One of the Guys (12 page)

“Can we chill out?” Cowboy says, wedging himself between Ollie and me.

“Hey,” Loch says. “Can we talk more about the business? The money—”

“Fine,” Ollie interrupts, our eyes still locked. “Challenge accepted, McRib.”

A few minutes later, the football game is forgotten, and the gathering has moved to Loch's driveway. I dribble a basketball between my legs. Excitement and dread settles into my joints. The fall air nips at my bare knees. Loch and Cowboy lean against the garage door, watching with twin looks of horror.

I won the coin toss.

My ball.

Ollie stands beneath the goal, fake-yawning as I dribble and shoot.

Nothing but net
.

He yawns again, bouncing the ball across the pavement as I lean forward, prepared to block him. “You can't beat me,” he says. “I don't want to humiliate a girl.”

“I'm not a girl!” It's one of those statements that sounds stupid about a second after it spills out.

Ollie shoots. He scores. He gloats. I want to punch him in the face. I picture him rubbing his stomach against the Dunkin' Donuts window weeks ago, joking around, somehow pretending we were still friends. He's become so
dismissive
of me.

Whatever.

I just need to take this guy out.

I go in for a simple layup, but Ollie jumps as the ball flies through the air, blocking my shot. I smell the sour cream and onion chips on his breath and scramble to rebound the ball. I dribble away from the net.

“You can't make that shot,” Ollie taunts. “You never make that shot, McRib.”

I plant my feet, growl, and shoot from the three-point line. The ball spins through the air and hits the backboard with a subtle clunk. The ball settles around the rim, but then flops over the side.

“I told you!” Ollie cheers.

As he laughs and rebounds the ball, anger courses through me. So I'm not good enough anymore, huh?

I barrel into Ollie's gut like a bull, and we both go flying through the air, landing on the concrete with grunts. My chin scraps the pavement, but I don't care, even as I taste blood. The ball pops loose and rolls into the grass. Ollie scrambles to his feet.

“You're crazy!” he shouts. “When are you gonna grow up,
Tonya
?”

Tonya?!
Ouch. Not even Mom calls me that when she's pissed. Out of breath, Ollie examines a bloody scrape on his hand. I rub my chin, but my hands won't stop shaking. I really need to punch something. Loch and Cowboy stare in disbelief, but I don't care what they think. I kick the basketball across the yard and hurry across the lawn to my house where I can feel alienated in a more familiar way.

Later that night, I'm sitting in my driveway with a pile of colorful sidewalk chalk stacked beside me. I shiver. The hood of my sweatshirt over my head, I draw a lake monster on the cement. The long neck, the small head, the round body, the black tail against blue water. I trace that tail over and over again until it's a thick tunnel of darkness.

The smell of chalk reminds me of Dad. He should be sitting across from me, adding to the picture, making it more beautiful and unique. He was such a good artist. I pause, short of breath, and close my eyes for a moment.

When I open them, there's a blue ice pack in front of my face. Loch plops down across from me and dangles the ice pack like a treat. I take it and press it across my wounded chin, which stings. I add rain clouds above the lake monster.

“We're in,” Loch says. “All of us.”

“Huh?” If I responded like that at Winston, I'd feel like a prize moron. But with Loch, it feels okay to be not-so-eloquent.

“Your business,” he says, pulling the sleeves of his sweatshirt over his hands. “People use each other anyway. Might as well get paid for it. For fake dates. Or whatever.”

I drop the chalk. “How do I know Ollie's not going to mess this up? These girls are my peers.”

“He hates to admit it, but he does need the money,” Loch says. “Cowboy does, too. He thinks the way to the heart of Katie Morris is planning an epic prom night for her.”

I hesitate, doubting all of this. I thought the guys would immediately be excited about the business, but the showdown with Ollie proved otherwise. Maybe there's too much resentment to be working together. And I'm hurt they would discuss the business without me. It was my idea. Why leave me out?

“I don't know,” I say, biting my bottom lip. “Maybe we should forget it.”

Loch scoots closer and asks, “What are you so afraid of, Toni?”

I'm afraid my friends are all leaving me behind. I'm afraid they don't accept me anymore. I'm afraid of becoming the girl hung out to dry. I'm afraid to be different from them. I'm afraid that, without them, I'll become unrecognizable to myself. Of course I say none of this.

