The Geek Girl's Guide to Cheerleading (12 page)

I nodded. “Yeah, it’s like, I don’t know, a legacy.”

“He drove it when he first started dating my mom.”

His words, spoken so low, almost escaped me. I stared up at Jack while he turned his attention to his shoes. “Then it really is a legacy,” I said.

He didn’t speak, didn’t smile, but something in his expression changed. It was another one of those unfathomable looks, the kind I still couldn’t read. But he unlocked the truck door and held it open.

When he slammed his own door, the truck rocked. I clutched the armrest.

“Sorry, it sticks. And that.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the gym bag on the flatbed. “Stinks. And—” He shifted in his seat and turned the ignition. The engine whined and sputtered, clearly not happy about the cold. “I’ve got to let her warm up for about five minutes. Didn’t know what you were getting into, did you?”

“I d-don’t m-mind,” I said, but the chattering of my teeth gave me away.

“Oh, man.” Jack took my hands in his. “You’re freezing.”

“My fault. I am the one wearing the miniskirt.” Really, there should be some kind of exception for cheerleaders in Minnesota.

“Yeah, well.” An incredible smile lit his face. “I really like that skirt.”

Jack scooted closer. My teeth chattered even harder. Cold? Nerves? I wasn’t sure. I was alone. With Jack. In his truck. He leaned closer. His fingertips came to rest along my cheekbone. He tilted my chin with his thumb. Then Jack Paulson kissed me.

Kissed.

Me.

The feel of strange lips against mine surprised me, and I forgot to close my eyes.

Jack eased away. “You know, you gotta kiss back. There’s this whole guy ego thing tied up in that.”

“Oh.” I shut my eyes then, trying to block the sudden tears. “It’s just, I never—” Oh God. Did I really just admit that?

“What? No way.” Jack looked shocked, then leaned forward, all earnest.

“I’m sorry—,” I began.

“For what? Don’t be sorry,” Jack said. “I just—I mean, you’re so—and then there’s Todd.”

Todd? Did people actually think Todd…and me? No wonder I didn’t have a social life. “It’s not like that, if that’s what you mean,” I said.

“I don’t know what I mean.” Jack fiddled with the Toyota’s heater. “Look, you’re smart, you’re pretty, and that intimidates the hell out of most guys.”

“Even guys like you?”

He turned so our faces were even. “Especially guys like me.”

His mouth was only a breath or two from mine. For once, he looked vulnerable. So maybe I didn’t know the rules to this game, or maybe any games that guys like Jack played. Did it matter?

We met halfway, and kissing back was so much better. Air from the heater flowed through the small pocket between my face and his, tickled my nose, and roared in my ears—or maybe that was my pulse. I couldn’t say for sure.

“Now I know why you’re on the honor roll,” Jack said, his lips still against my mouth. “You learn fast.” He eased back and reached for his seat belt, fingers fumbling with the strap. “I should get you home, but I—can you believe it? We’re practicing tomorrow, otherwise—would you?” He shook his head. “Never mind.”

“What?”

“We have a break on Saturdays from twelve to one.” His hands came to rest on the steering wheel. He stared straight ahead as though he were talking to the windshield instead of me. “I thought maybe you could stop by and we could—I don’t know—go get some lunch?”

Okay. This I understood. Maybe it wasn’t a date, but Jack Paulson was asking me to lunch. “Sure.”

Jack put the truck in gear. When it leaped forward, he gave me that little-boy grin.

T
wenty questions greeted me when I got home:
Who drove you? Why didn’t you call first? Do we know him?
They came at me so rapid-fire that I couldn’t answer, all I could do was swivel from one parent to the other.

But when Mom said, “I’m not sure you know what you’re doing anymore, Bee.”

And Dad followed with, “Todd said something about strange boys, and we’re concerned that—” I had to make it stop.

