The Geek Girl's Guide to Cheerleading (16 page)

“What?”

I shook my head. “Never mind.”

Jack rounded the last curve before Rick’s house—“house” being one of those relative terms. I guessed you could fit two of mine inside it, and still have room for Rick’s ego.

In the basement, I added my coat to the lump of outerwear that was growing in the center of a spare bed. Jack kept his letter jacket on.

After the cold of outside, the first thing I noticed was the hot sharp scent of alcohol. It was too dark to see much of the basement beyond lots of leather, lots of chrome, lots of polished wood. The place was huge, with one main room and several smaller ones down a long hallway. The music was turned down low, in what I thought was more of a “make-out” vibe than a “drink until you puke” one. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad?

A long bar ran nearly the entire length of one wall. Rick stood behind it, playing bartender. He spotted us—or at least Jack—and waved us over.

“Paulson.” He tossed Jack a Heineken. Then Rick turned to me. “Beer?”

When I shook my head, he made a show of searching behind the bar, clattering glassware. “You know, I think I have some milk and a bottle, I mean glass, right here.”

Oh, ha-ha. Hilarious.

“I’ll just have water,” I said.

“Water?”

“It’s that stuff that falls from the sky when it’s raining. And when it’s really cold,” I pointed to the patio doors and the snow outside, “it looks like that.”

Jack laughed and gave my waist a squeeze. “She got you, man.”

“Score one for the quiet chick.” With equal amounts of humor and condescension, Rick pulled a petite bottle of Evian from the fridge and handed it to me. I cupped it in my hands. I used to think the tiny bottles were cute. That was before Rick Mangers handed me one.

Rick moved on to serve someone else, even though most everyone was already serving themselves—from a keg by the patio.

Jack tucked the unopened Heineken into the pocket of his letter jacket. “For my dad.”

What was he going to do? Walk into the house and say, “Hey, Dad, just got back from a party and thought you’d like a souvenir beer?” Of course, with Jack and Mr. Paulson, that scenario was entirely possible.

Jack’s hand lingered at my waist. Standing apart from him was something he didn’t seem to want me to do. So I stayed there, safe and content in the crook of his arm. The room was filling up with high school royalty, the anyone-who-was-anyone jocks, and the seniors from the cheerleading squad, every last one, including the captain.

Cassidy’s high-pitched laugh cut off when her eyes met mine. She gripped the beer she was holding even tighter, and her face drained of color. We stared at each other. For once Cassidy didn’t appear hateful. She gave me a small smile of conspiracy and sipped her beer.
I won’t tell if you won’t,
her look said.

So much for Prairie Stone High’s zero tolerance policy. All I could think was: I
so
didn’t belong here.

Track star R.J. Schmidt wandered past, then backtracked and parked himself right in front of us. If there was a poll for that kind of thing, R.J. would be voted Fastest Boy in the senior class. That “honor” would have nothing to do with his record-breaking hundred-yard dash.

“Nice manners, Paulson,” R.J. said. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “This is Bethany,” he said. But by his tone of voice he might as well have been saying, “This is mine.”

“Gotcha,” R.J. said, and laughed. “See you around.” He winked at me and headed for the keg.

Jack shoved his free hand deep into his letter-jacket pocket, but he kept the other one on me. Judging by his scowl, he could’ve been on the basketball court, not standing in the middle of Rick Mangers’s basement.

Someone clamped us both on the shoulder. I yelped. Next to me, Jack tensed. Rick wheeled us around. We were apart for a second, then Jack tugged me close again, and this time slipped his hand into my back jeans pocket.

It was a little too fast, a little too strange, a little too intimate. I jumped, and Jack got his fingers caught in my belt loop.

“Got yourself a live one there, Paulson.”

Rick’s grin said it all. I not only embarrassed myself, but I was bringing Jack along for the all-expense-paid trip to Dorkland. He stepped apart from me and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Hey, I was just talking to Amanda.” Rick tugged a tall, blond, obviously older girl over. “She goes to Prairie Stone State. Doesn’t your dad teach there?”

I nodded, reluctant. Anything to do with my parents at a Rick Mangers party could not be good.

“Really?” Amanda said in between snapping her gum. “What’s your dad’s name?”

