So Totally (21 page)

“What do you mean?” I held up an eight-inch square. “What is this?”

“That’s a floppy disk. I’d say circa 1985. And you know what I mean. You hate the calendar idea. Why’d you go along with it?”

I shrugged. “I don’t have much choice. I’m outnumbered.”

“Soy frappé, no whip. Who had the soy?” Mr. Blake asked.

“Chelsea,” everyone answered, and Foster and I rolled our eyes.

“It will make a lot of money, Logan. We need it.”

“I know, I know.” I sighed. “I bet we can get the cardstock donated if we advertise the stationery store.”

“Two black coffees.”

Foster and I raised our hands.

Mr. Blake joined us. “What’s this about a Stud of the Month the girls are yammering about?”

“Fundraiser,” I offered.

“And,” Foster added, taking both coffees and handing me one. “A really great feature story.”

“Feature?” Something told me I was going to hate this idea.

“Listening to all those girls argue about which guys were worthy enough to make the calendar, I couldn’t help but wonder…” He looked me straight on with his devil eyes. “What is it, exactly, that girls are looking for in high school boys?”

“Are we
Cosmo Teen
now?” I asked. “And you sound like Carrie Bradshaw from
Sex and the City
with all that ‘I couldn’t help but wonder’ crap. Where is the feature story in this? I don’t see it.”

Using his TV announcer voice, Foster began, “A year of dates in six weeks. Our intrepid girl reporter de-objectifies the calendar boys by spending time with each model and extolling the experience in an award winning exposé into the mind of a teenage female.” Nerves under my skin began racing to get away. Far, far away. “Culminating, of course, with the release of the beefcake calendar.”

“So you want to send one of our reporters on twelve dates with virtual strangers?”

“No, I want to send
you
on twelve dates. The stranger part is just a bonus.”

Like hell. “Me? I don’t date high school boys.”

There are plenty of reasons not to swim in the dating pool that is high school. But the root source of my reluctance to dive right in has always been avoidance of the questionable warm spots in the water.

It’s not so much that high school boys are stupid or even immature. It’s just that they’re, well, high school boys.

“Which is exactly why you are the obvious choice.”

“It’s a terrible idea.” I turned to Mr. Blake. “I’m not comfortable with this idea at all.”

Mr. Blake, my hero, my mentor, the English teacher who taught me to think and the journalism teacher who taught me to think for myself, rubbed the silver whiskers on his face and betrayed me. “Sometimes a good reporter needs to challenge her comfort zone. Break out. Question her world.”

Lucifer waggled his eyebrows and gloated.

“I can’t believe you are taking his side,” I whined.

Mr. Blake nodded toward the staff. “I suggest you get your newsroom back under control so you can hammer out some details.”

It’s amazing what the right motivation coupled with caffeine could do for a staff of my peers. They took the cover shoot and twelve blind date ideas and ran as if they’d been handed the Olympic torch. While I was pleased that, only two weeks into the school year, several of them were beginning to show leadership and organizational skills, I was a little miffed that nobody was even a little worried about my safety. Or sanity.

Under Foster’s direction, my role in the calendar had been eliminated completely. Ordinarily, the release would have been a relief. Since I had to date these guys, though, I wished for at least veto power.

I tried to get out of the Twelve Dates of Doom; really, I did. When I realized I was scared to do it, I stopped arguing. Backing down from a challenge is so not the girl I am. Here I was fighting to save a newspaper that didn’t exist; a dozen dates should be easy in comparison.

After everyone but Foster and I filed out of the room, I slumped into my seat and appraised the newsroom. For three years, this room was my magic place. The
Follower
lived and breathed here. The paper, iconic to our school and town, always forged ahead of its time and without regard to those that would stifle the truth. Sometimes controversial, always relevant, it
meant
something to be on staff—a mark of character and integrity.

Now the magic place festered in bureaucracy and constraints. No funding, no class time, no paid advisor. Foster and I had agreed on one thing in all the years we’d served the paper, and that was that we would do whatever it took to keep it alive this year. We’d been handed fistfuls of nothing, but we had no intention of failure. The school let us have the room but commandeered the working computers and anything else it could salvage for other classrooms. It was like starting over, only worse because we had so much to live up to.

It made a girl tired.

“Your car still in the shop?” Foster asked me.

I nodded.

“I can give you a ride.”

I so didn’t want a ride but resigned myself to it anyway. “Thanks.”

Foster handed me the messenger bag I’d flung over my chair. “It’s going to be great, you know.”

“Huh?”

“The paper. This year. I can tell you’re worried about it, but it’s going to be great. We’re going to make this work.”

I wanted to believe him. “Sure.”

He threw himself into my path, halting me. You think I’d be used to it, literally and figuratively. It’s what he lived for—stopping me from forward progress. “Logan, you need to trust it or it won’t happen.”

Not for the first time since the powers that be yanked out the rug, tears formed and stung the back of my eyes. Not shedding them had become one of my personality quirks. Some people snap gum; I fight tears.

“Trust? That’s a little oxymoronic for good reporters, isn’t it?”

“Layney Logan, there are two things in this world you don’t need to question. One is gravity.” He tilted my chin to force me to look him in the eye. The sudden intimacy shocked me. “The other is Layney Logan. If you want this bad enough, you’ll make it happen.” He dropped his hand but didn’t move away.

My stomach flipped like one of Mom’s Sunday morning pancakes.

The devil was his most dangerous when he wasn’t being devilish. I had to remind myself of that during the weird beat of time that stood still while we remained anchored in place and far too close to each other.

