Gotcha (12 page)

His answer startles me. At what point did I forget that? Come to think of it, did I ever know it was supposed to be fun?

“But it’s not even dark,” I tell him.

“It will be, later.”

“You think I’m still going to be driving around here with you later?”

“If I don’t take you home you will be.”

“So we’re doing this to have fun.” I’m still trying to get my head around that.

He glances at me, puzzled. “Why else would we be doing it?”

He’s right. Why else? “For the money, I guess.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s another good reason.”

“You realize that this isn’t the most intelligent way of stalking your victim, don’t you?”

“No?” he asks, teasing. “So how would you go about it?”

“I’d do research on them. Find out what their habits are. Where they’re likely to be at any given time.”

Joel glances at me. “And have you done that?”

The question surprises me. I haven’t. I’ve hardly given any thought to how I’m going to capture my first bead. “No.”

Joel laughs. “So your strategy isn’t working any better than mine.”

I slap his arm, but I laugh too. “I guess if we want to get in the game, we better start doing some research.”

“How about we discuss it over dinner?” he suggests.

“Good call,” I say, pretending that having dinner with a guy is something I do all the time.

We decide to take the bridge across the river to the next town, hoping to find a place to eat without the constant fear of being tagged. After forty-five minutes of negotiating winding back roads, we find a diner that looks like a place no one but locals would hang out at. The décor is early seventies, with Arborite tabletops and an ancient jukebox squatting in a corner. The vinyl booth benches are slashed,
and the stuffing is sprouting out in tufts. The only other people in the place are an old couple who are sitting in a booth by the window. The waitress motions for us to take the one across from them. I hobble over and slide onto the bench. Joel takes my crutches and lays them on the floor beside the table.

After studying the grimy plastic menu, Joel decides on a hamburger, and I order fish and chips.

“So,” Joel says, running his fingers along the side of his water glass, wiping the condensation off, “in order to do research on our victims, I guess we’re going to have to tell each other who we’re stalking.”

I study his face, sizing him up. “I don’t know about that.”

“How else will we be able to help each other?”

“You said yourself that we can’t trust anyone.”

“I wasn’t talking about me!” Joel tries to look insulted, but, as usual, his eyes give him away. I realize that he really is having fun with this game.

Maybe it’s nerves, or maybe it’s exasperation, but something inside me snaps. I suddenly feel crazily defiant. “I’ve just decided something,” I tell Joel.

“And what is that?”

“That I absolutely have to win this stupid game.” The conviction of my words surges through me as I say them out loud. I sit up straighter. “I need the money, and it would be the perfect way to get back at Tyson.” It would be! I like what I’m hearing myself say. “And besides, it bugs me that the guys seem to be getting all the beads. It has to be a girl that wins.”

Where did that come from? I just opened my mouth and the words came rushing out.

Joel looks puzzled. “Okay, but what’s that got to do with trusting me?”

“I can’t trust anyone if I’m going to win. Haven’t you ever watched
Survivor
?”

Joel laughs so hard and loud that the old couple at the booth across from us turn their heads and glare at him.

“So why do you need the money so bad?” he asks, whispering sheepishly, his eyes shining again.

“So I can go to college next year.”

“There’s always scholarships, and student loans. And you have a job.” He’s stopped whispering, but his voice is low.

“But you never know for sure whether you’re going to win the scholarships or get the loans. The Gotcha money would be a sure thing. It would at least get me started. And I’ve really got to move out of my house.”

His eyes soften a little. “What’s happening at home?”

I have no intention of telling him anything. It’s none of his business. But my mouth opens and more words just burble out. “My dad left us, and my mom makes me crazy.”

“Oh.” He looks surprised. “I think your mom is sweet.”

“No. You think she makes good cookies.”

“That too.” He smiles.

My God, he has a beautiful smile. I have to take a deep breath.

“Anyway,” he says, “winning works for me. We work together, and if we win we split the money fifty-fifty.”

“When we win,” I tell him. “Not if.”

“Of course. When.” The laugh lines deepen again.