“Professor Reynolds,” I said, and a second later realized how snooty that sounded. “He teaches psychology.”

“No way!” Amanda squealed. “Intro to Psychology?”

“Yeah, and a couple of other classes.”

“Oh, that’s great, that’s just great,” she said, but a moment later she burst out laughing. I thought about the senior I’d interviewed for my Life at Prairie Stone column. He’d made Dad’s class sound cool. But he’d also mentioned how many times my dad talked about me in class. Amanda whispered in Rick’s ear, then laughed again. Rick smirked.

“Small world, isn’t it?” With an arm around Amanda’s waist, he swaggered away.

Jack watched them leave. “She’s probably failing,” he said. “Not the sharpest stick in the…er, whatever sticks come in.” He sighed. “But then, that’s the way Mangers likes them.”

Then why does he like Moni?
The question nearly left my mouth, but I swallowed it back because the answer had already occurred to me.
Maybe he doesn’t
.

A few minutes later Rick was back, this time pulling Jack away from me. “Come on, man, I gotta show you something.” When Jack balked, he added, “It’ll take what? A whole friggin’ minute? Come on.”

“I’ll—” Jack threw an annoyed look at Rick, then turned back to me. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

It was the last thing I wanted, but I nodded. And then, in a room filled with people, I was alone. I hugged myself, but that looked desperate and defensive, so I dropped my arms. I found myself inching from the center of the room, away from people I didn’t know. Well, I knew
them
. They just weren’t the sort who wanted to know
me
.

I backed into a wall and pressed my palms against the paneling. I wished I could blend into the woodwork. So this was a coveted, infamous, if-you-have-to-ask-you-weren’t-invited Rick Mangers party?

God, it sucked.

Then, from a room down a hallway, came the whiz and pop of guns along with cries of dismay. It sounded just like…Geek Night?

I should have stayed where I was; Jack had promised to come right back. But the lure of the familiar was too much. A bunch of guys playing video games? That I could deal with.

A door opened, and the glow from a television spilled into the hallway. Inside the room, a group of jocks packed a couch. The overflow testosterone took seats on the floor. A beach scene filled the TV screen, where a game character was trying to push past a squad of soldiers. He wasn’t having much success.

Oh! I knew this one! I crept toward the couch. “Go toward the shoreline,” I said.

A few of the boys turned, gave me a weird look.

“If you go in the water, you can walk underneath without drowning and get by the soldiers.” I shrugged. “It’s a glitch in the game.” One of many things guys at Geek Night had discovered, catalogued, and assigned a weighted rank based on usefulness to overall strategy.

“Hey!” the boy with the controller shouted. “That works. Move over, Peterson.” With this, the boy named Peterson landed on the floor. “Come here,” the boy said without looking at me. “You know any more tricks?”

“A few.” I took a tentative perch on the edge of a cushion, my fingers pressed against a coffee table loaded with soda cans, beer glasses, deflated bags of chips, and an empty bottle of vodka.

The boy next to me beamed with each trick I fed him. “Cool,” he said. “I’ve never gotten past this level.”

I got so caught up in the game that I barely noticed the boy on my other side leave. Only when R.J. Schmidt slid into the open spot did I sense a change in the room, a tension. R.J. leaned forward, tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Paulson shouldn’t leave a girl like you all alone. So, when’d you move to Prairie Stone, Beth?”

“It’s Bethany, and I’ve lived here almost three years now.” Not that someone like R.J. would’ve noticed. I tried to scoot away from him, but there wasn’t any room. “I really need to—”

“Pretty girl like you doesn’t need to do anything. Just relax and let R.J. take care of everything.”

I looked to the boy next to me for help. He sat like a statue, face forward. In fact, every set of eyes but R.J.’s were glued to the television screen. If I’d sprouted horns right then, I don’t think anyone would have stirred. R.J. slipped an arm around my shoulder.

“Hey,” I said, squirming away. Then, “Please, I’d really rather—,” I started, but he didn’t seem to understand a polite refusal. Instead he pulled me a little closer.

“Stop!” I felt the kid next to me stiffen, but despite his bravado in the video game, he didn’t have the kind of courage it apparently took to stand up to someone like R.J.

I snaked my hand into R.J.’s rib cage and pushed as hard as I could. He stopped, blinked, then smiled.

