Wild Cards (6 page)
Authors: Simone Elkeles
What’s my purpose? I haven’t told my dad that I’m going to enlist after I graduate, in an attempt to find my purpose in life.
As I jog along the shoreline, I come across a small crowd hanging around a fire listening to music and laughing. I recognize Ashtyn immediately. She’s sitting next to her boyfriend, but they both look miserable. The dude’s holding a beer in one hand and is leaning on the other. If she were my girlfriend, I’d have one hand tangled in that long blond hair of hers and the other on her waist, pulling her close so our bodies were pressed against each other as I kissed her until she was breathless. But I’m not him.
Falkor barks, attracting the attention of more than a few people. Including Ashtyn. Shit. Her distrusting eyes meet mine before she looks away and pretends I don’t exist.
I end up taking a detour and jog the rest of the way back to the house. I wish the workout made me stop thinking too much, but seeing Ashtyn reminds me of all the crap I have to deal with.
“Ashtyn isn’t all that,” I tell Falkor.
This weird sound, kind of like a groan, comes out of the dog’s mouth.
“She’s got a boyfriend. And she can’t stand me livin’ in her house, right?” But she’s got full, kissable lips. And these eyes that seem to change colors with her moods. I can’t shake her from my mind.
I stop and look down at the dog for confirmation, since he
knows her better than me. He’s looking up at me with droopy, clueless eyes.
“I’m talking to a damn dog, and I called
her
crazy.” I laugh to myself.
Back at the house I’m trying to find a comfortable position on my air mattress, but it’s not easy. On top of that, I keep imagining Ashtyn’s lips as if they’re some kind of artwork to be admired and analyzed. When I’m finally so beat and bored I can sleep soundly even on this crappy blowup, Falkor jumps onto the bed with me. I’m waiting for the mattress to puncture and explode, but it doesn’t. Within seconds, the beast is snoring.
I’ve been dozing for at least an hour when someone bursts into the room. “Why are you sleeping with my dog?” Ashtyn demands.
“I’m not,” I respond in a sleepy moan. “He’s sleepin’ with me.”
“Isn’t it enough that my sister and nephew worship the ground you walk on? You want to steal my dog, too? I saw you at the beach with Falkor. I don’t want you thinking he’s your dog. He’s mine.”
“Listen, Sugar Pie, Falkor snuck into my room. I didn’t invite him. You got issues with your family, keep me out of it.” I sit up and note that she’s changed into a hockey jersey and baggy flannel pants with skulls and crossbones on them. It’s a drastic change from what she wore on her date. “Just take your dog and go to bed.” I lie back down and expect her to leave, but I feel her gaze on me. I wish I wasn’t tempted to reach out and pull her close, to shut her up with a kiss that would make her forget that boyfriend. “What?”
“If you call me Sugar Pie again, I’m going to knock you out.”
I’m tempted to say the word on the tip of my tongue.
Promise?
I’ve been curled up in bed for the past three hours with my eyes closed tight, wishing my life would stop spinning out of control. Landon and I didn’t get along last night at all. I don’t even know where things stand now.
I look at my phone to see if he’s called or texted. He hasn’t, although it’s Saturday. He’s probably still sleeping.
I slowly head for the bathroom. I’m about to sit on the toilet when I’m suddenly off balance and feel like I’m going to fall in. The damn seat is up. I cringe as I set it back down, silently cursing Derek and fully intending to call him out.
First I need to eat. Then I can confront Derek and head to the field to practice. Though Dieter doesn’t have official practice on the weekends, we don’t want to lose our momentum.
Derek walks in the kitchen a few minutes after I do, wearing shorts and a T-shirt. His long hair is messed up and he looks sweet and innocent. I know guys like Derek, who look innocent
but are just the opposite. Falkor, who’d disappeared from my room in the middle of the night, comes prancing in on Derek’s heels.
“Did you lure my dog back in your room last night?” I ask in an accusatory tone.
“He kept scratching on my door and whining like a baby until I let him in.”
“You’re stealing him.”
He shrugs. “Maybe he’s sick of you and wants new company.”
“A dog can’t be sick of his owner, Derek, and I’ll have you know that I’m
great
company. My dog loves me.”