“That’s what Paige wanted me to do,” I tell him. “Team up with her and split the winnings, but I wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t team up with Paige either. She hasn’t proven herself worthy. But c’mon, Katie, I’m good. We can do this.”

“You’re good?”

“Yeah.”

“Good at what?”

“Well, I’m still in the game, for one thing.”

“So is Paige.”

“Okay, so that wasn’t a great example.” He takes a sip of his water while he thinks about it. He sits up straighter. “Don’t forget, Katie, that I stuck with you at that stupid Gotcha party. I wouldn’t have released your arm for anything, even if they had promised me bead immunity.”

“Bead immunity?” Now it’s my turn to laugh. I can feel the old people glaring at me. “Omigod, Joel. Don’t let me forget to put that one in the Gotcha game manual.”

“I won’t.” He turns to the elderly couple. “I’ll make her settle down,” he assures them. “She tends to get a little carried away.” Then he turns to me and puts his fingers to his lips. With my good foot, I kick him under the table. He just smiles in return.

The waitress slides two plates onto the table and we eat quietly for a moment. The old couple lose interest in us and go back to their own meals.

I consider the idea of sharing the names of our victims. Would he really be able to help me?

“Why would you pair up with me, Joel? These crutches seriously cramp my style. You’d be better off with just about anyone else.”

Joel doesn’t answer for a few seconds. When he does, he looks directly at me. “Because it would be fun. And it would give us a chance to hang out together more.”

Did he really just say what I think I just heard? I know it’s not a confession of undying love, but I’m struck dumb anyway. Why would a guy like Joel want to hang with me? I look down at my plate and concentrate on stabbing a French fry with my fork. The mood at our table has flipped 180 degrees with just those few words. I hope my face isn’t as red as it feels.

“Sorry, Katie,” he says, putting his burger down and wiping his hands on a napkin. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

I glance back up and see that he’s blushing too. I go back to concentrating on my French fries.

“It’s just that we always have fun together,” he says.

I know what I should say. I know what I want to say. But the words just won’t come out. Why is it so much easier for me to say hurtful things than nice things?

“Forget I brought it up,” he says and goes back to eating his hamburger.

I keep on stabbing French fries, but I don’t bring them to my mouth. I realize I’ve done it again. I’ve pushed him away, and for no good reason. What is the matter with me?

The silence that follows is awkward. I rack my brain for something I can talk about, something to ask him, but my
mind is blank. A few minutes ago, words were just tumbling out of my mouth. Now there’s nothing. Where did they all go? Joel finishes his burger and pushes his plate away. We watch as the old couple in the booth across the way struggle out of their seats and shuffle to the door.

The waitress comes to remove our plates and asks if we want any dessert. Joel says no thanks and looks to me for my answer. Our eyes meet and I see that he’s trying to mask whatever it is he’s feeling. There are no laugh lines visible now. I shake my head at the waitress and she leaves. The silence at our table is a roar in my ears.

“Have you got a pen?” I ask Joel.

“Huh?”

“A pen.”

He shakes his head, but the waitress is back with our bill. “Can I borrow your pen for a minute?” I ask her.

She yanks one out of her apron and drops it on the table beside the bill.

I pick it up and pull a napkin out of the dispenser on the table. I tear a corner off the napkin and jot a name on it. Then I fold the scrap of napkin four times. I push it across the table to Joel.

His eyebrows arch. “What’s this?” he asks.

“The name of my victim,” I tell him.

“And you’re giving it to me because...?”

“Because I want us to be a team.”

“Are you sure?” He looks like he’s afraid to believe it.

“I’m sure.”

He just stares at the scrap. I reach over, pick it up and push it into his palm. Using both hands, I close his fingers around it. “Read it,” I tell him. “I want you to.” I push his hand away.

He opens his hand, stares at the note for a moment and then places it, still folded, on the table. The next thing I know, he’s reached across the table for my hands and encloses them with both of his. “Did I pressure you into this, Katie? I know I can be overenthusiastic—that’s how we got into trouble at the party. We don’t have to share names if you don’t want to. I’m okay with that. Honest.”