“You look like you could use a beer,” he said. “Hey, Peterson, help a girl out, huh?”

When Peterson turned to me, I shook my head. “No, I don’t. I’d really—”

“Want a joint instead?” R.J. asked.

All I wanted was to get out of that room. The door opened briefly, and I took advantage of the shift in everyone’s attention. I stood. “Jack’s looking for me,” I said, hoping it was true.

R.J. reached for my wrist. “Stay,” he said. “You wouldn’t want to miss all the fun.” The crazy thing was, he sounded sincere. Like making out with a total stranger was the same kind of fun as the latest shoot-’em-up game.

“Let go.”

The voice wasn’t mine. And it wasn’t Jack’s. Ryan Nelson leaned over the couch and grabbed R.J.’s arm.

“Screw you, Nelson.”

Ryan frowned. “She’s Paulson’s girl. You want to get into it with him, just keep on pushing. But I wouldn’t recommend it.” It sounded like a warning—or maybe a threat.

R.J. snorted, but he glanced away. His grip loosened. I pulled free.

Go,
Ryan mouthed, then gestured toward the door. My hand fumbled with the knob, and when I finally plunged into the dark hall, I took three steps and crashed into someone. Lukewarm beer soaked my jeans.

“Oh, my God,” said the voice that went with the beer. “I’m so sor—”

I looked down. The first thing I saw were pink and silver leather flats, a three-hundred-dollar pair that could only belong to one person.

Chantal Simmons.

Chantal never finished apologizing. She looked from her beer cup, now only a quarter full, to my jeans, to my face, and laughed. The hall was crowded, too loud, and now it smelled like beer and musky perfume, the sort that always stung my eyes. I blinked a couple of times.

All I wanted was to go home. Since I reeked of Miller Lite, I couldn’t do that, either. The door swung open again and R.J. burst out, followed closely by Ryan. Chantal tossed her head and acted like she hadn’t just dumped most of her drink on me. R.J.’s gaze flickered from her to me and back again.

“So,” he said. “You friendlier than she is?” R.J. nodded toward me.

Chantal did that move that made her hair shimmer. “I’m
very
friendly.”

R.J. slipped an arm around Chantal’s waist and steered her across the hall. He opened the door to a dark room.

“Chantal, you don’t—,” I started.

She spun and nearly lost her balance. “Don’t what?” she said, and though I could tell she meant to focus on me, it was clear that her eyes weren’t cooperating. God, she was so drunk.

“Jack and me—I mean, if you need a ride home.”

Chantal laughed. Then she smiled up at R.J. “Who’s Jack?”

“Now that’s what I like to hear.”

He pulled her into the room and shut the door behind them.

Just like that.

“Should we—?” Should we what? I didn’t have an answer for that, and I darted a glance at Ryan.

He gave the closed door a disgusted look, although whether that was for R.J., Chantal, or the situation in general, I couldn’t tell. “It’s not like it’s the first time,” he said. “Come on. I’ll help you find Paulson.”

N
othing could be worse than that party. Absolutely nothing. I was convinced of that—right up until the moment I stepped outside and the subzero temperature iced my jeans. I’d worn my pink pea coat, and the entire length of my legs was exposed to the wind’s chill.

Jack started the truck but didn’t wait for it to warm up. The pickup sputtered and choked its way through Valley View Estates. We couldn’t look more out of place. On top of that, I reeked of beer. And Jack had a bottle of it tucked in his pocket. If a police car decided to stop us…I couldn’t finish that thought. I squirmed in the seat and tried to pluck the frozen jeans away from my skin.

“It wasn’t supposed to be that kind of party,” Jack said when we turned onto the main road.

“What kind of party was it supposed to be?”

“Quieter. You know…a couples’ party.”

A couples’ party?
“You mean a make-out party?”

“No,” said Jack. “I mean, not really.”

He fell silent, which was just as well. I needed to figure out what to say to my parents when he dropped me off.

Hi, Mom, Dad, just back from a party I didn’t tell you about, where I wasn’t supposed to be, and where I wish I’d never been.
That wouldn’t work.

When we reached the turn for my street, my nerves were a bundle in my stomach. I didn’t need Moni’s help to do the math. The probability of me racing through the house and into my room without Mom or Dad noticing either my soaked jeans or the scent of beer was easy to calculate: Zero.