“What?” I said. I think the outrage in my voice surprised all three of us. “In the first place, who says I
ever
knew what I was doing?” I paused to make sure they were going to hear me out before they decided to ground me permanently. “In the second place, I thought you wanted me to try new things. Or maybe there was something in all those lectures about being ‘well rounded’ that I didn’t understand. In the third place—”

“Hold on there, young lady,” said Dad. “I think your mother has a point. First you try out for cheerleading, then you’re riding around with strange boys. Who knows what could happen next?”

Who knows what could happen next.

Two hours earlier I would have disagreed with them. I would have explained the Distributive Property of High School Popularity: You can take the girl out of the geeks, but you can’t take the geek out of the girl.

Then Jack Paulson kissed me.

Jack Paulson
kissed
me.

And I had to admit, “You’re right.”

Not only had Jack kissed me, but I had a date to meet him for lunch.
Anything
could happen next. That is, if I wasn’t grounded times forever. What was it that
Art of War
guy had to say? Something about “He who can modify his tactics in relation to his opponent…” That was it.

“I should have called first,” I told them. “I should have asked your permission. I can tell that you were really worried about me and I’m sorry that I made you worry.” Things changed, I thought. I remembered that interview I did for my Life at Prairie Stone column.
We were talking about change and how we resist it, even when something good happens to us.

I could almost hear Dad say those words. And when I used them in my column, Todd hadn’t edited them, which meant he was impressed.

“I guess some things
are
changing,” I said out loud. But I couldn’t follow it up with anything beyond that.

Still, I wondered if Dad heard the echo of his own words. His anger melted, and then he offered up a slight smile. “We’ll talk about this in the morning,” he said.

I nodded, shrugged off my coat, unlaced my shoes, and stowed everything where it belonged—in the closet, instead of on the hall bench where I usually dropped things.

“G’night,” I said before climbing the stairs to head for the bedroom hallway. “Oh, and Dad?” When I turned back I found him still standing, openmouthed, staring up at me. “That boy who drove me home, Jack Paulson? He’s a lot less strange than Todd.”

Oh, the handyman’s son, that nice Paulson boy.
I could see the recognition settle on their faces.

Something about the name “Jack Paulson” and a good night’s sleep mellowed my parents considerably. It didn’t hurt that I got up early and made breakfast.

“Keep us informed,” Dad said over maple syrup and pancakes.

“You don’t suppose she needs a cell phone?” Mom mused.

I nearly broke into a spontaneous cheer but played it cool. The phone was still up for debate, but otherwise, things were kind of/sort of back to normal, which meant, late Saturday morning, I studied the two kinds of bread we had in our pantry like I was about to make the most important decision of my life.

Multigrain or sourdough? Ham and cheese or the old standby, peanut butter and jelly? Both? The smell of warm brownies filled the kitchen, but nerves kept me from trying one. One careful spreading of peanut butter later, I felt I’d reached a compromise—good, but casual.
Casual
sandwiches? I let my head rest against the refrigerator. I had totally lost it.

I wished Moni would answer her phone. I needed help dissecting Jack’s every word and move last night. I needed someone to tell me that what I was about to do wasn’t socially or romantically stupid.

I was shrugging on my coat when the phone rang in my room. I almost dropped the lunch in my rush down the hall. Bag in one hand, I launched across the bed and grabbed the receiver.

“Good, you’re home,” Moni said.

“I almost wasn’t.”

“What?”

“I’m having lunch with Jack Paulson.” In anticipation of her reaction, I held the phone away from my ear.

“You’re
what
?” Moni squealed. “Tell me everything.”

“No time. When I get back. I’m meeting him at noon.”

“Oh God. Call. If you don’t, I won’t tell you who I talked to last night.”

“Brian?” I guessed. She’d been ignoring him since winter break and even switched partners in the Math League. Maybe he’d stopped taking Todd’s advice and offered that Party Quest wand to Moni on a more permanent basis? That would be big news.

“What?” she said. “No way.”