My hands feel so small in his large ones, but warm and protected too. I can only look back at him and nod.

“You’re sure.”

“I am,” I laugh. “Totally sure. I don’t know why I didn’t say so in the first place. I think I was just...nervous. I’m not used to...”

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

“C’mon. What were you going to say?”

“Guys. Guy friends. I don’t have many.” There. The truth is on the table.

“Why not?” He looks genuinely surprised.

“I don’t know. Paige says I scare them off.”

Joel throws his head back and laughs again. It’s a good thing the old people have left. The noise of it might have given them heart attacks. I figure it’s a compliment, in a warped sort of way.

Joel grabs the pen and rips off his own scrap of napkin. He writes something on it, folds it up and pushes it across the table to me. “That’s the name of my victim,” he says.

I smile. “So, what do we do? Say, one, two, three, open?”

“Might as well,” Joel says.

“Okay then.” We each put a scrap directly in front of us. “One...two...hang on!” I say, just as Joel is reaching for the one I passed him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“What if you just scribbled some nonsense on yours, and I gave you the real thing?”

“Would I do that?” He acts totally offended. “I don’t know, Joel. Maybe you would. How well do I really know you?”

He regards me seriously. “About as well as I know you. Maybe you just scribbled something on yours to drag a name out of me. Maybe someone has bribed you to set me up. What do any of us know for sure?”

His eyes are in full-laugh mode.

“Ohmigod. If you’ve tricked me, Mr. Keister...you will never...”

“I will never what?” he challenges.

“You will never...” I have no idea what to threaten him with. “You will never win, I’ll make damn sure of that!”

“One, two, three, open!” he says. I grab the scrap of paper and unfold it quickly. I read the name he has written on it. Our eyes meet. Joel grins, but I have to look away. Suddenly everything becomes crystal clear, and my heart sinks completely.

“I can’t help you with this,” I tell Joel and push the scrap of paper back across the table. My eyes are burning, but I can’t let him see that.

“Why not?”

Because you’re an ass and you’re only using me to get to her and I can’t believe I actually thought there was something else going on here.

“Because she’s my friend,” I tell him, deciding there’s no need to spell out the obvious. “I can’t set up my best friend.”

“But it’s just a game, Katie, remember?”

“Maybe, but I know for sure that Paige would never again be my friend if I helped you tag her.”

“Did she act like your friend at Tyson’s party?”

“No. But...”

“But what?”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“She didn’t actually set up the mobbing. It wasn’t intentional. She just didn’t stop it once it started.” Why am
I getting into this argument with him? It’s all irrelevant now anyway.

“It seems about the same to me.”

I shrug and dig through my purse, looking for my wallet so I can get money to pay for my dinner.

“And I’m going to help you get Warren,” Joel says. “You might as well start counting out the Gotcha cash now, half for you, half for me.”

I guess it’s the way he’s talking, like he thinks I can’t figure out why he’s hooked up with me, but it all becomes too much and finally I snap. “You must think I’m a real idiot, Joel. I don’t know why I didn’t figure it out before now.”

Joel looks genuinely puzzled. He’d make a fine actor.

“You never knew I existed until Gotcha started,” I tell him, “and then suddenly you’re my best buddy. I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out.”

“Figure what out?”

I stare at him. Is he serious? “That you have the name of one of my friends!”

Joel slumps back in the booth, another good acting job. This time he’s portraying bewilderment. “You think that’s what’s happening here?” he asks.

“Well, duh,” I tell him and slap my money on the table. I slide across the bench and reach for my crutches, but Joel beats me to them. He snatches them up and holds them out of my reach.

“I thought we understood each other,” he says.

“Oh yeah, I understand you now,” I say, swinging my arm out to grab back the crutches.

“You’ve got it all wrong,” Joel says, still holding them behind him.

“Right.” I stare him down. “You expect me to believe that you haven’t befriended me strictly to get Paige’s bead?”

“No I have not,” he says, looking directly back at me. Gone are any trace of laugh lines, and he looks steamed.