Do Over (3 page)

“Don’t skimp on the ointment when you do their shoulders.” Aster slapped some shiny clear liquid across John’s back.

I tried to ignore her and moved to a pile of clean towels.

Aster rubbed the goo into John’s shoulders and eyed Trey. She gestured for him to get on the other table. Her precise motions spoke clearly of her cheer history. They shouted
into formation now
.

Trey went to the conference table instead. “I can do it myself.”

Aster tilted her head and resumed efforts on John. “How are you going to do your own shoulders?”

Trey said, “John’s the goalie, I’m a striker.”

John ignored them, snorted, and spoke to me through the hole in the table. “Sparkle committee. How much did y’all raise with your bake sales and eBay auctions?”

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

John’s head sprang up as I shared our extreme budget, and I grinned. He looked like he’d been sacked in a late hit by four Tomball linebackers. I folded another towel and tried not to look too superior.
Yay, Sparkle committee
.

“Good job,” Aster said, sounding sincerely impressed.

“Thanks.”

Trey nodded. “You could get something cool with that much bank.”

“Yeah, you are.” I put the towel in the pile. “You’re getting a killer prom.” Trey and John scrunched their faces at the same time. They weren’t seeing the value of my plan. Our prom would be one they’d always remember, a spectacular event topping all other galas: glorious, untouchable, romantic perfection. Baz Luhrmann would call me to design his sets. I stilled my thoughts so my enthusiasm wouldn’t land on Aster. She wouldn’t be there while Mom and Dad grew close over the pre-prom parent rituals.

“What’s on your hand?” Aster asked Trey.

“It’s nothing.”

“I always get banged up in the games,” John said. “Last week, Ian ran into me. He’s skinny, but--”

Trey’s hand was looking worse. I tuned John out, grabbed a bandage and neared Trey. “Come on.” I touched his shoulder and drew him toward the sink. Cool water splashed from the faucet.

“Wrap that cut to stave off infection,” Aster said. “And use an antibiotic ointment.”

I slowed my speech. “That means, be a big boy and let me put a Band-Aid on, so your boo-boo will get better.”

Aster raised my eyebrows. “Not a fan of jocks?”

“What’s to love? Over-privileged, promiscuous, rules don’t apply.” I plopped the bandage on the dry edge of the sink. “No offense.”

Trey shrugged and shut the water off. He blotted his arm dry then awkwardly slapped the bandage across his knuckles. I reached over to help, but Trey pulled away.

I rather admired his independence as John struggled to a seated position with a groan as if he needed help. The massage lotion combined with his whining was giving me a headache. I pressed between my eyes, and pinched the bridge of nose.

Aster pointed a long, squared-off fingernail at the top shelf behind me. “Can either of you strong guys help me get that yellow tub? I want to keep your massage supplies handy.”

I turned, hopped on the step stool, and lifted the tub down. The weight pulled my arms. The thing probably weighed thirty pounds. How many lotions had Aster purchased?

“Arch your back when you carry things,” Aster said. “The move will throw your butt out and look awesome.” Aster demonstrated the move as she took it from me. “Thanks.” She sorted through the contents. “You’re done, John.”

“Cool.” John used his elbow to open the handle on the blue interior door, and went through to the guy’s locker room.

“Paisley, come pick out a lotion to use on Trey.” Aster lined up small bottles on the conference table.

No.

Trey walked over to the massage table and climbed up. He sat, with his tan legs swinging over the side. His shoulders were tense, his face was still, and his hand was wrapped in that half-assed bandage.

I gave Aster a pleading look. “You’ll have to do Trey’s massage.”

Aster nodded, unscrewed the lids and sniffed.

Trey stiffened even more then swung his legs to the top of the table. “I can do it.”

I joined Aster and picked up a white bottle. The smell burned my nostrils, not unlike sore muscle cream dipped in ditch water.

Aster made a pleased noise and passed me a brown bottle. “Smell this one.”

I breathed in the fragrance of Brazil nut. From his reaction, Trey wasn’t going to let Aster massage him. I took the bottle over to him. I intended to leave the bottle with him, but instead squeezed some of the golden cocoa across his legs and tried to shake off my headache and snarky mood.

He rubbed the cream down his right leg while I watched. His legs were well muscled, not too hairy, rather nice.

