A Match Made in High School (7 page)

the board. It wouldn’t shock me to hear that Barbara told them some sob story about trying to raise two kids and work full time while her dirtbag husband flits around the world, burning up her savings account with some young, sexed-up tramp.”

Mrs. Beaufort bristled. “Well, however she might have phrased it, it’s obvious that her divorce is coloring her judgment. Marriage is a sacrament, not a college prerequisite.”

Mom got up and brought a plate of coffee cake to the table. “I feel terrible for what she’s going through, but to hold our kids’ diplomas over their heads—it’s too much.”

Electrocuted Skunk twirled her finger in her mug handle.

“And what about kids who aren’t even straight? It’s cruel, if you ask me.”

“And I’m sorry,” Big Earrings said, “but how is some course going to teach them how marriage works? I’ve been married three times, and I haven’t figured it out yet.”

She snorted. “I figured out how to call a lawyer, though.” She held up her hand, and Electrocuted Skunk high-fived her. A woman in a cream-colored jumpsuit who had been silent up till now set her mug down hard. “As president of the PTA, I move that we pledge our help to Vivian in her opposition to the marriage education course.” Mrs. Beaufort seconded the motion. “All those in favor?”

Four hands shot into the air.

Mom beamed. She’d successfully allied herself with the most powerful group of women in our little town. Housewives with anger issues, plenty of disposable income, and way too much free time. Mom was set. “Thank you, Cybil. Thank 70 Kristin Walker

you, committee. I think we should start with a petition,”

she said.

I grabbed a cup of coffee and crept upstairs. I fished my marriage ed journal out from under my bed to make an entry. Over the years, I’d learned that under the bed was the best place to keep anything I didn’t want found, because there was so much crap—papers, magazines, dirty socks, grocery bags—that no one would ever suspect that anything of value was under there. Sort of like hiding in plain sight.

Not that I thought the journal had any value whatsoever.

Saturday, September 7

The dance last night was . . . wel , let’s just say memorable. Not that I stayed for long. I went, spent some “quality time” with Todd (now aka Señor Shitslacks), and left. Poor Mar—I dragged her out of there. But I was just fried. The planning beforehand, plus the stress of waiting, and then the deed itself. (Although Johnny Mercer kept me company, which was actual y okay. Either he’s real y dopey or he has a wicked sense of humor. I suspect it’s the latter. For example, when he and Mar and I were at the store before the dance, I told them about how I have to get the cheerleaders their precious water, as if they even break a sweat. And Johnny said, “Hey, look on the bright side. You could always spit in it.” Isn’t that hilarious?)

But re the prank. I have to say, I real y expected to end up energized and juiced-up by the whole thing. Don’t get

me wrong; it was hysterical while it was happening. But once it was done, and everybody went back to what they were doing . . . I dunno. The coolness didn’t last very long. I realized that I had absolutely no desire to stay. Bizarre. I had total y pictured myself spending the rest of the dance in ful -on gloat mode. Which, okay, doesn’t say much for my character, but then again, in the end, I just left. So maybe I’m not a complete jerk.

Oh, and one more thing. This journal may soon become recycling, because my mother has got this marriage ed course in her crosshairs. One of the things that can make my mom a huge pain in the ass sometimes is that when she sinks her teeth into a new project (like this, or say . . . forcing me to get a terrible haircut when I was twelve), she pretty much hangs on until the victim quivers in defeat. If you don’t think it’s true, then check out my seventh-grade yearbook picture. The yearbook company changed my name to Frank Sheehan because they were sure the kid with the buzz cut in the photo couldn’t possibly be a girl. That’s what they said when Mom cal ed about it, anyway. She never nagged me about my hair again.

I’d BEEN wATChING SAMANThA pICkLER EVER SINCE

her family moved into Arborview Estates four years earlier. I’d seen Sam change from a nonstop-jabbering kid into a bright, sassy eleven-year-old. She was funny, beautiful, and way, way cooler than me. I never felt unlucky when I was around her. Plus, she made me laugh.

“Come on in, Fiona,” Mr. Pickler said when I got there. I stepped into their spotless foyer. Normally, I don’t like houses in developments, but Mrs. Pickler had pretty decent taste, décorwise, even if she was a neat freak. The paint in the foyer was this organic copper color, set off by black accessories, caramel wood floors, and a giant glass vase filled with deep green eucalyptus branches. The whole place had that spicy, clean eucalyptus smell.