“If you say so.” He rummages through the fridge, pulls out some eggs, then grabs a loaf of bread from the pantry. “What happened at the beach between you and Loverboy? Looked like you two were havin’ one hell of a night,” he says in a lazy drawl as he makes himself scrambled eggs and toast.
“What happened to my rule about not leaving the toilet seat up?” I counter.
The side of his mouth quirks up. “I’ve got this condition, you see. It prevents me from being ordered around.”
“Uh-huh. A condition, you say?”
“Yeah. It’s
real
serious.”
“Ooh, I feel so bad for you. You poor baby, being told to do something by a female. That must’ve threatened your masculinity.” I pull out a bag of Skittles from the pantry and sort out the purple ones like I always do, then start munching on the rest.
Derek leans close and whispers in my ear, “Nothing threatens my masculinity, Sugar Pie.”
A tingly sensation zings up my spine when his warm breath touches my skin. I’m momentarily paralyzed.
He opens the fridge again. “Besides eggs and toast, you got anythin’ in here besides junk and processed food?”
I pretend he has no effect on me. “Nope.”
Derek sits down with his eggs and toast, but stares at my collection of purple Skittles with those clear blue eyes that belong on someone who doesn’t leave the toilet seat up on purpose.
“Nutritious,” he says.
“It’s comfort food,” I tell him.
He quirks his eyebrow, clearly amused. “If you say so.”
“Ugh. Don’t tell me you’re a health nut.”
He scoops up a forkful of eggs. “I’m not a health nut.”
“Good. Here,” I say, pushing my collection of purple Skittles toward him. “You can have the purple ones. I’m allergic to them.”
He raises a brow. “You’re allergic to purple Skittles?” he asks, skepticism laced in his voice.
“I’m allergic to purple dye.” I grab an orange one and pop it into my mouth. “But I’m not allergic to the rest of them. I love Skittles.”
“I’m good with my own breakfast, but thanks.” Derek takes bite after bite of eggs and toast. When Julian walks in, Derek focuses on my nephew. “Hey, buddy,” he says. “Want some breakfast?”
Julian nods.
“I can help,” I quickly tell Derek. I need to redeem myself so Julian doesn’t think I’m the worst aunt who ever lived. If I have to work hard and long for that hug, I’m gonna do it.
I start to get out of my chair, but Derek holds up a hand. “I got it.”
After my mom left, my dad never made home-cooked meals. I had to fend for myself and ate what he brought home from the store: frozen, microwavable food and junk. Obviously Derek’s mom spent more time with him than my mom did with me. While it’s not his fault, I’m overwhelmingly jealous.
Julian sits in the chair next to where Derek had been sitting. Derek’s presence in my house makes me feel insignificant and unneeded. I might as well be invisible.
“Want some Skittles?” I wave the bag in front of my nephew’s face in a lame attempt to get him to bond with me. I’ve never seen a kid who didn’t like candy. “It’s super good breakfast junk food.”
He shakes his head. My nephew wants nothing to do with me.
My nemesis puts a plate of steaming scrambled eggs and toast in front of Julian. My mouth waters from the smell of freshly toasted bread. Julian eats, humming enthusiastically with each bite. The tune reminds me of our school fight song, which is chanted by the fans during halftime at our games.
Thinking of our fight song reminds me that I didn’t look outside to make sure my house hasn’t been tp’d by Fairfield. It was all clear when I went to bed last night, but Falkor slept in the den and might not have heard anything. I pull back the curtains in the living room. My hand flies to my mouth as I take in the sight of my entire front yard.
No! No, no, no, no, no!
It’s
worse
than being tp’d. Worse than I could have ever imagined, and completely humiliating.
Toilet paper isn’t hanging down like white flags waving from branches of every tree. Instead, hundreds of maxi pads are stuck to the tree trunks, and tampons are tied to the branches like a bunch of little Christmas ornaments fluttering in the wind.
As if that wasn’t sick enough, all of the pads and tampons have fake bright red blood marks on them. Even my mailbox has pads stuck all over it.
I seethe with anger and burn in embarrassment as I rush to clean up the yard, then suck in a breath when my eyes focus on my driveway. In big letters are two words written in a multitude of pads: FREMONT’S BITCH.
Ashtyn cursed a bunch of times, then rushed out of the house like a zombie was chasing her. I find her in the front yard, staring at the mess littering the lawn and the trees.
