Tell Me Something Real Page 6

  “Girls, do you know Ford Slaughter?” I’m blocking the entrance, which forces Ford to stop behind me. I flash him a grin, and I see the horror light his eyes before they go carefully blank.

  Distracted, either by the fact that I interrupted their gossip fest about me, or the veins popping in Ford’s forearms from the weight of the books, the girls stop chattering and start grooming. I stand and watch, my eyes purposefully wide and comical while I motion at them with my head. Ford does not laugh. He simply stands there—not even breathing hard or showing strain from the books, mind you—and stares at me.

  “We saw you at the party the other night.”

  When Ford makes no move to speak, let alone confirm what this girl has said—Lacy? Macy? Tracy?— a different one tries. “Where are you from?”

  I almost think Ford’s not going to answer—not that it would deter the girls, but it would certainly impress me—but in the end, he gives a terse “Seattle,” before angling his body just a mere inch closer to mine. “Blondie, you ready? I have practice and so do you.”

  I sigh dramatically and jerk my thumb at him. “Sorry ladies—this one, he’s all business. I’m sure you can catch up with him later at one of your popular kid gatherings.”

  Feeling loads better, I nearly skip the rest of the way through the crowds and down the hallway, not bothering to look back and see if Mr. Muscles is keeping up.

  “So, this is the math hall,” I say, holding my arms out wide. “Half of the math teachers are also football and basketball coaches, so I’m sure you already know them. And to your left are the health classrooms—also taught by football coaches.”

  Glancing down at his schedule, I see his locker number and head toward F hall. “So, your locker is kind of out of the way—all the way down by the back exit that leads to the football field. Not that you look like a guy who spends a lot of time rushing to his locker between classes. Then again,” I continue, impressed with his silence. “You don’t look like the kind of guy who carries a girl’s books either, so who am I to pass judgement?”

  Because he’s not responding, I’m inspired to work harder, and instead of taking him directly to his locker, or mine, so he can drop the weight he’s carrying, I turn left and take him back down the E hall. I point out the grid our hallways are built into, how if he looks hard enough, he’ll see that the make-up of the inside looks exactly like a hashtag. When I look over my shoulder, I half expect him to be gone, but instead he’s looking around, his eyes noting the places I’m pointing out, his arms still carrying both sets of books.

  “Impressed with the facilities?” I ask, since he’s focused on the watermarks in the ceiling, which is made up of several different and mismatched tiles, most likely due to asbestos they’ve found and done their best to remove over the years. “It’s not exactly Seattle Prep…”

  Now his eyes meet mine. “Doing a little stalking, Blondie?”

  “Well, your Instagram profile is public, and your dad has been interviewed no less than fifteen times in the last ten years, so it’s not so much stalking as it is basic Googling and interest. And you can bet I’m not the only one whose done it since you arrived. Those whispers back there weren’t all for me.”

  He offers a wry smile. “Is that why you played nice with Barbie and crew? You wanted to make sure that they were staring at someone besides you?”

  I laugh and stop when we get to my locker, exactly seven down from his, and put in the code. “Maybe…but in fairness, they were already whispering about you before Lisa decided to put on her show for Mom of the Year. This is me,” I say.

  It pleases me to see the slight tremble in his arms when he sets the books down on the floor. I sift through them looking for mine, noting that his are drastically different. AP calculus, AP physics, AP psychology… novels that I would guess are not for regular old English 12 like mine are.

  “Thanks for these. Your locker is seven down.” I point further down the hall and he nods, picking his books back up and heading down toward it without a word.

  I dig through mine, looking at the papers that are stuffed in some, teachers who are trying to give us homework even though school doesn’t start for another six days. I ignore the papers and stuff everything into my locker. When I glance up, Ford is staring at his own stack of papers, sifting through them.

  “Lame, right?” His head snaps up and I walk his way, motioning to the thick packet of work he’s staring at. “Summer homework—like torturing us during the school year isn’t enough, they have to start a week early.”

