Just Like the Movies (16 page)

I blink at her.

Could this friendly attitude really be because of an outfit change? Are girls really that shallow?

“Maybe,” I say, trying to sound noncommittal. “I've probably got to catch up with Marijke. We've got a . . . project we've been working on.”

“You two are like peas and carrots lately,” Meagan observes. I pull the door open and give her a backward glance. I can see Courtney frowning behind her.

“You know how school projects are—time-consuming. They take total commitment. And I really want to ace this one.”

At the end of the day, I duck into the journalism room and hurry toward my desk. We've all promised to put in some after-school hours to try to finalize our last senior issue. I flop down in my chair and I dig into the pile of Senior Wills that are threatening to swallow my desk whole.

Well, I made it. A new look and a lot of double-takes and turned heads, but I didn't change into the jeans I'd stashed in my backpack. I would never admit it to Marijke, but I'm feeling pretty proud of myself.

The only thing is, well, I never saw Joe today. Considering
the school day is just about over, the chances are pretty slim that I will.

Not that it matters or anything . . . I guess. But I mean, if I'm gonna wear a skirt the size of a
dish towel
, I should at least get to impress the guy I'm interested in.

I shake my head. What am I becoming? When did I get to be so blatantly boy crazy?

I've almost managed to forget my Joe focus and immerse myself in my task when I hear a muffled boom coming from outside in the courtyard. Everyone around me looks up and a few people run to the window.

“No. Freaking. WAY,” I hear someone say. I stand up, hastily tugging my skirt into place, and move across the room to look outside.

Marijke's grin is the first thing I see, probably because it's so wide and bright that it's impossible to miss. Then I take in the fifty or so dancers moving in perfect synchronization and the gathering crowd of people that are lining up along the fringes.

I can't believe it.

She actually pulled off a flash mob.

When I glance around, I notice that most of the room has cleared out—most likely to join the rest of the students who are spilling out into the courtyard. I move quickly, hoping to make it out there before the crowd gets too dense to push through.

Marijke's standing in the same place when I finally make it to her. She's still smiling, but I can see her eyes flicking over the crowd. I don't have to ask who she's looking for.

“Not here?” I ask her. Her smile begins to falter. Around her, the dancers spin and leap along to a bass-heavy Nicki Minaj track.

“I told him this morning to meet me here. I don't know where . . .” She trails off, reaching into her pocket for her phone. She peers at the screen, then groans.

“I can't believe this.”

“What is it?”

Her face morphs into a combination of frustration and fury.

“He went freaking paintballing with his friends. Jesus, all I want is for him to show up for
one
of my plans.”

Suddenly, Marijke begins to melt. Literally, it's like all the air leaves her body and the tears begin to pour down her cheeks. I haven't seen her like this since the night at the movies when we'd come up with this crazy idea in the first place. Looking at her now, I'm starting to wonder if this was all a big mistake.

“Come with me.”

I grab her hand and yank her through the crowd, ignoring the stares that follow us as we push between bodies.

“I really thought most people would be gone by now,” she chokes out. “I didn't think I'd cause this big of a scene.”

“Don't worry about it. We can say it was a performance to drum up interest for the state meet or something.” I hope that will calm her down. But she shakes her head, the tears continuing to stream over her face.

“And I did all of this—made this huge scene—for
nothing
. He's not even here.”

The school hallways are completely desolate now. I lead Marijke into the journalism room and then farther back to the editor in chief's office. I close the door behind us and gesture to a chair next to the wide wooden desk. She drops into it without a word, sniffling and wiping her eyes.

“Look,” I say, leaning up against the desk and facing her, “we knew this whole thing would be a risk, you know? Don't let this get you down—we'll find the right game plan. The
perfect
one.”

But Marijke looks totally defeated. She raises her gaze to meet mine.

“I'm starting to think this was a huge mistake. I mean, I just keep putting myself out there. And it hasn't paid off once.”

“I know,” I say quietly. “So maybe you should just abandon the strategies for now and just tell him the truth. Tell him you love him. Tell him what you want from him. Maybe that's all you really need to do—be honest.”

She looks at me for a long time, then surprises me by standing up.

“Can you take me to the paintball arena? It's over by the mall.”

“I—uh, sure. Let me just grab my bag.”

I know Tricia will be pissed, but screw it. I can deal with her wrath later. The least I can do for Marijke right now is take her to see Tommy. Especially since her movie plans have turned out to be such a complete disaster.

Mine, on the other hand?

Well . . . I think they're actually working.

So I guess it probably isn't a surprise that I've never been paintballing before.

Honestly, I'm really not sure what I'm doing here at all. As we were driving over, I thought about that cute scene in
10 Things I Hate About You
when Kat and Patrick have that competitive and adorable game of paintball. Now, though, as I watch Lily's car disappear down the road, I'm starting to think this might be a bad idea. Tommy's asked me to go paintballing with him at least a dozen times, but I feel like I'm breaking some sort of weird guy code by busting in on his game.

I take a deep breath. I don't really have a choice now. I'm here, I'm stranded, and Tommy's inside. My tears have long since dried and only left behind hurt and anger. Right now, today, at this minute, I'm done playing games.

Except, obviously, for paintball.

I throw my shoulders back and stride into the small, shedlike office boasting a fluorescent OPEN sign.

“I want a gun,” I blurt out.