Holy shit.
“Go away,” she cries as she frantically lifts the pads that are stuck to the driveway spelling FREMONT’S BITCH. She’s got what looks like ketchup all over her hands. It gets on her hockey jersey as she piles pads in her arms.
As a guy who appreciates pranks, I’m impressed. This took some serious thought and effort. Retaliation would be fun to plan. But Ashtyn’s breathing hard, like a dragon about to spit fire. She’s not amused or impressed. She’s pissed. I grab a garbage can next to the garage and start untying tampons from the branches.
She yanks the can away from me. “What are you doing?”
“Helping.”
She’s managed to get ketchup on her face and hair. She pushes stray strands out of her face, but that only makes it worse. “I don’t need your help.”
I glance at the tampons waving in the air above her. “Come on, Ashtyn. You know it’ll take you twice as long to do it yourself.” I pull a tampon off a branch and wag it at her. “Let go of that big ego of yours and let me help you.”
She grabs the tampon out of my hand and tosses it into the trash. “I don’t think you’d find it funny if this happened to you.” Turning her back, she drags the can out of my reach. “Why don’t you get brownie points by helping my sister or nephew, because you’re so good at that? You’re not earning any with me, so you might as well go back in the house.”
If that’s the way she wants it, fine. I hold my hands up in surrender. Let her deal with the mess. I know from past experience that getting mixed up with girls like Ashtyn, who take life way too seriously, is more trouble than it’s worth. “You are one bitter girl.”
“What’s going on out here?” Gus demands, then turns to me. “Did you have anything to do with this?”
“No, sir.”
Ashtyn keeps ripping pads off the trees.
Gus huffs and looks at Ashtyn as if this prank is the worst thing that could possibly happen. “I’m calling the police.”
“Dad, no!” Ashtyn gives her father a pleading look. “If you call the police, everyone will accuse me of being a weak girl who can’t handle being team captain.”
“You
are
a girl, Ashtyn,” Gus states matter-of-factly. “Why
don’t you let some boy be captain? Have someone else’s family deal with vandalism to their yard.”
“Gus, it’s not her fault,” I say. Maybe they need to hear the voice of an unbiased third party who doesn’t think getting pranked is the end of the world. “It’s just a prank.”
Gus turns on me. “Just a prank, huh? Pranks are not funny.”
“It’s not a big deal, Gus. Instead of yellin’ at her, why don’t you—”
“Derek, stay out of this.” Ashtyn stands in front of Gus, demanding all his attention. She stands tall, shoulders back and head high. “Dad, I promise I’ll clean everything up before you get home from work. Don’t call the police.
Please
.”
Gus shakes his head, completely frustrated as he eyes the yard again. “If your mother were here, she’d never allow you to be on the football team. She’d sign you up for cooking classes or dance classes or something like that.”
Ashtyn looks like his words are a slap in the face. “I like football, Dad. I’m good at it. If you’d come to a game or practice and just watch me . . .”
Her voice trails to a whisper as Gus dismisses her words and walks to his car. “Make sure the yard is clean before I get home, or I will call the police.” He gets in his car and drives off. After he’s gone, Ashtyn takes a deep breath to compose herself, then goes back to taking pads off the trees.
I start pulling tampons off branches too high for her to reach.
“You know,” I say as I reach around her and toss the tampons in the trash. “Just because you can deal with bullshit on your own doesn’t mean you should.”
“Yo, yo, anyone home?” Jet’s human-bullhorn voice booms through the house. Jet never rings the doorbell. If our door was locked, he’d knock so loud he’d put a dent in the door.
I rush down the stairs, hoping I’ve washed off all the fake blood. It took Derek and me over an hour to clean the front yard. By the end, we looked like victims in a slasher film.
In the living room, Jet makes himself comfy in my dad’s favorite chair while Trey and Monika sit next to each other on the couch. Victor stands in the doorway with his hands crossed on his chest. I know what’s bothering him, but I’d never reveal his secret.
I’m still thinking about what I’m going to tell the guys about the prank when Jet says, “We know your house got tamponed and padded last night.”
I was hoping the prank happened late enough and I’d cleaned up early enough that word wouldn’t spread. This morning, only a
few cars passed our house and only one slowed to check out the scene.