“Thanks,” I said. “Actually, Mr. Pickler, I have a question to ask. We’re doing this project in school”—I couldn’t bring myself to say it was a marriage education course. I was humiliated enough just to say this much—“and my partner and I have to earn some money together.”

“Oh, is it an economics project?”

“Uh, kinda. Anyway, I was wondering if it would be okay with you to have him come here to babysit with me.”

Mr. Pickler drew himself up. “Wait a minute—your partner is male?”

“Uh, yeah. Is that a problem?”

“You know Sam’s mother and I have a strict no-boyfriends policy, Fiona.”

I literally felt myself gag. “Oh,
no way
, Mr. Pickler. Todd Harding is
not
my boyfriend. Please. Nooo.”

“Todd Harding? Got hurt playing football a few years back? Is he your project partner?”

Uh-oh.
“Do you know him?”

“He lives down the street. Moved in about the same time we did.”

“Oh, great,” I said without sounding like it was great at all. What can I say? I’m a rotten liar.

“I’ve got no problem with Todd coming to help babysit Sam.” He turned sideways and pointed at me. “I’m not paying double, though!” He laughed at himself. I laughed too, because I had to—he was the guy who paid me.

“In fact, since it’s warm out,” he said, “you and Sam could take a walk down there so she can meet him, if he’s home.”

“What a terrific idea, Mr. Pickler!” I said with totally sarcastic cheer. He couldn’t tell the difference, though. “We’ll do that.”

“His house number is . . .” He tapped his fingers together as he counted the houses. “319, it must be. To the right, down the street, fifth house on the right.”

74 Kristin Walker

“Great! Thanks!”

Sam came galloping down the stairs. “Fiona! You’re finally here. I’ve been waiting
forever
.” She jumped to hug me and a strand of her strawberry blond hair got caught in my glasses.

“Ow!” she cried. I took off my glasses and gingerly pulled the hair from the frame. The strand stuck out from her head, but it wasn’t terribly noticeable, since the rest of her hair was kind of a mess too. Sam hated having anyone brush her hair, but she forgot to do it herself most of the time. It drove her mother nuts. But what really bugged her mother were Sam’s fashion choices, which were not unlike mine. Our motto was: If it’s clean and it fits, we wear it. Actually, clean is sometimes optional. Today must’ve been one of the optional days, because Sam had a red dribble stain down the front of her peach-colored shirt. A cherry Popsicle was my guess. Sam’s dad started tugging on the cuffs of his shirt and straightening his tie. “Sam’s mom and I should be back around eleven.” He called up the stairs, “Victoria! Time!”

He kissed Sam on the head. “Don’t get Fiona in too much trouble, Monkey-child.”

“Sure thing, Ape-man,” Sam said. “Not too much. Just a little bit. Got it.”

“Guess what? Fiona’s going to introduce you to a friend of hers. Won’t that be nice?”

“Oooh! Who? Who, Fiona?”

Before I could answer, Mrs. Pickler strolled down the stairs in a cocktail dress, singing, “’Byyye Sammy. Lovvvve you.” She ran her hands over Sam’s hair to flatten it and then kissed her on the forehead, leaving behind a big old set of

burgundy lip prints. She waved at me as she and Sam’s dad walked out the door. “Hi Fiona. ’Bye Fiona.”

“Have a nice”—she shut the door—“night. Okay. Whatev.”

I wiped the lip prints off Sam’s head with my thumb. She swatted my hand away. “Who am I meeting?” she demanded.

“You’ll see. Get your shoes on.”

“Why?”

“We’re taking a little walk.”

“Walk? You’ve never taken me on a walk in your whole life,” she said. She pulled open the coat closet door and fished around for shoes. “That’s exercise. You hate exercise.”

“True,” I said. “We’d better go really slowly then. Lumber, even.”

“We could plod.” She sat on the bottom stair and pulled on her purple canvas sneakers without untying them.

“Plod, yes. Nicely done! We shall go for a plod.”

She jumped up. “It is a lovely evening for a plod.”

“Shall we?” I offered my elbow to her.

“We shall.” She slipped her arm into mine.

It was still light out, but the sun was getting ready to set. It was the time of day when the sunlight shines sideways, so everything looks like it has its own special spotlight. That time of day is always hushed. I like to think of it as the planet’s big yawn before going to sleep for the night.

“Where are we plodding to?” Sam asked.

“Not far,” I said. If I was lucky, Todd would be out ravaging Amanda somewhere, and not home. But then again, luck was not my thing.

