Part 6 (1/2)

”Thought you were booted off the team.”

”You never know. My dad could give me a pity A.”

”Yeah, and the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders could show up in my bedroom tonight, too.” Joey shook his head. ”Here. You need this more than me.” He shoved the c.o.ke at me.

I took it, popped the top, and guzzled half the soda. My stomach, empty since lunch, churned. I shot another glance at the monitor. Everything was still normal in Mys.p.a.ce land.

”You gonna message Megan or what? Just say you were a moron. She'll forgive you. Girls like that c.r.a.p.” Joey said, gesturing toward the computer. Megan's face was back on the screen. Her wide smile, big blue eyes. Tempting me to come over.

”Nah. I, ah, think I'll do it in person.” I wasn't going to touch that computer again. Maybe not for the rest of my life.

Joey lay down on my bed, his hands behind his head, and looked up at the ceiling. ”Dude, I got a problem.”

Suddenly I just wanted him to leave. He had no idea what problems really were. It was getting harder every second to convince myself that this was all some w.i.l.l.y Wonka- size dream. ”Joey, I don't have time for-”

He popped forward. ”This is a serious problem. You're my friend. You have to listen to me. There's this girl, and, like, she won't talk to me. So I want to ask her out, but I don't want to look like a desperate loser, so a”

I nearly strangled him. ”Did you ever think I might have something going on in my life, Joey? Something more important than your stupid love life?”

Joey's upper lip crinkled in confusion. ”More important? Like what? You got cancer or something?”

”No,” I said, nearly shouting now. I yanked the Hamlet papers out of the printer and dropped his three pages onto his lap. ”For G.o.d's sake, stop thinking only about yourself.”

Joey swung off my bed and got to his feet. ”Geez. Who broke your crayons?”

”n.o.body. I've had a bad day.” Understatement of the year, but I couldn't tell Joey what was going on. He'd be no help, none at all. There was a reason my father had picked him to read the part of the buffoon in Hamlet.

”Whatever. I gotta go.” He took the paper, folded it into thirds, and shoved it into his back pocket. ”I'm supposed to be babysitting my little brother anyway.”

”You left him home alone?”

”What? He's, like, nine. As long as he doesn't turn on the stove, he won't burn down the house.” Joey grinned, then headed out of my room.

Yet another reason not to rely on Joey for help.

I left the door open. Just in case the computer decided to freak out again. I considered leaving, but where was I going to go?

Plus, I wasn't so sure that thing couldn't follow me. Hadn't it shown up at school?

Where was I safe?

Or was there still a possibility I was making all this up, like when I was eleven and had a week of nightmares after I'd sneaked downstairs to watch Saw?

”Cooper!” StepScrooge Sam called upstairs. I knew that sound in his voice. It was the get-your-b.u.t.t-down-hereand- clean- the- garage- o r- do- some- other- equally- horrible- ch.o.r.e voice.

Great. I so did not need him right now. Not that I had ever needed him in my life, but now was totally not a good time.

I didn't answer him.

”Cooper, answer me!”

I flipped open my math book. Pretended I was interested in algebra. I sent another glance toward the computer. The screen saver had popped on, a roving picture of a Fender guitar. I should shut it off, but that would mean touching the computer and there was no way I was going near that thing again.

I heard the thud of footsteps. Before I could turn off my light and pretend to be unconscious, StepScrooge Sam stuck his obnoxious blond head into the room. ”Don't you dare play dumb. I called you. Twice.”

”Can't hear you,” I said, cupping a hand around my ear. ”I flunked my hearing test at school.”

He glared at me. ”Not funny, Cooper. Your mother wants you.

A chill ran down my spine. No. Not her. Don't make me go down there.

”I'm not telling you twice.” He thumbed toward the hall. ”Get up.”

Mr. Personality clearly wasn't trying to make friends tonight. ”What a what, ah, does she want?”

”What is this, twenty questions? Get downstairs. Now.” He turned and walked away.

I stared at 3x + 2y = ? for a long time. Looked at it until the letters and numbers blurred into nothing, until I convinced myself I was a normal freshman with a friend who was an idiot, a girlfriend-or ex-girlfriend-who hated my guts, too much homework for a Tuesday night, and a stepfather who annoyed me.

”Cooper!” I heard him shout again. He wouldn't leave me alone until I went downstairs, so I shut my algebra book and trudged down to the kitchen.

”So,” StepScrooge Sam was saying to my mother, ”I delivered another set of twins today. Both healthy.”

”That's wonderful,” my mother said. Her back was to me, her hands busy at the sink, finis.h.i.+ng up the dishes, everything all June Cleaver again. The water was off, as she washed in one sink, then set the dishes in the other to rinse all at once.

We could have afforded a maid, could have afforded a whole fleet of maids, but once my mother married my stepfather, she stopped working and started keeping the house, to give her something to do, she said.

”Yeah, I guess it's good,” StepScrooge Sam said with a sigh. He ran a hand through his blond hair. He highlighted it, which made him seem too girlie to me. Some days I wanted to tell him to just be a man and go natural.

My mother turned and faced him. ”What? Did something go wrong?”

”No. Nothing.”

”You seem almost a disappointed,” she said.

I wasn't surprised. StepScrooge Sam was never happy with anything. The guy had inherited three generations of Was.h.i.+ngtons and lived in the best house in the neighborhood, a monster of a mansion he had built a few years ago. Made money like a c.o.ke machine from his jobs delivering babies and making wine. What he had to complain about, I didn't know, but complain he did. ”It was a long day. That's all,” he said.

Yeah, I'll give you a long day, I wanted to say. But I didn't. I usually tried to stay as far away from anything resembling an actual conversation with him as possible. I s.h.i.+fted from foot to foot. What did she want with me?

Maybe I should just leave. Hope they'd forget all about me.

”How are things at the vineyard?” my mother asked.

”We're having a rough patch. But it'll pa.s.s.” He let out a long breath.

My mother ran the sprayer over the few plates and bowls in the sink, then turned off the water and dried her hands. ”You should relax, Sam. Let me get you the paper, honey.” She went into the den.

I took a gla.s.s out of the cabinet and crossed to the sink to pour myself some water. I turned on the faucet and let it run, testing with my finger to see if it was cold.

”Cooper, what the h.e.l.l do you think you're doing?”