Sass & Serendipity

The dress in the window of Shelly’s Boutique was not a tasteful pink. It was an unnatural, overly shiny, shout-in-your-face pink. Barbie-aisle pink. Putrid-antidiarrhea-medicine pink. Slutty-disco-queen-on-LSD pink.

Or, as the residents of Barton, Texas (population 5,853), would probably refer to it:
hawt pank
.

Gabriella Rivera automatically curled her upper lip—making her tilde mouth, as her mother liked to call the expression—and muttered, “God, look at that. When did hooker fashions become formal wear?”

Mule quit slurping down his sixty-four-ounce Dr Pepper and shrugged. “What do you expect? It’s prom season.”

“It is
not
prom season,” Gabby replied. “It is the middle of March. I barely survived the big Valentine’s freak-out without throwing myself off a cliff. Now I have to see this crap everywhere for two months?” She gestured toward the display window.

Mule considered the dresses while continuing to sip from
his near-empty soda cup, making loud squelching noises through the straw.

“Besides, prom shouldn’t even be a season,” Gabby went on. “Not like a holiday season or flu season. It’s just a dumb party.”

“So? It’s not like you’re going anyway,” Mule pointed out. He stuck the straw back into his mouth and sucked noisily. Gabby resisted the urge to grab the monster-sized drink out of his hand and chuck it at his head. She imagined the crushed ice scattered about his brown curls, glistening like jewels, and the weak soda residue spattering his white T-shirt with the faded Captain America image on the front.

She didn’t know why she was so annoyed with him today. His know-it-all tone was getting on her nerves even more than usual. Maybe it was because school had been extra-infuriating that day, with everyone shrieking about prom. Or maybe it was the fact that she had to go to her lame job at the lame movie theater in half an hour.

Or maybe it was because her dad was coming for a visit at the end of the week, just like he did every third Saturday of the month. A stale routine of dinner and some sort of god-awful bonding ritual in the form of cheap entertainment—like bowling or minigolf.

Or maybe it was because she knew her younger sister would be an off-the-charts lunatic this weekend. Daphne was usually late and unprepared. But when Dad came she’d spend hours trying on different outfits (tossing her rejects on the floor between their beds) and then sit on the porch waiting for him a half hour early—completely insensitive to their
mom’s feelings. It had to sting seeing your daughter make a big gushy deal over your deadbeat ex, but did Daphne care? No. Watching her squeal and bounce over his arrival, you’d think he was rescuing her from the clutches of an ogre.

Basically everything in Gabby’s life sucked right now. So she really didn’t want to hear Mule’s actual sucking sounds.

“But don’t you hate all this romantic bull?” she went on, hoping to drown out the noise with her own voice. “It’s even worse than Valentine’s Day. Instead of cheap, five-dollar crap everywhere, there’s like chintzy, three-hundred-dollar crap everywhere.”

“I don’t know,” Mule said, making a neutral half smile, half grimace. “It doesn’t bother me too much. I figure, as long as they don’t
make
me go, I’m okay with it.”

Gabby sighed. Of course he would just accept it. Mule accepted everything stupid and horrible in life. Including his rotten nickname.

Seventeen years ago, for some strange reason, every woman who gave birth to a boy in Fayette Memorial Hospital had named her son Samuel. Four boys—all in the same grade. By the end of elementary school it was all sorted out, though. Samuel Milburn got to be Sam, since he was the biggest and coolest—and he basically claimed it first. Samuel Farnsworth, the next coolest (and most spastic), got to be Sammy. And Samuel Moore got to stay Samuel. That left a skinny, half-Jewish wiseass named Samuel Randolph with nothing but the second syllable to set him apart from the others. Thus the moniker Mule was bestowed upon him, and since none of the other Samuels had had the decency to move away, die, or
get a sex change, he’d had to keep it throughout his school career.

“What’s the theme again?” Mule asked.

“What?”

“This year’s prom theme. What is it?”