“Then who?” I needed to leave, like five minutes ago, but even over a phone line I could sense that Moni was smiling.

I waited for Jack in the school lobby, thinking. Thinking about Jack, about the nerd quotient of multigrain bread. About Moni.

She’d refused to say much, just that Rick Mangers had called her. That he was the reason her phone had rolled into voice mail until two a.m. last night. They’d talked for hours, she said, and he was calling again. Tonight. Nice. Maybe Moni could pencil me in for a chat before Geek Night at Todd’s.

Finally basketball players started streaming from the locker room. The scent of warm boy sweat overpowered the smell of the brownies. Jack broke from the group, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and stopped in front of me.

“Hey,” he said, then added, “You’re here.”

The surprise in his voice made me wonder if he’d really meant it. Maybe “meet me for lunch” was one of those standard—yet insincere—lines the popular boy always said to the loser girl.

“What’s that?” Jack asked.

I contemplated saying “Nothing,” but come on, it was a grocery sack. Even geeks don’t randomly carry around large paper bags for no reason.

“I brought food.”

The line of Jack’s jaw tightened and he tilted his chin, the start of his game face settled around his eyes.

Oh, no. Bringing lunch was a bad idea. I clutched the paper handles and racked my brain for a way to recover. I settled on, “Ham and cheese or peanut butter and jelly?” I was doomed.

Jack’s face softened. He eyed the bag and then me. “Can I have both?”

Before I knew it, we were sitting in the first-floor stairwell, serious gauntlet-girl territory. With the way Jack tore through the sandwiches, I was glad I’d done the math at home. Even without Moni’s help: Teenage boy
+
athlete
=
a megaton of food.

By the third brownie, he graduated from inhaling food to chewing it (sort of). He paused long enough to speak. “Bethany.”

I loved the way he said my name. I was pondering the deliciousness of it when I realized the word held an edge to it. I pushed a lump of peanut butter past my throat and waited.

“I can afford to buy you a hamburger, you know,” he said. “Or a salad, whatever.”

“Cheeseburger?”

“Yeah, I can even swing a slice of cheese.” No smile, but some of the sharpness left his voice. “Look, I know you’re not the kind of girl who’d order surf and turf—”

“They have that at McDonald’s?”

“Big Mac and a Filet-O-Fish.” He seemed determined not to smile. “Thing is, if we’re going out—”

If we’re
what
? I set the sandwich down. If Jack was saying what I thought he was saying, I might have to save that PB&J, enshrine it with my Dr Pepper can, and treasure them both forever. “We’re going
out
?”

“That’s up to you.”

At some point I must have said, “Yes,” or “Okay,” or at the very least, I nodded. It was the only explanation for Jack’s quick, brownie-laced kiss, his wide grin, and my own somewhat hysterical laughter.

When he bit into another brownie, I calmed down. Some. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No. It’s cool. Really,” Jack said. “I mean, some girls wouldn’t get it.”

Some girls. Like those who specialized in expensive shoes?

I couldn’t say how long we sat there. Maybe five minutes. Maybe fifteen. I asked about his truck. Jack leaned forward, and his big shoe knocked the last brownie down the steps. He lurched after it—and ate it.

“Five-second rule,” he said.

Teenage boy
+
food
=
kind of gross.

But cute.

After launching into a monologue about carburetors, engines, and brake pads, Jack sat back. “Sorry,” he said. “I get carried away.”

I was about to say something about loving carburetors, although that would have sounded totally weird. Thank God the whoosh of the front doors cut off my reply. The rest of the varsity basketball squad returned from lunch, stomping snow from their shoes, their voices echoing in the lobby.

“I better—” Jack stood.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Next time,” he said, “we’ll talk books.”

Next time? Books? I wasn’t sure which to believe. “We don’t have to do that.”

“No, really. We could talk about…” He walked toward the locker room while he spoke. “I don’t know,
Pride and Prejudice
, maybe?”

