Just Like the Movies (3 page)

“Lily?”

Mrs. Thatcher is standing in the doorway of the Student Activity office. She's got her arms crossed and eyebrows raised in a way that makes me want to apologize for being here.

“I've got permission,” I say. She shakes her head.

“I have no doubt you do. I was just wondering why you are up here by yourself when you could be down at the track with your classmates, celebrating our victory.”

You know, it really solidifies my lameness that I learn about the big school news from my history teacher instead of a fellow student. I force a smile and move back to my boxes of books.

“I'm almost done here.” I look around at the floor, still covered with picture books. “Well, as done as I'm going to get today.”

“Don't tell me you're coming back tomorrow. It's Sunday!”

I shrug noncommittally. Mrs. Thatcher smiles.

“Well, no one could accuse you of not being dedicated,” she says as she walks back toward her classroom.

I almost snort. No one would ever accuse me of anything. They'd have to remember my name first.

The celebrations outside have died down when I lock up
the SA office and head out the school's main entrance. The parking lot is almost empty but covered in ribbon and confetti. When I reach my Corolla, I untangle a long black streamer from the antenna.

Great. My
car
was a bigger part of the festivities than I was.

I could go straight home, leaving MHS and my long to-do list behind me. But I can't help myself. I feel the lick of anticipation over my skin as I drive along the side of the school. I pull into the gravel auxiliary lot, then slow the car down to a crawl and look out at the motocross track below.

Through the haze of brown dust, I can see at least half a dozen motorcycles on the course. The league is only two years old, but it hasn't had any trouble attracting participants. When the idea came up to start a high school motocross team, the school board balked. A few other schools in the area were piloting programs, but they weren't without risks. But Joe Lombardi, the current team captain, was really convincing.

Of course, it helped that his uncle was Bobby Lombardi, X Games Rallycross competitor, who was willing to fund the entire operation.

I can see Joe now, standing at the sidelines with his arms crossed over his chest and his helmet grasped in one hand. Even from here he looks focused. I bet his dark hair is a little damp from sweat, and I picture his eyebrows, knitted
together, as he strategizes the jumps and turns of the track. I can practically see him biting his full bottom lip and squinting his sexy green eyes at the racers around him, his gaze intense and calculating and confident.

So yeah, I have a huge, crazy-ass crush on Joe Lombardi.

And he doesn't know I exist.

I sigh and turn away, punching the gas so the gravel spits out from under my tires.

Let's face it—it's about as much of a daredevil as I'll ever be.

There is nothing,
nothing
in the world that feels better than being in Tommy's arms. Especially when he's done something like
this
—played a song just for
me
in front of all these people. I can see the faces of the cheerleading squad and even some of my track teammates—they're totally wishing they were me right now. I can't blame them. I'd be jealous of me too.

“And if you liked that, folks,” Mr. Saunders is half-shouting over the loudspeaker, “Tommy Lawson and his band will be playing at Skinners tonight at 8 p.m.!”

A couple of the cheerleaders give a little squeal.

“You guys are playing at Skinners?” one of them says. “That is so
hot
!”

I pull back to look at Tommy, surprised.

“You're playing tonight?”

“Yeah. Sorry, baby.” He cups my chin. “It was a last-minute gig. You understand, right?”

I look down at my hands. Yeah, I understand.

I understand that Tommy loves his music and is serious about his band.

I understand that there are a gazillion girls who would kill for a date with my hot boyfriend.

And I understand
no one
likes a nag or a clinger as a girlfriend.

So I just nod, even though there is only one thing I actually understand—that I just won the county track meet and I want to celebrate with Tommy and my teammates.

“Pizza?” he asks, his hand still on my face. I force a brilliant smile.

“Please. I'm starving.”

“Want to go tell your parents where you're going?”

I shake my head. “They know I'm riding over with you. The pizza pig-out is a post-run ritual.”

He heads up to the parking lot while I grab my gear and work my way back to the locker room. The team's high spirits have been replaced by hunger. After every meet we head over to Salvatore's Pizza Bar. Some people consider going there a good-luck charm, but I think we go because there's a $5.99 all-you-can-eat special. Put twenty-five runners in a room with unlimited pizza and you'll see what speed and focus
really
is.

A few minutes later, I'm standing in the parking lot, freshly showered and peering out at the line of cars idling along the sidewalk. Tommy beeps the horn of his 1969 Dodge Charger, and I grin as I reach the car and slide into the passenger seat.

“Hey, General Qi,” I say to the car, patting the dash. It's the same model as the
Dukes of Hazzard
General Lee, so Tommy named it General Qi to “harness its energy.” I don't think it's working, since it still breaks down an awful lot.

“You hungry?” I ask Tommy as he swings the car out onto the main road. He shrugs.

“A little. I'm more stressed about playing tonight.”

Then don't play
, I think.

“Don't be,” I say. “You guys are getting really good.”

Tommy looks over at me. “
Getting
good? We aren't good yet?”

Damn. I shouldn't have said anything.