Gabby made her eyes big and dumb-looking. “A Walk in the Clouds,” she said breathily.

Mule snorted. “Sounds impractical. Why not call it Bird Crap on My Tuxedo? Or Bugs in My Teeth?”

“A 747 Ruined My Hair!” Gabby mock screeched, grabbing her long, dark waves.

The two of them laughed and pantomimed some more, hooking elbows and flapping their free arms. It was supersilly and totally juvenile, but Gabby didn’t care. At least she got a good laugh in before work.

Mule was always good for that—when he wasn’t being annoying.

Ms. Manbeck was going to lose it.

Daphne Rivera raced down the corridor from the gymnasium, through a pair of squeaky metal doors, and up the stairs to the 200 wing. The skirt of her JV cheerleading uniform swished rhythmically about her legs and her ponytail swung in an almost complete circle.

She was
dead
. Ms. Manbeck would surely kill her in some slow, torturous way. This would be Daphne’s third tardy this grading period, and her teacher was going to shriek nonstop. She’d probably do that weird twitchy thing, the one that made it look as if her face were being sucked
backward into her left eye socket. She might even call Daphne’s mom.

That was all Daphne needed. Her mom had been so stressed lately about the bills and her job. If she got a screechy phone call from Ms. Manbeck, she’d start handing out punishments as if they were Halloween candy—a you-should-know-better-young-lady lecture … grounding … cell phone confiscation … and … 
Oh, god!
She might change her mind about letting Daphne go to prom this year! Just the thought made Daphne tuck her head for better aerodynamics and put on a burst of speed on the next flight of steps.

It wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t meant to take so long in the bathroom. It was just that cheerleading practice had been extrahard that morning, what with the JV finals coming up. And then Sheri Purnell had told everyone that a new guy was starting school that very day—an amazing-looking new guy. So Daphne had figured she should wash her sweaty face and redo all her makeup. She had to make a good first impression, right? Some things were more important than calculating the volume of a cylinder.

Only, what did it matter, if she ended up dead and buried with old Ms. Manbeck cackling over her grave?

Almost there
. Just a few more steps to the landing, a hard right, and a quick sprint down the hall. Daphne stared down at her tennis shoes, concentrating on propelling them as fast as they would go.

She hit the top step and swerved right. But just as she was making the turn she collided with something big and solid and instantly bounced back. Her arms flew out to brace
herself—only, there was nothing to grab. Just air. Meanwhile, all the stuff she’d been carrying scattered. Her purse plummeted out of sight, pens and papers shot everywhere, and her Cherries Jubilee lipstick soared over her head.

It occurred to her, in a vague, oddly detached way, that she was plunging backward into the stairwell. And that she would very likely get hurt.

Maybe Ms. Manbeck won’t be so hard on me now
was her next thought.

Then, all of a sudden, she was being yanked forward. Someone had grabbed her right arm and was pulling her with both hands. She felt herself reverse direction, her head whip-lashing slightly … until the someone lost balance. Then, just as suddenly, she was falling forward, watching helplessly as the scuffed vinyl floor came zooming into view.

She didn’t hit the floor. Instead, she landed on a pair of khaki trousers. With legs in them.

She glanced up at the someone. It was a
male
someone—a
cute male
someone—sitting half stunned in the empty hallway with Daphne sprawled across his thighs. His backpack and all its belongings were strewn for a couple of yards behind him.

Daphne couldn’t talk or move. For one thing, all her breath had been pushed out of her—possibly by his knees. For another thing, her mind was having a tough time catching up with what had just happened. One moment she was tumbling toward certain bone-breaking injury, and the next moment she was lying on top of a gorgeous guy.

This is the new kid
, she realized. Sheri was right about how
yummy he was. Tardy or not, Daphne was grateful she’d taken the time to get fixed up.

The cute guy gave a somewhat cartoonish shake of his head. He blinked hard a few times and focused on her. “Whoa. Are you okay?”

