Lindsay's Surprise Crush (3 page)

Lindsay slammed the door closed. “Oh, fabulous,” she replied, rearranging the pile of piano books under her feet. “I don't want to talk about it.”

Her mom was generally pretty good, as moms went, about not prying when it was clear that Lindsay didn't want to talk. She got the message now. “I forgot to tell you to ask Nick if he needs a ride home too,” she said.

Lindsay looked at her. “He's on the soccer team, Mom. He's got practice.”

Her mom shook her head. “Not today he doesn't. Marissa told me their coach had a teachers' meeting and that there was no practice today. Can you hop out and see if he's there? I figured you guys would be together.”

Marissa was Nick's mom. Nick's mom and Lindsay's mom were best friends. Lindsay had known Mrs. Lopez—now Mrs. Diaz since she'd remarried—her whole life. Lindsay called her by her first name, and she called his stepfather, Alberto, by
his
first name. And Nick called Lindsay's parents Kate and Will. Nick had even taken piano lessons with Lindsay's mom when he was quite a bit younger, before sports took over his life. They still laughed together about how pathetic he'd been at piano.

The last person Lindsay wanted to go in search of was Nick, after having embarrassed both of them with her dumb comment about his muscles. And her mom's comments about them being together made her sad. But a part of her was dying to go find him, to have a reason to see him again. He didn't seem to know that practice had been canceled, so maybe she could catch him before
he made it out to the field. With a small sigh, Lindsay opened the car door again and headed up the steps, back into school.

She knew where his locker was, of course, although the odds were against finding him there. But it was a place to start, anyway.

He wasn't at his locker. She set off in the direction of the gym, which led out onto the playing fields.

As she rounded the corner of the hallway that led toward the gym, she skidded to a stop and took a quick step back around the corner. Her heart thumped in her chest.

Nick and Cassidy were standing together at the other end of the long hallway.

She peered around slowly, careful not to make any noise or let them see her.

Yep, there they were. Nick had an arm propped up on the wall over Cassidy's head. Cassidy was leaning against the wall, talking and giggling and twirling a long strand of her hair around her finger. Had Nick lied about going to practice so he could ditch her to go meet up with Cassidy?

“What's up?” asked a voice behind her.

She jumped about a foot in the air.

It was David Costello. A sixth grader. A short, annoying sixth grader who had taken piano lessons from her mom a few years ago, before he took up the trombone and became totally obsessed with band.

“Nothing,” she said shortly.

He peered around the corner to see what she had been looking at.

“Get back!” she hissed. Of all the people who had to catch her spying, David Costello had to be one of the worst. When he wasn't talking nonstop about how cool band was, he was asking a million and one questions. He always said the wrong thing at the wrong time, yet didn't seem to care that all the other kids found him so irritating. And he had the loudest voice Lindsay had ever heard come out of such a small body.

“You spying on Nick and Cassidy?” he asked her in a voice that was about ten decibels louder than it needed to be.

She pulled him back and put her finger to her lips to shush him. “No. Yes. Just a little. But if you tell, I'll clobber you with your trombone.”

“Clarinet,” he corrected her. “I do play the trombone, but the clarinet is my new favorite instrument.” He
grinned, displaying purple braces. A rubber band snapped and hit the wall inches from her head. “Oh, and by the way, I told Mr. Thompson that you were an awesome piano player and that he should make you play for the musical.”

She stared at him in disbelief, forgetting, for the moment, all about Nick and Cassidy. “I am so not going to do that,” she said. “I don't even play for my mom's student recitals. I don't play in public.”

He smiled in a smug, condescending way. “You really need to get over your fear of playing in public,” he told her. “You have to come out of your shell sometime, Lindsay. We're in middle school now.”

She scowled at him, turned, and hurried back out of the building, down the steps, and into the car.

“
Must
you slam the door like that, sweetie?”

Lindsay didn't respond to that. “He's not coming,” she said shortly, her eyes burning with indignation and embarrassment. She snapped on the radio, which was tuned to a Top 40 station, and turned it way up.

Her mom quietly reached out and turned it down a little. With a puzzled look, she started up the car and pulled away from the curb.

“Are you and Nick not getting along?” asked her mom after a few wordless minutes.

“He's a big, fat, stuck-up jerk,” replied Lindsay.

Her mom didn't reply immediately, but Lindsay saw, in profile, her eyebrow go up.

Lindsay decided to go on. “He grew a little over the summer and now he thinks he's all that. Except he's the same Nick he always was. Actually, he's not. He's changed. He's a big, fat, stuck-up jerk.”

Lindsay's mom sighed. “Honey,” she said, “perhaps you shouldn't be quite so judgmental about other people. You've known him your whole life. People don't change that radically and that suddenly.”

“
He
did.”

“He might look different, but that doesn't mean he's not the same old Nick inside.” When Lindsay didn't answer, she kept talking. “Or he may just be trying to adjust to what the rest of the world sees when it looks at him. It can be pretty freaky for a boy to look so drastically different so fast. For a girl, too, actually. So give him a chance, honey. Things aren't always what they seem.”

Lindsay grunted.

They drove without speaking for a while, listening to
the song on the radio. A female vocalist was mourning the loss of her one true love.

“Part of growing up and maturing is giving people the benefit of the doubt,” her mom added. “And you do have a quick temper.”