The gray-haired man behind the counter gives me a once-over, then raises an eyebrow.

“You got a group you're playing with?”

I blink. “Um, yeah. They started earlier. I got here late.”

I look down at the guy's name tag then back up at his face and give him a smile.

“Gene—that's your name, right?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Well, Gene, I completely spaced out and forgot to bring a change of clothes. You wouldn't happen to have something I could wear other than this, would you?”

“Of course. This is a full-service operation.” Gene grins and leads me to the back. Before long, I've suited up in a pair of mechanic-like coveralls.

“Now, you'll need one of these,” he says, handing me a black-fabric-covered helmet, “and some gloves. And the gun, obviously.”

He lets me choose my paintball color and I pick red—red like my heart, red like Valentine's Day, red like love. It seems appropriately symbolic.

Gene consults a computer monitor, then hands me a map. “The boys look like they've made it past the ridge and
they're in the wooded lot. You got the element of surprise since you're a late addition. I bet you'll get a few of them knocked off before they even know what hit 'em.”

We walk out back and he gestures to a line of ATVs. I blink at them, then at him.

“I need to drive one of those?”

“Well, yeah, unless you want to hoof it for the three miles you have to go.”

I look at the ATVs again. I mean, they have four wheels, right? It shouldn't be too hard. Just like driving a car.

Of course, I don't do that either, so . . .

“Don't worry, girlie, you'll figure it out.” Gene sends me a wink that makes me shudder a little, then he throws me a set of keys.

“Don't you want a copy of my license?”

“Nah, I trust you.” He motions down the line of vehicles. “Last one on the left. And good luck.”

I'm not great at reading maps, but it's pretty easy to figure out where the tree lot begins—since, you know, it's where the trees begin. I pull the ATV over into a shallow ditch, and I feel a swell of pride. No driver's license, no experience, and I still drove this baby like a champ. If I was feeling anything other than confident before, it's been replaced with a feeling of triumph that's coursing through me like adrenaline.

Considering I've never been to the paintball arena, I don't really know what to expect. I try to approach it the
same way I've seen Tommy play the first-person-shooter video games—slowly, quietly, and with lots of attention to my peripheral vision.

Gene warned me that all of the guys would look the same—the same gray coveralls, the same helmets. The only thing that would be different is the color of the paint they're shooting. Carefully, I step through a space between two trees and creep through the thickening underbrush. When Gene said “tree lot” he meant “really dense forest with lots of vines to trip on.” I stumble a bit, then curse. If I'm going to be any good at this paintball thing, I'm going to have to be quieter. And more careful.

Because, apparently, that's what I want right now—to be good at paintball. To impress Tommy. I know it isn't just about paintball—that it's about his friends and his music too. But paintball is one of Tommy's go-to activities to blow off steam or have a good time. I can't help but wonder when the last time was that
we
had fun together. When's the last time we laughed and joked and let ourselves go?

Because that's the thing I feel like we're missing. We aren't just dating. We're also friends. Or at least we used to be.

And I'm going to prove to him that we still are.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still gonna unload a gallon of paint pellets at him for missing the flash mob and standing me up. But maybe that plan had been too over the top, too
in-your-face. Maybe this is the way to go to get to Tommy's heart—by being part of something he loves to do.

A rustling sound has me drop down on all fours. I don't have time to question my instincts before I see a splat of yellow paint against a tree about ten meters away. Suddenly, a shadowy figure jumps up to standing and returns fire against Mr. Yellow. His ammunition is blue and he's a really quick shot. I hear a muffled groan, then Mr. Blue bounds across the open space and disappears.

I take a deep breath. Somehow, I don't think either of those two were Tommy. Which means he's still out there in the depths of this forest and it's my task to find him and take him down. I literally can't wait. For the first time ever, I'm excited to fight with my boyfriend.

Tommy's a clever guy, but I've got something on my side—the fact that he has no idea I'm here. I see him long before he sees me, even though he's in the last place I'd expect: wedged between the thick branches of a tall tree, about fifteen feet off the ground. I don't know how he made it up there, aside from shimmying up the length of the trunk. I lie in the undergrowth and watch him watching for the other players. The sack of black ammunition swings from his belt and he holds his gun like someone who knows what he's doing. It's pretty damn sexy.

I watch him load his paint pellets and take aim at something—or someone—a good distance away. There's a grunting sound and then I hear Tommy laugh.

“I got you, Mason. And I'm pretty sure that means I'm the last man standing.”

Not for long.

I place my finger on the trigger of my gun. I watch as Tommy sort of rolls himself up, then plummets down into the scrubby bushes at the bottom of the tree. As soon as he's standing up, now busy brushing cockleburs off his legs with gloved hands, I move and take aim.

The red paint splatters over his chest and stomach like a weird art project. He looks down at his body, then up in my direction, his face frozen in shock. Carefully, I place my gun on the ground and unbuckle my helmet, letting my hair tumble down over my shoulders.

“M-Marijke?” Tommy chokes out. I smile and shrug.

“I got your text,” I say, leaning down to pick up my gun again. Tommy is still staring at me and now Mason has moved to join him.

“So you came here . . . to go paintballing?” Tommy still looks shocked, but it's starting to morph into confusion. I shrug again.

“I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. You always say how fun it is. I figured I could use some fun—not to mention I got to take you down in the process.”