One of the best and worst of Tommy's traits is his sensitivity. It means that he loves puppies and sad movies and he still sleeps with a stuffed moose. It also means that he gets really defensive, especially when I say something about his music.

“No, of course not. You
are
good.” I try to backpedal. “It's just an expression.”

“Right. I guess it's hard to impress
you
since you're such a rock star on the track. My
little band
just can't compete.”

“That's not what I even—”

“Whatever. Just forget it.”

I look out the window. I've learned that now is
not
the time to try to convince him that I just want to be helpful. Right now he just wants to pout.

Even though Tommy is, like, überconfident, he feels like he should be getting noticed for his music as much as I'm getting noticed for my running. His band has been together for a year now and they practice four days a week, at least. He's said to me multiple times that he doesn't understand why they haven't gotten their “big break” yet. The thing is . . . well, they're a
high school
band. I would never say it to him, but I'm not sure how successful high school bands can even be, unless they have an arrangement with Disney or their name rhymes with “Dustin Dieber.”

We're both silent for the rest of the drive, but when we pull into the Salvatore's parking lot, Tommy's clearly decided to let it go. He shifts the car into park, then leans over and gives me a kiss.

“Congratulations again, baby.”

“Thank you,” I say, still a bit put out. His hand travels up and down my bare arm. The goose bumps are immediate, and he gives me that look—the one that tempts me into going further and further with him every time we make out. I press a finger to his lips and I can't help but smile.

“I need to feed my
stomach
hunger first,” I say. He sighs.

“Yeah, okay.” He fiddles with his keys, still in the ignition, then turns back to look at me. “Listen, I think I'm gonna jet.”

“What?” I blink. “But what about getting pizza?”

Tommy runs a hand through his hair. “I just want to go jam for a while. I told the guys we'd go through the set before we play tonight.”

“Oh. Okay.” I don't even bother trying to hide my disappointment.

“Don't say it like that.”

He's giving me the puppy-dog, lip-quivering, don't-send-me-to-the-doghouse look. Again I try not to smile, but when it comes to Tommy, my lips are total traitors.

“There's the smile I love,” he says, and he almost sounds triumphant. Like he's won something.

“You'll catch a ride with one of the girls?” he's asking, already shifting the car into reverse. I nod.

“Sure. Good luck tonight.”

“You're sure you can't come?”

I laugh, but it's hard and brittle. “To Skinners? No dice. My parents are cool, but they're never going to let me go to a biker bar.”

“It's a pool hall, Marijke.”

“Yeah. With an eighteen-or-older policy.”

Tommy nods. “You know, we really should work on getting you a fake ID.”

“I'll be eighteen in six months.”

“So? Wouldn't it be fun to have an extra half a year of fake legality?”

I shrug.

“I think half the senior class is gonna be there tonight,” Tommy muses. I wait for the “but I wish you were coming too.” It never happens.

Instead, I open the passenger door. “Well, have fun.”

And I think,
I love you.

But I say, “I'll miss you.”

Tommy winks. “Right back atcha, baby.”

And then he's gone. Reverse, neutral, drive, and Tommy has sped off into the dusk like something that was meant to disappear. Sometimes Tommy just isn't sensitive to my feelings, despite the fact that he's such an emotionally open guy. Sometimes he upsets me when he doesn't mean to. And on nights like tonight, I feel like everything is a competition. Who can win Tommy's attention? Who can be his top priority?

“Marijke!”

There's a chorus of female voices behind me, and I turn to see some of the track team hanging out of the glass door, motioning for me to come in.

I smile at them and shake my head to clear it. I'm going to go in there, I'm going to have a good time, and I'm going to remember why I'm here tonight—to celebrate my team, how far we've made it, and what I've actually won.

By the time I pull into the driveway of our three-bedroom rancher, I've managed to banish Joe back to the “never going to happen” realm of my brain.

Instead, I'm mentally ticking the boxes of what I need to do tonight: I've got a lab report to finish, a scholarship essay to write, and a list of bookmobile drivers to call. Not to mention that I may or may not be cooking dinner for my little brother, Mac. I can't remember if tonight is a date night or not.

But then again, most nights are when it comes to my mom.

My mother is in love with love. She desperately wants the lead role in a real-life romantic comedy. Granted, her life hasn't been all flowers and chocolates. She had me at seventeen but still managed to graduate high school and get her dental hygienist license from the local community
college. I was seven when she met Mac's father, eight when they married, nine when Mac was born, and ten when his father left. Four years is the longest any guy has stuck around. Let's be honest—with two kids, Mom's pickings have started getting slim.

But really, another father figure is the last thing our family needs. Not that it matters. When it comes to love, Mom doesn't seem to have a head on her shoulders. She's all heart.

And that means it gets broken. A lot.

I come in through the garage and hang my jacket in the mud room, then pick up Mac's dirty cleats and toss them out the door.

“I told him to do that an hour ago,” Mom calls from the kitchen. I peek around the corner and see her at the stove. She smiles and waves an oven mitt as I drop my books on the kitchen table.