Oh, of
course
. “I’m sure Wilker’s essay test has nothing to do with it.”

“Not a thing.” From his jacket pocket, he pulled my copy of the book. “See? I carry it with me everywhere I go.”

“I got the DVD for Christmas,” I said. “We should probably watch it,” and when I realized what I was suggesting, I rushed to explain. “You know, so we can do a compare and contrast for Wilker.” Which, of course, made me sound even more like a dork. Jack raised his eyebrows while I fought to keep from smacking my forehead.

“That’s not cheating?” he asked.

“Not if you read the book.”

“Yeah. That.”

When we got to the gym, Ryan Nelson and a few other senior boys were running through layups; basketballs thumped against the floor. Jack reached for one, then simultaneously slipped off his jacket and shot at the basket.

“Wow.”

He glanced back at me. “Lunch was…” He gave me that wide grin, the one that made him look like a little boy. “Great.”

“Thanks.”

“Thank
you
.” He kissed me—quick—and Ryan shouted something that ended in “dawg.” Translating it was impossible with the feel of Jack’s kiss still on my lips. “I’ll call you tonight?” he said.

I blinked, unable to communicate by normal, human means. Jack laughed before turning to jog across the gym. Wait! How could he call? He didn’t have my number. “Jack!”

He skidded to a halt and spun.

“Do you, I mean, my—” I swear, my IQ dropped a hundred points every time I was near that boy. “My phone number,” I finally stammered.

That grin again. Jack didn’t say word. Instead he tapped his forehead with his index finger, once, twice, before scooping up a ball and shooting it from midcourt.

“Wow.”

I’d gone to my room that evening, determined to start on my homework. For the last half hour, I’d looked out my window and contemplated the dark street and the ghostly snow instead. Lunch. Jack. Way more interesting than the extra-credit history report I was supposed to be doing with Todd, “Dictators through the Ages.”

I couldn’t help noticing how quiet it was, both outside and in. I’d left Moni a voice mail and sent a detailed e-mail describing my “date” with Jack, but I still hadn’t heard from her. Nothing from Todd, either, not even a nudge about the report, or a reminder about Geek Night. I would’ve been glad to see spam in my in-box, and I almost e-mailed myself, just to see if the program still worked.

Saturday night
was
Geek Night. I weighed the pros and cons—again—about skipping. It was a standing tradition with the debate dorks, the chess team, the symphonic band, plus me and Moni. Video games, anime, trivia contests, and the occasional replay of
Jeopardy!
shows. It was how the brainy bunch bonded.

I missed those boys; I even missed Todd. Despite what he might think, I wasn’t avoiding him on purpose. I wasn’t avoiding Geek Night, either. Not really. Ever since Moni and I had started cheering, we hadn’t done much of anything that didn’t involve schoolwork or a referee. Maybe cheerleaders weren’t really so stuck-up; maybe they didn’t have time to talk to anyone.

I had just opened a book about Mussolini when the phone rang. My heart skipped a beat, and for a second, I hoped it was Jack on the other end, but I knew better. It was prime Moni-calling time. The hour when Moni’s dad and Monica bonded over creating bacon-wrapped sea scallops and saffron rice, and Moni retreated to the guest room until dinner. “About time you called.” My words came out in a huff.

“I said I would.”

Not Moni, not even Todd, although he usually IM’d me. No, it was Jack on the other end of the phone line. I groped for words and came up empty.

Jack laughed.

“I thought you were Moni,” I managed to say.

“So I figured.”

But then he grew quiet, and I wondered if we were destined for one of those awful phone calls that contained more silence and static than actual conversation.

“So,” Jack said. “What are you doing?”

I glanced at the book in front of me. I almost hated to admit it. “Homework.”

“That’s what I’m doing too.” A shrill whistle interrupted Jack, and he swore. “Sorry, I’m also listening to the radio. The T-wolves are playing.”