Part 15 (2/2)

The world before me went hazy. All I could think was, if my life was a sitcom, the studio audience would be howling with laughter. But I had to keep my focus. This conversation was about calling a cease-fire. Not about me or my dashed dreams (which didn't seem so dashed anymore, anyway).

”Rascal, just tell me you'll leave Jared alone.”

His mouth puckered like he'd tasted something sour. But then he nodded.

I offered a hand. ”Okay, then. And I'll promise not to go to the princ.i.p.al or the police. Shake on it?”

”I'd rather we kiss.”

I rolled my eyes. The thought was not even tempting.

I half expected a James Bond-esque response like ”Never say never again,” but instead he took my hand and shook. ”Fine,” he said. ”Besides, I need to try to smooth things over with Kylie, especially with homecoming coming up.”

I a.s.sumed he didn't catch the irony in that statement. I just looked his way and said, ”Yeah, I hear she's got a killer dress,” and turned toward my cla.s.sroom.

I went to Alison's locker after my last cla.s.s, but again, she was a no-show.

Heading toward the gym, I spotted Jared in pa.s.sing. I stopped him with a tug on his backpack, exhaled, and let rip. I told him exactly what I thought of him downloading the photo and sending it to friends back here in Thurman Oaks. (I was betting the Three Musketeers were involved.) But he wouldn't give an inch. He stubbornly, thoroughly, and convincingly denied all knowledge or partic.i.p.ation. Then walked off, leaving me with my fingernail in my mouth and my tail between my legs.

I didn't know what to think.

Zoe welcomed me with a big smile when I traipsed into the locker room later. Her full focus felt terrific, momentarily filling the little hole in my best-friend heart.

”Ask me what's new,” she bubbled.

”Okay. What's new?”

”Ben Snyder asked me to the homecoming dance!”

I wasn't quite sure who he was or if she even liked him. But I held up my hand for a high five.

Luther's voice suddenly filled the air, painstakingly reminding us that we'd lost our last two games and that she was not coaching a team of losers. So we'd better win today's!

Her warning still rang in my head as I crossed into the gym. The house lights were on, the nets erected, and a sprinkling of onlookers gathered on the court and bleachers.

The starters fell into position and pa.s.sed the ball around. I couldn't help thinking that the ball was a sort of symbol for how I'd been feeling lately. Slamming back and forth between Jared and Rascal, between Mom and Dad, with occasional setups from Alison and Kylie ...

Some time later, I spotted my mother climbing the bleachers. While her loud cheering sometimes embarra.s.sed me, it warmed my heart to see her today. She still loved me, even though I'd been s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up her life. I waited until she caught my eye, waved, and mouthed ”h.e.l.lo.” I only hoped Alison would roll in, too.

The referee blew the first whistle, and we did a pregame handshake with the other starters, followed by our respective cheers. The next whistle sounded and the ball went into play.

As setter, I could set any hitter with the ball, and unlike some other setters I'd watched, I did not play favorites. To me, a good game was all about stamina and teamwork. Whoever was on top of her game got the most sets. Trouble was, that day, no one was playing well.

But the worst of all?

Oh, that would be me. My setting was off, over the net, into the block.

In the third game, the ball was coming down right at me, so my arms automatically went over my head. The ball fell into my hands. Piece of cake. Like it had a gazillion times in practices and games. I went to launch it back up to my team. But the stiff fingers I relied on betrayed me. The ball continued falling. Right through my hands. Until it landed (ka-thunk!) on the hardwood.

The ref blew his whistle and signaled a point for the other team.

Ugh! Missing the ball was bad enough. But dropping? What was I, five years old?

A couple of girls on the other team smirked; one was biting back a laugh. Complete humiliation. Waaay worse than losing the point. Or the browbeating I'd get from the coach later.

Zoe gave me this I'm sorry look. And a couple of minutes later, probably still trying to cheer me up, she pointed up to a bleacher area. ”You've got a fan.”

I looked up, dizzied, distracted, and set my eyes on a big, waving piece of cardboard with black-painted strokes: GO NICOLETTE!.

Beneath the cardboard extended a pair of jeaned legs. Alison had been wearing jeans earlier. My blood warmed. Everything was just fine. Once again, I was making too much out of things.

But the cardboard eased lower, and the face that appeared above it wasn't hers. Or even a girl's. It belonged to a too-handsome, dark-haired guy. With eyes the color of root beer and a crooked smile that I knew could light up his eyes. Who did things to my insides I was only now just beginning to understand.

OmiG.o.d, Jared.

”Antonovich!” barked an irate coachlike voice from the sideline.

I knew not to follow the voice, but to swivel my head back toward the net-and just in time, too, to take a serve with the center of my face.

My hands rus.h.i.+ng up to cup my nose, I couldn't decide which would be worse: having it spurt like a red geyser in front of all these people who already thought I was a dork. Or simply having it swell purple until I looked like Rascal's ugly twin.

After I'd sat out the last game of the set under an ice bag, it looked like my nose would retain its color. And its blood.

I got home to be greeted by Mom on the phone, retelling my volleyball/nose story. Not in a concerned motherly way, but light and friendly. I knew she had to be talking to Alison, so when she met my eye, I pointed at the phone. She nodded and said into the receiver, ”Here, talk to her yourself,” and handed it over.

”Hey,” I said, then winced at the pain that came from an automatic smile.

”Glad you're okay,” came the deep reply, the voice of my childhood.

Dad? Wait-Mom was talking to Dad? In a non-lethal, I-don't-want-to-rip-you-a-new-one way?

This was ginormously weird!

”Yeah,” I managed to say into the receiver.

He asked a few questions about the game, but once I'd given him satisfactory answers, I turned the tables on him. Inquiring minds wanted to know! ”Did you just happen to call tonight?”

”No, your mom called me.”

”Why?”

”We had some business to discuss.”

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