  Ford looks back down at the papers, and then places them back into the books before closing his locker. He didn’t put the books back in, though; instead, he’s got them in his hands, along with his assignments.

  “How do I get to the locker room from here?”

  “This way.” We turn and walk back toward the gym together. I point to the boys’ locker room. “Have fun. Don’t beat anyone else up at practice.” He stops, the hand that’s not full of books on the door. When he makes no move to say anything else, I roll my eyes. “Whatever Colt’s told you, or convinced you to do, there’s no need. I can take care of myself, and I don’t need someone else’s boyfriend defending me in some sort of misplaced chivalry.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, and I scoff. “But if I did,” he continues, surprising me by talking without prompting. “I’d tell you that being mad at someone for putting a guy who disrespected you in his place is as stupid as hooking up with an asshole just because he looked good through your beer goggles.”

  Heat creeps up my neck to my cheeks, but I don’t look away. “Well, you’ve met my mom,” I say, and hate that those are the words I chose to defend myself.

  And, then, Ford shocks me again. “You’re better than your mom, Lincoln.”

  I don’t really know why I said that to Lincoln. I mean, who the hell am I to tell someone how to act or who to sleep with?

  No one.

  Especially since I’m letting a girl tell everyone she’s dating me, not because I want to date her, but because I don’t care enough to tell her that. And, because the more she does and says whatever she wants, the easier it is on me.

  For instance, I don’t have a car—or a valid license right now. Which means I don’t have a ride if Colt isn’t going to the farm, unless I want to call Beau and Maggie every time I’m done with practice or need to go somewhere. But, because Jacqueline is working to prove to everyone (including me) that we’re together, she’s more than happy to wait for me after practice and chauffeur me to and from the farm or to a party.

  She’s hinted at dinner a couple of times, but I avoid the question and remind her Beau and Maggie are waiting for me. And then I let her kiss me in the driveway, never saying no when her hands creep into my hair or under my shirt, and she seems satisfied.

  Honestly, I’m pretty content. I don’t love her—I’m my father’s son, so there’s a really good chance I’m never going to love anyone—but I like that my feelings for her are easy, almost ambivalent. I enjoy the feel of her mouth on mine, and her fingers when they get impatient and start to roam, but I don’t think about her when I leave her car and head inside to sit in the horrifying silence of my grandparents’ house. And I don’t think of her when I should be thinking of something else, like football or the physics homework that’s tougher than I anticipated.

  Not like I think about Lincoln.

  “Slaughter two, where’s your head at?”

  I snap my focus back to Coach and the play he’s drawn on the whiteboard. We’re on the field, going through the plays, and since I play both sides of the ball, I have to do twice the work.

  “Here, Coach,” I say. He’s drawn up a hitch play that has me running a quick route and hooking back in to catch the ball.

  “Do your job.”

  As always, this phrase signals the end of Coach’s explanation, so we break and line up. The first two times we run t
he play, it’s a mess. Grier blows one pass, throwing too early, and another time, the running back, Grossman, doesn’t do any of the blocking, and I’m hit just as the ball reaches my fingers.

  Coach’s clipboard goes flying, and all of our names are being screamed through his lips as he asks us what play we were focusing on when he made this one. No one speaks, knowing that he expects no answer other than contrite silence. But I look across the huddle at Grier, and I see his smug ass smirk and know that if I don’t fix this shit now, we’re all going to be running.

  “You got a problem, Landon?”

  We’re walking back to position to try again, and I jog my way over so I’m walking next to him. He barely glances at me, pretending to take a minute to adjust his helmet.

  “I’m not the one blowing the play, little Colt.” His eyes roam over me, and his sneer begs me to let him have it like I did the other day.

  I don’t rise to the bait, but I do step closer when he stops, loving that he’s forced to look up at me. “Little who?” I think, but stay focused on my mission. He wants to take a step back, but I give him credit for the fact that he doesn’t. Maybe he does have balls—tiny ones, but balls nonetheless.