“Says who!” Lindsay retorted. “Oh,” she muttered, realizing she'd just proven her mother right. “Yeah, I guess I sort of do.” She stared out the window.
Maybe having a quick temper is just part of my artistic temperament,
she thought ruefully.

They didn't speak the rest of the way home. Lindsay was grateful to her mom for not pumping her for more information. All Lindsay could think about was how Nick had lied to her. He'd told her he had practice. He
didn't
have practice. Why didn't he just say he was meeting Cassidy? There was no need to lie about it. Lindsay couldn't remember a time when Nick had ever lied to her before. It really hurt now to think that he had.

By the time they'd pulled into their driveway, Lindsay's mind was made up. She would stop talking to him. She wasn't going to be friends with someone who lied to her. Short temper or not, that was just inexcusable.

OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS, LINDSAY FOUND MORE
and more evidence to support her theory that Nick was indeed a big, fat, stuck-up jerk. On Wednesday, during lunch, Rosie reported that she'd heard that Nick and Cassidy spent all their time together, before and after practice, hanging out.

“I'm in his math class,” said Chloe. “And he gets away with murder because Mr. Orben also happens to be the boys' soccer coach. Nick is, like, constantly late for class, or forgets his homework, and Mr. Orben just lets him goof off.”

Lindsay almost couldn't believe it. Nick arriving late to class? That really did not sound like him. Then she reminded herself that this was the
new
Nick.

“My locker is two down from his,” reported Jenn. “He and his jock friends do a
lot
of roughhousing and
other annoying boy stuff, and Nick is at the center of the group. And he never gets yelled at by the hall monitors. It's like he's a celebrity.”

And
all
of Lindsay's friends told her that rumors were swirling that Nick and Cassidy were going together to the fall harvest dance in two weeks.

“Whatever,” said Lindsay, trying to act like she didn't care. “They're perfect for each other.”

After their other friends had left to bring up their trays, Rosie looked at her curiously. “I don't think he's all that bad. You can't really blame him for becoming hot and a great athlete. It's not like he
tried
to do that. Besides, I thought you guys were, like, buddies,” she said. “Aren't your moms BFFs?”

Lindsay shrugged. “I'm getting too old to play with the kids of my parents' friends. My whole life I've had to play with kids their friends bring over. I'm in middle school now, and it's time I chose my own friends.”

Rosie narrowed her eyes at Lindsay, as though she didn't quite believe what Lindsay was saying. She always seemed to be able to read a different meaning behind Lindsay's words, even when Lindsay herself didn't know what the meaning was.

“Okaaaaay,” said Rosie slowly. “To change the subject, let's talk about me.”

Lindsay grinned. “What
about
you?”

“I have a crush. A big whopper of a crush. Have you noticed that new eighth-grade guy who plays defender on the soccer team? The tall one with the kind of shaggy long hair?”

Lindsay shook her head. “I barely know anyone on the soccer team.”

“His name's Troy,” said Rosie, sighing dreamily. “Troy. Isn't that an amaaaaazing name?”

“Sure,” said Lindsay, grinning and rolling her eyes. But her mind was already wandering back to Nick. Was he really going to the fall harvest dance with Cassidy?

In art class on Thursday, Lindsay stood frowning over her painting, trying to figure out how to get her still life of a vase of flowers to look less like a little kid's finger painting. She sighed. She'd always been pretty good at drawing. But watercolors were something else entirely. They just didn't behave the way she wanted them to. The colors kept running into one another. Someone behind her said something under her breath. It was Cassidy.

“What did you say?” Lindsay asked.

“I said, ‘That's awesome,' ” said Cassidy innocently, quickly gesturing toward Lindsay's painting.

“Thanks,” said Lindsay cautiously. She waited to see what Cassidy wanted. She and Cassidy shared both homeroom and art class, but this was the first time Cassidy had ever spoken to her.

“That's such a cute skirt. Where'd you get it?”

Lindsay narrowed her eyes suspiciously. Was Cassidy serious? “Actually it used to be my mom's. She wore it back in college and I kind of liked the color.”

“Vintage. Awesome,” said Cassidy. But her tone sounded kind of flat, like she didn't think it was awesome at all.

Lindsay tried not to notice that Cassidy had on the exact same outfit she had seen on the cover of this really cool clothes catalog—from her hair clip to her striped shirt to her red corduroys, all the way down to her black faux-leopard flats. Except Cassidy looked better than the model had looked.

“So yeah,” said Cassidy. “Nicky told me the two of you used to be best friends when you were little.”

Lindsay felt a flash of irritation, but she tried not to
show it. They
used
to be best friends. When they were little. Which means not now. “Yeah,” she replied slowly.

“So maybe you know what his favorite color is?”

“Why? Are you knitting him a sweater?” asked Lindsay. She couldn't help herself. She knew she was being snarky, but she didn't care.

“Yeah, right, as if,” said Cassidy with a tinkly laugh. She didn't seem to know that Lindsay was being sarcastic. “No, it's for the tournament on Saturday. We're all going on one big bus and so some of us were going to decorate each of the windows with different players' numbers and I wanted to do his in his favorite color.”

“Oh. Well, back when we were little kids, when we used to be best friends, it used to be blue,” said Lindsay bitterly.

“Awesome! Thanks!” said Cassidy, flashing her brilliant smile. She headed back to her own painting.

Lindsay dipped her brush into the dark brown and swashed it over half of her painting. She didn't even care.