word or grunting responses. I want a boy who will give a crap. And that stupid “yes, dear” is ridiculous, too. I don’t want to end up with some boy who will just do what I want to make me happy. If that’s all there is, I’ll settle for the convent. Even though I wouldn’t look good in a habit.

Reeves stands in the back of the room talking to one of the football coaches about a new kid. “I hear he’s smart, reads the play quickly, and has a nose for the ball.” Great, a new football player for my dad to drool over.

The bell jolts the class awake and it’s a race for the door.

I find Natalie in the hall. Her head is down as she shuffles toward the commons. “You okay?” I lock my arm through Natalie’s.

“Yeah, Colby’s a jerk. I should’ve known better. I totally jacked it up with Tyler, though. He won’t even talk to me.” Natalie allows me to drag her through the hall.

“I wouldn’t talk to you either.” I won’t bullshit Natalie. She’d call me out if I tried. We tried to get her to go with the right boy, but Natalie has this habit of chasing the wrong boy. Not that my recent choices top my friends’. But that bad-boy image isn’t something I crave. Okay, I like bad boys, but I want a nice bad boy. Does that even make sense?

If she wanted to, Natalie could date the nicest boy in the school, Tyler. He changed over the summer and he’s really cute. But no—she wants a hot, mean bad boy. She doesn’t believe she deserves better. In my opinion, Colby isn’t all that hot. I don’t care how the specks in his eyes sparkle when he smiles. The jerk doesn’t smile enough for the specks to make a difference, in my opinion.

Natalie thinks so, though.

Once we get through the lunch line I ask Natalie, “Where’s Vianna?” I look around the lunchroom. The commons is filled with those who can’t leave during lunch, either because they don’t own cars or they’re not supposed to leave. It’s not hard to escape the grounds. The security guard doesn’t check our IDs to confirm our open campus privilege. Which means most of the kids in the commons are freshman and makes for a loud forty minutes since their voices echo up the walls.

Natalie finds an open table. She allows her plaid backpack to hit the floor, then slides her half-empty tray onto the table and sulks. “She ditched us for Hunter. They went off campus for—”

“What?” I say. I can’t hear her.

“Burritos,” she yells.

I spot Colby sitting across the room, next to some freshman girl wearing his red-and-white Northridge letter jacket. “What the hell is he doing here?” I drop my backpack next to Natalie’s. He goes to the rival school, but his mom is the attendance lady at ours.

“They deserve each other.” Natalie stares down at her food.

“Nobody deserves that scumbag.” I look over to find Colby feeding the girl apples. What an idiot. “Think about it, Natalie. All he can get is freshmen.”

“And me,” she says.

Crap. I shouldn’t have said it. I hate that jackass.

Colby catches my eye, his arm still wrapped around freshman girl’s neck. He tilts his head back and lips the words “hey baby.”

“Can you believe him?” Natalie turns away, taking her plate along with her and not on purpose. I grab the plate before the celery sticks and plain chicken patty can topple onto my friend’s lap. My loud friend, full of fire most of the time, is letting this creep poor water over her. It really pisses me off.

I look back at Colby. “Asshole,” I whisper. I force my eyes to lock on his, even though I can feel the hairs on my neck stand on end.

“Let it go.” Natalie puts her hand on mine. “You don’t have stick up for me.”

“He’s a little prick,” I say, still holding my defiant stare. Colby’s eyes dart away. “See? He’s not as tough as he thinks. I win.”

“I. Don’t. Think. You. Caused. That,” Natalie says.

A tray filled with food slides next to me. Then the thud of an orange-and-black Cincinnati Bengals backpack hits the table. I turn to find Mr. Linebacker with the nametag Jack, only without the nametag. His piercing emerald eyes fixed on Colby.

“Crap.” I look down at my plate. It’s
him
. Dad’s Alec or Jake or Jackson or whoever is
Jack
, Alicia’s friend’s brother. He’s also the linebacker that Reeves was talking about, the super-gorgeous linebacker, the boy at the Fieldhouse, the boy my dad wants me “to show around the school.” Nice. How did I not see this coming? Of course it’s him. I’m so screwed.

Jack sits. Close.

I push the backpack away. “Wrong orange.”

“I’m not from around these parts. So for me, it’s the right orange.” He pushes the backpack where he set it in the first place.

“Your little kittens didn’t make it to the Super Bowl.” I move closer to Natalie.

“Your donkeys choked.” He digs into the food piled on his tray.

“Don’t call my Broncos donkeys.”

He doesn’t look up from his food. “Then don’t call my Bengals kittens.”

Natalie shoves me closer to Jack. She gives me that “what the hell is your problem” look, also known as the “don’t be stupid, the boy is hot” look.

She sticks out her hand. “Hey. I’m Natalie.”

Jack shoves his burger into his mouth with his right hand and shakes Natalie’s hand with his left. “Jack.”

“This is Massie.” She bumps me closer.

“I know who she is,” he says in that damn voice. And winks. At me.

I blush and turn away. That’s when I see my dad leaving the athletic wing. “I gotta go.” I stand and leave my friend with gorgeous linebacker Jack.

I dump my food in the trash. I wasn’t hungry anyway. I open my planner and read the quote of the day so I don’t have to look at Jack as I scoot out of the commons. Today the quote is from Mother Teresa: “If you judge people, you have no time to love them.”

I slide my thumb along the spiral spine. “Colby is a big ass. I don’t want to love him. And Mr. Linebacker. Dang it. He’s so damn cute.” I mumble under my breath. “Football players.”

My phone vibrates and I pull it out of my back pocket.

Text from Mom:
Massie, your dad would like to take you out to dinner tonight. I’m working late so I think this would be a good opportunity for you to spend time with him. He’s trying and you need to try as well.

The text stops but she’s not done. My mother can never say anything quickly or get to the point. My mom also won’t learn the abbreviated form of words; she considers this lazy. She doesn’t want the abbreviated words spilling over into her business world. Blah, blah, blah.

Text from Mom:
I understand the whole “you know who” thing was hard, but that is over. Alicia is not her and you could at least give Alicia a chance. Everyone deserves a chance. You’ve told me that exact same thing.

Text from Mom:
Remember Blake? I saw from the beginning that he didn’t deserve you. I could tell that he was one of those boys who use girls and when he’s done he moves on.

Text from Mom:
Sorry, I didn’t mean to go there. If you can’t give Alicia a chance, at least give your dad one. He loves you. So do I.

Text from Mom:
Love you that is… I love you, Massie. You are amazing.

Finally she’s finished.