  “Who you blow is your business, Grier, but screwing with me screws the team. I don’t know what you’re into.” I smirk, and his face goes beet red. “But I’m into winning.” Pounding my fist on his chest, I pull it back just a little so it’s more of a love tap. “Throw the ball, Landon, and tell your boy to do his job. You won’t have to settle for messing with your teammates when we actually win. I promise.”

  “Slaughter two! Grier! Are you done gabbing yet, or should I order you some coffee to go with your gossip?”

  I stare at Landon, and he stares back, his face and neck still an angry shade of red. Finally, he crams his helmet on his head. “Ready, Coach,” he hollers and then glares at me. “You better catch the fucking ball, little Colt, or it will be your girl I take.”

  This time I can’t help it. “We both know that’s not true. I didn’t even have to move and your girl came to me—hard.” Before he can front, I slap him in the chest again, pulling nothing back this time. Again, he accepts the hit, only letting it jolt him a little. “Throw the ball, and I’ll help you get a new one.”

  +

  “Rich Boy.”

  I pause on my way out of the locker room, hair damp from my shower, with sweat shorts and a T-shirt on. Colt walks over to me, already wearing boots, wranglers, and a baseball cap. “You and Grier figure out your lover’s quarrel?”

  I nod. “I even promised to get him a girl, once he promised to handle his balls like a man.”

  Colt snorts out a laugh, and I feel a smile curve my lips. “Jesus, you’re an even bigger dick than I am. Hungry?” It takes me a minute, but I eventually nod. “Tell Jackie she’s going to have to wait to handle your balls tonight. We’re going to grab food. And she’s not invited.”

  He leaves me standing there, and because I can’t see her, I just take out my phone and text Jacqueline.

  Me: Grabbing a ride with Colt.

  I don’t add see you later, and not thirty seconds go by before she asks that exact thing.

  Jacqueline: see you later?

  I think of my grandparents’ house—how empty and quiet it is. And then I think of early practice in the morning, the physics and calc homework I have four days to complete, the short stories I haven’t even begun reading and annotating for Lit, and the manual labor I’m sure Beau has scraped up to fill the rest of my time.

  Me: Not tonight.

  She sends back a pouty face, and I don’t acknowledge it. Shoving my phone into my pocket, I walk to Colt’s truck, which is already barreling, smoke practically pouring from the exhaust. “Ever heard of a carbon footprint?” I ask, throwing my bag into the back and hoisting myself into the front.

  “Missing your Prius, Rich Boy?”

  “Porsche 911.”

  Colt whistles long and low, jerking the steering wheel in a way that shows me power-steering is a luxury this truck does not have. “Wow, you really are a rich boy. What happened—Daddy get mad and take your T-bird away?”

  I spare him a look. He just grins, pleased with himself. This, I’m learning, is one of the many facets of Colt. So is the asshole he’s been acting like; it’s a balance he walks, and though I don’t always understand what sets him off, if it’s even anything in particular, as long as Lincoln is not being harmed, Colt appears to be pretty relaxed most of the time. Which makes me question their relationship, but despite what Jacqueline constantly tells me—“that whore is hooking up with Colt and keeping him on a leash”—I don’t ever see them as more than friends. Brother and sister even.

  “Crashed,” I tell him. “Totaled it.”

  He winces, like it hurts him to even think such a thing. “Jesus, you need me to teach you to drive? A Porsche, Rich Boy? You total a bumper car or a Honda—maybe even a monster truck when you’re doing something stupid. But a Porsche? Christ, that why you’re here? Daddy couldn’t handle you?”

  I nod. “I’m an embarrassment.” I don’t mean to say it, but Colt doesn’t understand that, or the tightness of my words, because he nods his head.

  “Goddamn right you’re an embarrassment. Anybody who crashes a Porsche should walk with shame.”

  I smirk, despite the dark memories, and then raise my brow when we pull into a fast food joint. “KFC? Really?”

  He jerks the gearshift into place. “Sorry we don’t have a finer dining experience for you. But it’s cheap, and this belly needs food—not ambiance. Besides, Lincoln’s working. She always gives me extra biscuits.”