I slapped a hand at his trim ankle. It was hard and warm, felt like an ankle. “Swim team shaves their legs.”

“Swim team dates each other.” Trey rubbed the cream into his thighs.

My hands stayed below his knees, still admiring his nice skin.

Trey didn’t raise his eyes from his hands while he worked. “Fifty thousand? What are you going to spend that on?”

Aster had moved onto cleaning up and wasn’t paying attention to us, so I told him some of the plans. “Candlelight.” I rubbed at a knot in his calf, making him grunt. “Truffles, white linens, silk drapes, real King and Queen crowns, not paper.” I stopped rubbing to wave a hand in the air. “A trellis or arbor for sure. And, if we can get a stairway—imagine the pictures.” I dropped my hands back to his legs, and paused on his knees. “If we purchase a gazebo, we’ll move it onto campus after prom—as one of our senior class donations. Do you know an ice sculpture guy?”

“No.”

I shoved at his shoulder. “On your stomach.”

Trey tugged off his shirt and obeyed.

Wow.
I was glad his back faced me so he didn’t see my jaw drop. Holy crap. Model perfect, inches away.

Trey propped his chin on his fists and kept his head away from the face hole. His eyes darted around the room. When I tentatively touched his back, he flinched a little. He was like one of those wild creatures on Animal Planet, wary of human interaction. I’d seen him interact at plenty of parties, but those usually involved tequila and no commitments.

Hmm, tequila and no commitments? Not a bad name for a mixed drink. I rubbed the cream into the warmth of his skin and wondered if he realized the lotion had a bit of an opalescent sheen. “Do you want your party favor to have the school name and date by themselves or some kind of prom motto? We’re working on the theme:
Night of a Thousand Dreams
or
Shimmering Crystal Ice House
.” I dug an elbow into his back. “Which one of those do you prefer?”

Trey grunted in response.

***

Lauren helped me tack the iridescent Sparkle committee banner over the trophy case. We always hung the banner before our prom planning committee meetings to change the tone of the room from a sports war room to glamorous hangout. I stretched to tape down my end.

Her gaze landed on my outfit. “Cute dress. Turquoise matches your eyes perfectly.”

I touched the side of my tank. “Thanks. Aster bought it for me.”

“Aster?”

“Star. Dad’s fiancée. Aster’s her real name. She goes by Star for short.”

“What does your mom call her for short?”

I giggled, even though I really wasn’t in the position to mock anyone else’s name.

Lauren tilted her head toward the locker room as she helped me set up. “Did you see John earlier?”

I scrunched my nose then smoothed my face into a normal expression, trying to discourage her. “John’s microwave hot. The picture on the package tempts you. But when you pop the entree out of the oven, the hot dog’s still icy inside—underdone.”

Lauren rejected my metaphor with a shake of her head. “He’d dance every dance and throw himself into the party.”

“If that’s what you want in a date, he’s your guy.” The wall clock ticked behind me, an audible sound, but no louder than the buzz of the strip bulbs in the ceiling. I gestured to the clock. “The soccer game’s not over. He’ll be at least another half hour.”

Grabbing a packet of paper hearts, I headed to the table. The office was going to look especially beautiful for today’s meeting. Happy face.

Lauren moved to Dad’s desk and snagged my
Prom Ideas
notebook.

“Check out page four. The silk petals I found online can line the satin runner at the entrance.”

“You know I’m going to trip if we use a floor runner.” Lauren frowned and toyed with the edge. “Then my dress will fly up, and I’ll be rolling down the satin runner like Cleopatra before Caesar.”

I snickered. “Probably. We’ll have the exterior photographer standing by to get a good shot.”

Lauren imitated throwing the book at my head and the door opened, letting our excited, all-girl committee spill in.

 I knew my grin must’ve outshone the glitter on the banner when I moved behind the lectern to kick off the meeting. “Okay, volunteers,” I called out. “I now call to order Sparkle, subset number 12 of the Trallwyn booster clubs.” I tapped my rhinestone-covered gavel against the lectern. “First order of business.”

Zoe coughed and interrupted me. “What are those?” She nodded her platinum head toward the massage tables.

“Not our business,” I said and moved on. I pointed to Lauren. Lauren hit some keys on her laptop and projected an image on the wall over the massage tables. She clicked to refresh our school’s news website. “Ballots have been calculated and we have our King and Queen nominees.”