Desperate to say something to break his wicked spell, I went with exactly the wrong thing. “I really want this to happen.”

He blinked. “Me too.”

The dimple in his top lip drew my gaze like a swinging pendant held by a hypnotist. He swallowed and I tilted my head so that I was looking up at him through my eyelashes. Like I was…flirting?

I stepped back quickly. “Great. So we’re on the same page about the paper then.”

He nodded and then cleared his throat. “Yeah. We’re on the exact same page. We should go.”

“See? I was thinking the same exact thing.”

He handed me his keys. “I’ll meet you in the lot. I forgot something in my locker.”

His hand brushed mine as my fingers clasped the key ring and I realized he had to be messing with me. Nothing happens naturally when you are dealing with the king of deception. Everything he’s ever said or done to me was planned in advance and carried out with stealth.

Foster almost fooled me that time. I turned out the lights and closed the door behind me.

He wouldn’t get a second chance.

CHAPTER TWO

Mr. January

T
URNS
out Maryanne was a stellar add to our staff. Her father owned the pawn shop on Main and Cedar, so we added two gently used computers to our inventory. Elden, the sophomore whose name I had previously forgotten and the only boy on staff (because demons don’t count), and I were trying to network the computers and clean off all the porn. Poor Elden’s face couldn’t have gotten any redder.

Me, it didn’t bother so much. I’m still trying to figure out what that says about my personality.

I sensed evil before I felt Foster crouch between our chairs. “See, Elden.” Foster pointed to the naughty woman on the screen. “If Mommy wore outfits like that more often, Daddy wouldn’t spend so much time at the bar.”

“Yes, well, if Daddy didn’t spend so much time at the bar, he’d know that Mommy wears outfits like that for the milkman every night.”

Poor Elden’s eyes widened even larger beneath his Coke-bottle glasses. He didn’t know what to make of either of us. It’s not like I sat around trying to find ways to traumatize the more innocent members of our staff, but I’ll admit I found it a perk.

“Elden, it’s Friday night. Go home.” Foster swiped Elden’s seat after the kid shot out of his chair obligingly. “You ready for your big date?” he asked.

“As ready as I intend to be.”

“Is that what you’re wearing?”

I looked at my cargo pants and long-sleeve tee. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

Satan shrugged. “Nothing. Some guys like that look, I guess.”

“And what look is that?”

He perused me slowly with his gaze. “Salvation Army meets Bohemian pixie.”

I snorted. “I am none of those things.” Well, okay, my jacket came from the Army Surplus store, and I am short. I don’t consider myself Bohemian, though. My wardrobe lacks the creativity required to pull that off.

“You ready for you assignment?”

Ugh. No. I’d rather go undercover at cheer camp and spend a week pretending I cared what the secret to school spirit is. That’s how desperately I wanted out of this
assignment
. “Lay it on me.”

He pushed a pink note across the tabletop. I unfolded it slowly, willing my shaky fingers not to give me away. Unfolded, the “assignment” was in the shape of a heart.

Very funny.

Dessert and coffee at Mick’s.
Reservation in the name of Love.
6:30.

I couldn’t summon spit if my life depended on it. My mouth dried out like I’d swallowed desert sand. “Who’s paying for this date, anyway?”

“The marketing department has been working very hard at soliciting corporate sponsors.”

Since we didn’t have a marketing department, even during the good years, I pursed my lips and waited for a better explanation.

“Misty and Rachel are getting the local businesses to donate cost of the date for the free advertising. Don’t forget to mention the tiramisu at Mick’s when you write up your story.”

Great. Product placement. I’d already sold myself out and I wasn’t even eighteen.

“Is your car running today?” Foster asked.

I hated my car. It worked three out of seven days, and the other four were sketchy. “Maybe. It wouldn’t start again this morning. It might be fine now.”

“You need to get rid of that piece of junk and find something reliable.”

“I had to quit my after school job to get the paper off the ground and I’m not touching my college money. I can hoof it.”

“I’ll give you a ride.”

“You’re going to drop me off for a date? That’s not weird or anything.” I reached between us to power down the computer, careful not to brush his leg with my arm. But not careful enough, I noticed too late, to stop him from looking down the scoop neck of my shirt.

He picked up my cell and pushed my hand away when I tried to grab it away from him. “Just making sure you charged it.”

Plucking it from him, I pocketed the phone and shot him a dirty look. “Why the sudden concern?”

“A good chief is always worried about his tribe. And before you get all pissy, yes, I know we’re co-chiefs. And yes, I’m aware that I’ve probably gotten all your feminist hackles on red alert. Not to mention your politically correct ones. Frankly, my dear…well, you know the rest.”

“So, who am I meeting tonight?”

He waggled his finger at me. “Nice try, tricky minx. You know I can’t tell you that. It would be against the rules.”

“Did he sign the contract?”

“Of course.”

The contract was the only concession I had been allowed. It stated in no uncertain terms that:

”You sure you don’t want to change clothes before the date? We have time.

Did I have time to wipe that smirk off his face with a heated iron? “You’re one to talk. Charlie Brown called. He wants his shirt back.”

He wiped invisible dust off his shoulder. “Well, he’s not getting it. The shirt looks much better on me.”

Foster’s clothes reminded me my grandfather’s closet, and I wouldn’t be surprised if some of his camp shirts were vintage ’50s. Somehow, it didn’t make him look as stupid as if anyone else tried to pull it off. I mean he had bowling shirts and argyle sweaters, for God’s sake. Normal high-school students can’t get away with dressing like Richie Cunningham.