76 Kristin Walker

I put my hand on Sam’s shoulders and steered her in a zigzag down the sidewalk. “So what’s our plan for later?”

Sam spun around to face me and walked backward with one hand on her hip and one hand flitting through the air between us. “Well, I couldn’t decide between a scary movie and a romantic movie, so I got my tarot cards and laid them out. But I don’t know how to read them, so I said, ‘Forget it,’

and threw them on the floor. And guess what? One with a heart on it landed on top of everything else, so I said, ‘That’s it!’ And so romantic movie it is.
Sixteen Candles
. Our favorite. Is that okay with you?”

“Of course.”

I’d give her anything. I don’t have any brothers or sisters, so I guess I think of Sam as one. Besides, when she gets mad, she’s like a wet cat. I’ve only seen her temper a few times, but never directed at me. I just like to make her happy. She chattered on. “Should we do our nails too? My mom got a new color. Passion Plum. It’s sort of purple, and you
know
how I love purple. But it’s not really purple, just sort of dark purple, you know?”

“Sure.” Despite her tomboy look, Sam loved pretending to get dressed up. She was forever trying to glamorize me. One time she’d insisted on giving me a complete makeover with bright red nail polish, matching red lipstick, black eyeliner, and black mascara. She thought I looked gorgeous. I thought I looked like an overzealous vampire after a feeding.

“Can I stay up till midnight?” she asked.

“Nine.”

“How about eleven?”

“Ten.”

“Okay, deal.” We made these negotiations every time, even though I always let her stay up as late as she wanted. She usually fell asleep on the couch by nine-thirty or so anyway. “Just don’t tell your parents.”

“
Never
!” She laughed.

“Pinky-swear?”

“Pinky-swear!” She hooked her pinky through mine and squeezed.

We turned up Todd’s driveway. “This is the place,” I said. Sam shot ahead of me and rang the doorbell. I wasn’t fast enough to stop her. My plan had been to knock lightly and tiptoe away. But Sam hammered the doorbell at least half a dozen times.

When no one answered, I thought I was off the hook. We started back down the driveway just as a silver minivan pulled in. Señor Shitslacks was at the wheel. I could tell by the look on his face that he was one, trying to piece together the puzzle of why I was there, and two, figure out if I had possibly set some explosives on his front porch. He slowly opened his door and got out. Never took his eyes off me for a second.

“Smooth ride,” I said as he came around the front of the van.

“Beats walking, townie.”

“How did you know I was a townie?” I said, all smartass like. Todd chuckled. “You just told me.”

Pshhh. I waved him off. I’d gotten the “townie” thing my 78 Kristin Walker

whole life, but it never bugged me. Kids who came to my house would always shut up when they saw our hidden back staircase, or took a ride in our dumbwaiter.

“At least I’m not polluting the universe, like you,” I said.

“Nah, you’re too busy hugging trees. Or rather, making out with them. I’m telling you, you really should stick to mating within your species, whatever that is.”

“I would,” I said, “but unfortunately, there are no gorgeous, all-powerful, all-knowing gods around here. I’d even settle for a demigod. It’s a step down, I know. But alas, there are nothing but low-brained mortals here. And half-brains, like you.”

Todd snorted. He nodded toward Sam. “Who’s this?”

Sam marched forward, positioned herself between Todd and me, and pinned her fists on her bony hips. “My name is Samantha Louise Pickler, not that it’s any of your business, because you are a rude, ugly fart-face.”

Even though Sam had her back to me, I covered my huge grin with my hand. I knew I was supposed to correct her, but I couldn’t. She was too freaking adorable. Todd was grinning too. He put his fists on his hips just like her. “Well, I think it’s rude to
call
someone a rude, ugly fart-face.”

“Well, I don’t care what you think.”

“Really? You should.”

“WHY?”

Todd licked his lips and crossed his arms. “Because I have a feeling you and I are going to get to know each other.”

He looked at me. “That right, Princess? Is this the kid?”

I said, “
Sí
, Señor.”

I walked up to Sam and wrapped my arms around her shoulders from behind. She didn’t move an inch from her warrior stance. I pointed to Todd. “That, Sam, is Todd Harding. We have to do this lame school project together where we earn money. We don’t like it. But for now we have to do it. So Todd is going to help me babysit for you. Your parents okayed it. Todd, Sam. Sam, Todd.”