  He’s out the door, slamming it so hard the frame rattles. I grab my wallet and follow him, noting the other people already at tables when we walk in. It’s not packed, but there’s a healthy smattering of people already seated at tables, greasy baskets of food in front of them, kids running around while moms snap out their names and shove food in to their mouths when they pass.

  Colt’s already ordering when I step up to the counter, and before I can say anything, he jerks his thumb at me. “Rich Boy’s paying. Consider it gas money for the ride home I’ll give you,” he says before I can even raise a brow.

  “Jacqueline would have done it for free,” I mumble when he grabs a large soda cup and brushes by me.

  “Free. Sure. That where the hickey on your shoulder came from? All those free rides?”

  The suggestion is loud and clear in Colt’s voice, and makes more than one head turn since he’s all the way over at the soda fountain now.

  “Hickey or bite mark?” Lincoln asks when I look up at her. She’s standing behind the register, all her blonde hair piled on top of her head and sticking out the top of a black visor that carries the KFC logo on it. Her polo is also black, sporting another red logo. Her eyebrows are raised when I meet her eyes.

  “Neither,” I finally answer. “Colt just likes making a scene.”

  “Bullshit,” he calls from across the restaurant again. When one of the mothers cuts him a hard glare, he holds his hands out in confusion.

  Lincoln nods. “That he does. Well, big spender, what do you want? Your date ordered enough to feed a family at Thanksgiving, and your total already is nineteen dollars and seventy cents.”

  I peruse the menu, as out of place as I’ve ever felt. And that’s saying something since I moved here. “What did Colt order?”

  “Two Big Box meals.”

  I find that on the menu. “Give me one of those--wedges, no mashed potatoes.”

  “Who doesn’t like mashed potatoes?”

  “Anyone with teeth who can masticate their own food.”

  She smiles. “Your rich boy side is showing. We just say chew around these parts.” And even though I know there’s no accent for a pacific north westerner, Lincoln drags a half-smile from me when she adds a country twang to her voice.

  “Thanks for the tip.”
<
br />   She clicks in the order and hands me my cup at the same time she reads me the total. When I hand her an Amex black card, she stares at it, and then me, before handing it back with another amused smile. “Sorry, slugger. Visa or Mastercard only.”

  Feeling like an asshole, I dig around and come up with a fifty. She laughs outright this time, hitting a button to open the register and counting out my change. When I stand, looking around, she asks, “What now? Cloth napkins?”

  “Tip?”

  “Yeah, this is KFC, not Starbucks. Most people pay with coins, giving me exact change down to the penny. We don’t really collect tips.”

  “Right.” I nod and walk away with my cup. A minute later, I’m seated across from Colt, and Lincoln is bringing our food to us. Instead of walking away like I expect, she sits on the bench next to Colt and snags his spoon to fork in a bite of his potatoes.

  He doesn’t explode. Instead, he plops the cup of mashed disgustingness in front of her and puts some chicken on top. Next, he produces a tube that looks like an old 35MM film canister, but reads Test Strips on the outside, plopping those in front of her, too.

  “Colt.” Her voice is quiet, and she’s no longer eating.

  He doesn’t acknowledge her, just shovels food in at an impressive rate. She touches his arm, and he pauses long enough to look at her. Nothing else happens—just the look—but it’s enough to make me wonder if I was wrong, because that look… if there’s such a thing as love, it’s right in front of me.

  The first day of school, Evie is waiting at my locker when I walk in.

  I’m here early because it means getting a parking spot that doesn’t require a few block walk, and breakfast. Evie’s probably here because she worked out already, preparing to continue domination on the athletic front.

  Seriously, look up dedicated and this girl’s picture pops up. But I get it—as much as she might have a pretty good gig with her family here, volleyball is a way to guarantee she gets to leave; it’s a promise for an opportunity somewhere other than here, where people were hell bent on making our lives miserable at one point or another. Just because she’s escaped being a victim that last few years doesn’t mean she’s forgotten how it felt.