Jack drove past the turn. I opened my mouth, then shut it. He was taking me home, all right. His home.

How Jack’s dad knew to meet us at the door, I don’t know. I’d never been so relieved to see anyone’s parent in my entire life. “Oh Bethany, honey,” Mr. Paulson said, “inside, quick.” He turned to Jack. “You have the heater on during the drive?”

“Full blast.”

He’d directed all the vents toward me as well. Kids in Minnesota learn about frostbite early. Mr. Paulson found a pair of Jack’s sweatpants for me to wear. I was glad the beer hadn’t soaked my underwear. Things were bad enough without that added humiliation.

By the time I’d changed, dropped my jeans down the laundry chute, and entered the kitchen, a mug of hot chocolate waited for me. Instant, with bobbing little marshmallows. I sipped, convinced nothing had ever tasted so good. It warmed me from the inside out.

Jack’s dad sat at the kitchen table, the now open bottle of Heineken next to him. “No white spots on your skin?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No. Just pink.” Little pinpricks ran along my thighs. It felt almost like burning, but that was good. That was normal. No frostbite.

“I was telling Jackie how this reminded me of something that happened to me and his mom, back when we were in high school. Only I was the one who spilled the beer, on myself.” Mr. Paulson chuckled, and his face grew tender. “I was supposed to meet her parents that night too. You might not believe this”—he pointed the beer bottle at me—“but I was kind of a screwup in high school.”

I wasn’t sure what the proper response should be, so I just raised my eyebrows.

“We ended up at a laundromat,” said Mr. Paulson. “I wore some stranger’s towel while my clothes went through a wash and dry. In the end we were only ten minutes late. But you know what happened?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “That night Jack’s mom broke up with me.”

“Really?”

Mr. Paulson nodded. “I didn’t have sports to keep me grounded, like Jackie does, and his mom—she was pretty serious about school.”

I looked at Jack. His back was turned, so I couldn’t see his face or gauge his reaction. But Mr. Paulson seemed to want to tell this story, to relive the details with a fresh audience. Could that hurt? “What happened?” I said.

“I asked her out every week. And every week she turned me down. Finally, to get me to stop, she agreed to go to prom with me.”

“And did you go?”

Mr. Paulson nodded.

“And then?” I asked.

“And the rest is pretty much history.” Mr. Paulson grinned at me. “I’d better go check on the laundry, so we can get you home before your parents start to worry.”

What?
My
parents?
Worry?
I’d waltz in smelling like dryer sheets instead of beer. It was all good. I relaxed against the kitchen chair. But Jack still had his back toward me.

After I tugged on my still-warm jeans and laced my boots and after we climbed into Jack’s truck, he might as well have
still
had his back turned. The drive home was dark and silent. He left the truck running when he walked me to the door. It seemed ridiculous to say,
I had a nice time,
so I settled for, “Thank you, and tell your dad thanks too.”

Jack nodded. Then, without a kiss good night, without even a squeeze of my hand, he headed down the porch stairs and back to his truck. By the time I turned to close the door behind me, his headlights had vanished from the driveway.

I stepped back into the night and stared up at the stars, brilliant and clear in the frigid air.

“It wasn’t supposed to be that kind of party,” Jack had said.

Whether that was true or not, I didn’t know. It wasn’t supposed to be that way last August, either. I thought about bumping into Chantal Simmons in the hallway tonight, and months ago, on the crooked path to the keg in the woods. She was no better at holding her beer inside than she was outdoors.

I thought about Dina’s Lexus wrapped around that tree, too. It really might have made a difference if I had spoken up last summer. If I could wish upon a star, I would take it all back. But maybe it would have just delayed the inevitable.

At some time, at some point, at some other party, Chantal would get drunk again. She’d get into someone else’s car, or wander into a dark room with someone she barely knew.

Like tonight.

And then there was Jack. I drew in a breath—to hold back the start of a sob—and the cold assaulted my lungs. Tears blurred my view of his brake lights, still waiting at the corner. Should I run to him? Try to explain the differences between girls like me and boys like him? My boots stayed frozen to the spot while Jack’s lights tapped once, twice, then disappeared.
No risk, no reward
, I thought. The stars blinked their agreement.