Sam tilted her head toward mine. She kept her eyes drilled on Todd and whispered softly, “He shouldn’t say such mean things to you, Fiona. It is truly tacky.”

I whispered back, “Believe me, I know. But I need you to hang here, okay? As a favor to me?”

Todd kept slightly rotating his head left and right, trying to hear us.

“Please?” I whispered. “I’m gonna need all the help I can get in this situation.”

I felt Sam’s posture soften beneath my embrace. “Fine.”

She dropped her arms, shrugged herself out of my hold, and marched up to Todd. “Hello. My name is Samantha Louise Pickler.” She stuck out her right hand and tossed her head.

“You may call me Sam.”

Todd shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, Sam. My name is Todd. You may call me Todd.” Sam looked back at me and rolled her eyes. I shooed her on.

“Pleasure to meet you, Todd.” She dropped his hand, swiveled on her heel, and strode back to me.

I mouthed,
Thank you.

“So, you were planning to work without me tonight, 80 Kristin Walker

huh?” Todd said. “Funny you forgot to mention it. Trying to skim a little off the top for yourself?”

“No,” I said. “I just hadn’t had a chance to ask them about you yet.”

“You just said they okayed it.”

“Yes, Todd, they did—fifteen minutes ago. I asked them fifteen minutes ago, and they said yes. I’m sorry I didn’t send you a Bat Signal or something.”

Todd clapped his hands once and motioned up the street.

“Great. Then let’s go.”

“Uhhh . . . ’scuse me?” I said. Holy crap, Todd was going to come over and babysit right
now
. Must stop. Code Red.

“Go? Nononono. Aren’t you busy? Don’t you have to take Amanda out for . . . something?”

“Nope. Nope.”

“Don’t have plans? Out with your friends? Big guys’

night?”

“Nope. Nothing. My schedule is
wiiiide
open. I’ve got the whole night free to spend with you two charming ladies.”

He said “charming ladies” sarcastically, but I let it go. I pride myself on self-control. And I could tell that he wasn’t going to give in. “Fine. Whatever,” I muttered. “Let’s go.”

wE wALkEd BACk up ThE STREET TowARd SAM’S

house. Todd lagged behind to call his parents to say where he was going. I held hands with Sam and jumped over the sidewalk cracks. A bullfrog started croaking somewhere, and the sun dipped below the horizon and winked out. The sky turned salmon, and the air had that damp coolness that comes with late-summer evenings.

“What’s your project about?” Sam asked.

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“Tell me.”

I never could keep a secret from Sam. “We’re supposed to pretend we’re married. Do stuff together. Figure out money, how to earn it and spend it. It’s stupid.”

“Why did you marry
him
? Why didn’t you marry that guy you like, what’s his name? Oh, Gabe! Why didn’t you marry Gabe?”

Sam twisted around as I tried to clamp my hand over her mouth. “
Shhhhh
,” I hissed. “Please don’t say anything about that in front of Todd,” I whispered.

“Okay. Sorry, Fiona,” Sam said. “Do you think he heard?”

82 Kristin Walker

I glanced back to see if Todd showed any signs that he’d been listening. He wasn’t on his phone anymore, but he wasn’t that close, either. “I hope not,” I said. Todd called out, “Where is this place?” kind of loudly, so I thought maybe he was too far back to have heard us.

“It’s right here,” Sam said, running out of my reach and up to the door. When we got inside, she raced to the kitchen. Todd and I followed her. I walked over to the pantry and grabbed a jar of popcorn. “Where are we going tonight?” I asked.

“Going? What d’you mean?” Todd asked.

I explained to Todd that every time Sam and I watched a movie (which was every time I babysat), we made popcorn flavored with some international spice or seasoning. International Corn, we called it. Sometimes we hit a winner, like the time we’d popped the corn in sesame and peanut oil and seasoned it with Chinese five-spice powder. But other times we had to dump the bowl. Like when we’d wanted to visit Germany, so we’d popped the corn in sausage fat and tossed it with drained sauerkraut. Uber-vomit.

“I was thinking Italy,” Sam said, spinning the lazy Susan in the corner cupboard where her mother kept the spices.

“We’ve got a packet of dry Italian dressing in here somewhere. Here it is.”

“Mmmm,” I said, “you know what would go great with that? Mini pizzas. We can use bread for crust. Do you have any cheese?”

Sam opened the fridge and checked the deli drawer.

“Nope. Wait, there’s cottage cheese.”