“I’m …” was all Daphne managed to say. After that her lips moved soundlessly. It was all the air and all the thought she had in her.
Was
she okay? She had no idea.

“Let me help you up,” he said. He wriggled slightly and broke into a sideways grin. “Uh … then again, I guess you need to get up before I can get up.”

“Right.” She wanted to laugh, but all that came out was some shallow panting. By now she’d regained feeling in her limbs, and she made herself crawl backward off him, carefully minding where she placed her hands.

“Watch the stairs,” he said, grasping her forearm.

Sure enough, her right foot was already dangling off the top step.

“Don’t move.” He let go of her, slid his left leg out from beneath her hands, and scrambled to his feet. “I’ve got you,” he said, reaching down for her.

Daphne, still a little dazed, slowly grabbed hold of his hands. Soon she felt that familiar yanking strength and she rose from the floor.

“There,” he said, as he grasped her shoulders and steadied her. “All safe.” He gave her a final pat and took a step back. His mouth crooked into an awkward smile and he glanced up and down the empty hallway, as if suddenly embarrassed.

Daphne felt as though she should say something, but she
was too woozy from all the yanking and falling and handholding, and from finding herself abruptly in the arms of someone so good-looking. She studied him closely as she wavered on her feet, trying to regain her senses. Nutmeg-colored hair that swirled around his forehead and ears. Light teal eyes. Matching clefts, like tiny cleave marks, on the tip of his chin and between his nostrils. And not only was he handsome, he seemed nice, too.

“I’m really sorry,” he said. “You just came around the corner and
bam!
It all happened so fast.”

She shook her head. “No, it’s my fault. I was hurrying because I was late. I wasn’t paying attention.” She glanced back at the very deep, very solid-looking stairwell. “I can’t believe I almost fell down that.”

A new thought occurred to her, one that slammed her almost as hard as their collision: he’d
rescued
her. He’d practically saved her life! It was so … romantic. Just like in the fairy tales. Just like Westley saved Buttercup in
The Princess Bride
. Like Superman saved Lois Lane. Like James Bond saved … well … everyone.

She stared up at him with newfound awe. “You got me just in time.”

“I just … you know. Reflexes. I play tennis.” A peachy-pink shade spread across the tops of his cheeks, and his eyes broke from her gaze.

He was even kind of shy. How adorable.

“I’m Luke, by the way. Luke Pascal. I just started here today,” he said, offering his right hand.

Daphne stifled the urge to giggle. It seemed so formal—
silly, even—considering they’d just been tangled up together on the floor. “I’m Daphne Rivera.”

“Nice to meet you, Daphne. Again, sorry about the bruises. Can I help you pick up your stuff?”

Before she could protest, Luke started scurrying about, snatching up her purse, her book, her notebook, and a few errant papers. Daphne managed to retrieve her lipstick and her purple gel pen, but mostly she watched him as he kept bending over, fetching her things. She marveled at his broad shoulders inside his pale blue polo shirt, and she tried to recall the feel of his legs underneath her. He said he played tennis, so she imagined they were probably quite muscular. And tanned.

“Here you are,” he said, holding out her things.

“Thanks.” Daphne felt a little sad and panicked as she took the items. She didn’t want this encounter to be over yet. “Let me help you with your stuff,” she said, setting hers down. Death by Ms. Manbeck could wait.

“No, no. I can—”

She held up a hand to silence him. “I insist. It’s the least I can do since you saved my life.”

He flashed her a shy grin. “All right.”

They moved about the hallway, silently retrieving his scattered belongings. Daphne tried to prolong the moment as much as possible, allowing pencils to roll away from her and papers to slip from her fingers. Eventually she came to the last stray object: a thick, battered paperback.

She picked it up, wiped some grime off the cover with the hem of her sweater, and stared down at the title. Sudden
and severe prickles spread up her arms and over her face, concentrating in her scalp, as if each thick black hair stood wriggling in its follicle.