I pulled open the storm door and stood behind it until my breath crystallized on the glass.

The safest place to spend a cold winter Saturday was the Internet. I wouldn’t have to talk. I wouldn’t have to explain. I wouldn’t even have to think. All I had to do was point and click. I sat on my bed, fired up the laptop, and took advantage of the wireless network Dad had asked Todd to install for us at Christmas. With a pile of pillows around me, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: almost invisible. Right up until the IM program flashed, letting me know I had a new friend request.

No matter what I did, I couldn’t convince myself that it wasn’t Jack—even if that made zero sense. One, he didn’t have a computer. Two, if he wanted to talk, he wouldn’t schlep through minus-five-degree temperatures to the library or coffee shop for free Internet. He’d use the phone.

The IM program flashed again.

Moni? Was that better or worse than not hearing from Jack? I’d called her cell earlier that morning. I’d let my thumb hover over the talk button, half-ready to hang up. I didn’t have to make that choice, though. Moni’s phone rang and rang while I considered how much to tell her about the party. Should I mention Chantal? R.J.? The beer? What about Rick and the blonde who was probably failing my dad’s class? Voice mail seemed like the wrong place for all that. I hung up without leaving a message.

The IM program flashed at me again. I clicked the icon, and the new friend request appeared on the screen: Prez_Emerson.

I should’ve known. Todd discarded screen names like Chantal went through shoes. I approved the contact, and Todd’s message popped up.

Did he mean my nonappearance at the campaign kickoff or Rick’s party? I was so not going there, not in IM anyway. I scooted farther into the pillows and tried to change the subject.

Oh, he did, with a passion. Maybe it was the speed chess, or the notes he took for debate, whatever. Todd could type normal, grammatically perfect sentences faster than IM junkies could whip out shorthand. As editor of the school paper, he tore into my Life at Prairie Stone columns with a glee most kids reserved for a snow day.

Good question. The way Jack had hustled me out of Rick’s, his silence both at his house and on the ride—the missing good night kiss—did it mean things had changed? I couldn’t really blame him. In less than one hour, I’d dissed his friend, antagonized both Chantal and R.J., and gotten a beer bath. What good was a girlfriend if you couldn’t take her anywhere?

He did? My fingers trembled on the keyboard while I typed my response.

He had a point; they were. So now Todd knew. Freshman wrestlers knew. By Monday, everyone at school would know.

I choked back a laugh.

Todd would do that for me?

Oh. Wow. I sank into the pillows, only to jolt forward when the phone rang. The laptop teetered and nearly slipped from my knees. The phone rang again. What if it was Jack? Gah. I really had to get my parents on board with caller ID.

My fingers fumbled on the keyboard.

I needed to catch the phone before it flipped into voice mail. One more time. I took a breath, found the keys, and wondered if maybe Todd had a point about Internet shorthand.

I managed to pick up on the fourth ring. My “hello” came out in a rush of breath and heartbeats. And for three seconds, all I heard was silence.

“It’s me,” he said finally. “Jack.”

“Oh.” I eased the laptop from my legs and caught a flash of messages scrolling down the screen. Surely the boy genius could figure out what
brb
meant. I inched the laptop screen lower to block the abuse Todd was no doubt hurling at me.

And then, over the phone, that awful, excruciating silence fell. It was like the past two weeks had been erased—all those talks, dinner at Jack’s. I was as tongue-tied as I’d been on that first day of Independent Reading. Now that we couldn’t talk to each other, I finally realized that we had been.

“I was wondering,” Jack said at last, “if you’re not busy, you could maybe come over. The T-wolves are playing again, and—”

“I have plans,” I blurted out, startling myself.

“Right. I mean, I figured you probably—”

“It’s just this thing…we do…. Everyone’s invited,” I added, softer now.

“Everyone?” he asked.

Well, everyone who wasn’t anyone.

“Even a guy like me?”

A jock at Geek Night? Talk about messing with the natural order of things.

“Even a guy like you.” I paused. “At least, I think. Can you hang on a minute?”

I’d seen how the other half lived. Now it was Jack’s turn—if I could get Todd to agree. With my free hand, I eased the computer onto my lap. I set the phone down gently on the nightstand and then lifted open the laptop.