The volunteers squealed and shifted forward in excitement. “
Show us.”

I kept them in suspense, though there weren’t really any shockers on the list. “For King, the nominees are: John Aimsley, Spencer Jones, Brendan Edwards, and Nicholas Tresmont. For Queen: Carla Fruge.”

The volunteers whooped and several gave our dark-haired treasurer Carla a high-five. A smile twitched at my lips. I read the next two in quick succession. “Rachel Lynds, Zoe Rancourt.”

Zoe smiled a pursed grin and bobbled her head at the room.

I paused then said, “And Lauren Overton.”

Lauren waved her hands in the air, squealed, and got up to hug everyone.

I crossed my fingers, silently hoping Lauren or Carla would win. “The official announcements will be made tomorrow at lunch. Final voting ends two days before prom.”

Everyone started texting the news. Carla waved a spreadsheet at me, and I nodded. She took two pencils and drum-rolled them against the conference room table. “This is the one we’ve been waiting for. You set a new school record earning the $50,000.” She pointed at me and did another drum roll.

I held out my hands and said the beloved words, “How do you want to spend it?”

The question yanked most heads away from their messaging and encouraged more whoops.

Lauren popped into position, posing with a marker in hand, ready to jot down the ideas on the dry erase board. Bright-eyed volunteers crowding the conference table and shouted their thoughts. “Twinkle lights.”

“We can borrow Christmas lights from people.” Carla made a note on her budget spreadsheet.

“A ballroom on the lake.”

“But not Sarton,” Carla said.

They nodded as a group. Sarton’s event coordinator had overcharged us during a fundraiser. Although the coordinator refunded the money after being called on the error, we had voted never to use that venue again.
Never forgive
was one of our mottos.

“A balloon arch,” a flush-faced Amy whispered. She pushed her tortoise shell glasses higher on her nose.

I nodded in encouragement, wishing she’d speak up more often. Amy had good ideas, but was often too shy to express them.

“We can rent a helium tank,” Carla suggested.

“A photo booth,” Zoe said.

Our wonderfully tight-fisted treasurer, Carla, nodded again. “One that charges.”

“We have to have a glamorous theme,” Lauren said.

My excitement grew with each suggestion. This enthusiasm and these spectacular plans were everything I’d dreamed of coming to life. I opened the cover of my
Prom Idea
book, torn between leading with chandeliers and chocolate fountains, or limousine rides.

Lauren wrote ‘
theme
’ on the dry erase board.

Ms. Herrington, our faculty advisor, slipped in through the exterior door, letting in some afternoon air. She hesitated a moment, then walked up and whispered something to Lauren.

Lauren stiffened and spun away from the board. The dry erase marker trailed along after her, leaving a scraggly line to mar the white space awaiting our ideas.

Ms. Herrington’s Boho Maxi dress swung around her legs. I had to love the saffron print with her skin tone. My admiration chilled when she tapped one hand of nails against the other. They made a clicking sound.

Not good. Ms. Herrington always clicked her nails before delivering bad news.
Click, click, click
. We’re having a pop quiz.
Click, click, click
. You all failed the test.

“Your tremendous fundraising efforts have received praise and some attention,” Ms. Herrington said.

Lauren crossed her arms over her chest and wouldn’t meet my gaze. I swung back to Ms. Herrington but could only see the back of her brown, wavy hair as she addressed the volunteers.

Ms. Herrington sucked in a breath and clicked her nails again. “I know you planned free prom tickets and a free dinner.”

“Five courses,” Carla said.

“Hors de oeuvres and appetizers are the same thing, so really only four.” Zoe shook her platinum head.

For a cheerleader, she ran to the negative.

Carla straightened. “Five.”

Click, click, click.
“Faculty thought the funds could best be used for something else.”

Carla frowned and tightened her grip on the budget spreadsheet. “How do they even know how much money we have?”

“Yeah. Who was stupid enough to let them know we scored 50k?” Zoe asked.

I bit my lip. Could be me. I’d spread the word far and wide, and then farther and wider. If the news of our fundraising was a politician, and that politician cheated while texting and driving, then casting a ballot for the other party–well, his press coverage would come in second compared to what I’d been drumming up.