“Ollie's just trying to move on,” Loch adds. “I wouldn't take it too personally.”

“Move on from what though? A lifetime of friendship?” My voices rises. I swallow the lump in my throat. “Who would want to move on from that?”

“Yeah. I don't know.” Loch fidgets with his shoelaces. I color the rain clouds blue, fighting back tears. Loch picks up a piece of chalk and adds a bright yellow sun above my drawing of Champ. We sit like that, coloring, until my hands grow numb.

Brian's voice cuts through the silence. “Toni? What are you doing out here? It's late.” He stands underneath the porch light, the brim of his baseball cap shadowing his face.

I wave. “I'll be right in.”

Brian lingers. Watches. Cracks his knuckles. I think about what he said about Loch being my boyfriend. I wave again, irritated, and he finally goes back inside.

Loch and I stand, surrounded by dark sky. My breath is a puff of white fog between us. The lawns around us are crunchy and yellowed, tipped with frost.

“So are we open for business?” Loch asks, hopeful. His features appear soft against the night, his wide face a complex system of lines and grooves. He scratches his chin again. I realize that Mom's right, Loch has developed a classic movie star chin. He's like a tall scruffy gentleman come to escort me to a ball or something. I step back, shivering, although I'm not so sure it's from the cold anymore. Without this new venture, there's a real possibility we could all drift away from each other. I can't lose my boys. I just can't.

“Open for business,” I say with a nervous smile.

twelve

T
URNS OUT
L
OCH HAS TO WORK ON
the night Lemon requested. He just isn't comfortable quitting his Teddy Bear Factory job until the fake date market has been tested. I don't blame him. And Cowboy has plans with his dad, but at least he isn't studying. So that leaves Ollie to jumpstart the business. Terrific.

I'm still the new girl at Winston, which colors me an outcast for most people there, so I need a female liaison to arrange the dates, even though they aren't
really
dates. They are what they are: lies. Who better for the liaison job than Emma Elizabeth Swanson?

When I approach her with the business plan at lunch, she agrees to help, jumping up and down with excitement, and sticks by my side for the rest of the week. Such clinginess would normally irritate me, but I must admit the female camaraderie feels good. And she welcomes me with open arms. I've never had that before.

Mom nearly faints when Emma follows me in the door after school on Friday, various junk food in tow. Mom's eyes light up. “Emma! How nice to see you again!”

Emma throws out a cool “Hey, Mrs. Richards” before dumping her stack of potato chips, Junior Mints, and Dr. Pepper on the counter. Mom and Emma chat for a few minutes about the nutritional value of Dr. Pepper—both agree it should be a food group—before I have to drag Emma and her mountain of food to my room for preparations.

On the way up the stairs, we run into Brian. “Whoa,” he says, waving his hands in surrender. “Watch out. Teenage girls on the loose.”

I hate it when he says stuff like that. Like being a teenager and being a girl automatically labels me crazy, insane, and dangerous. Emma offers up a hello, but I drag her by the wrist to my room, ignoring Brian. Only after my door is closed and locked do I feel relaxed enough to let out a belch. I plop down on my bed, my head aching from another week of Winston homework. Emma gives me a look. And then she burps so loud I think the window might shatter.

I stare in shock.

“What? Don't let the manicure fool you,” she says. “I can be totally disgusting and love it.”

I laugh. “Well, that was a good one.”

She proudly raises her chin and pops open a Dr. Pepper. “Thank you kindly. So.” She slumps down beside me. “What's the plan this time around?”

I fill her in on my semi-plan, which isn't much, but I figure it's best to start simple.

Ollie will need some guidance. I'm not sure he understands what being a gentleman means. So we'll go over to his house first to make sure he dresses in attire that conservative parents will love. And then we will send him on his way and wait. If Lemon approves of the product we provide her, the $200 will be dished out to the appropriate employees. Those employees being Ollie, Emma, and myself for this round. I want to give Loch my share, but I know he won't accept it unless he earned it. We'll just keep things even. Fair. Simple.

“Am I crazy for doing this?” I stuff a handful of Junior Mints into my mouth.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Emma loosens her ponytail. “Thanks by the way.”

“For what?” Not like I've done anything yet. I should probably be thanking her. The look on Mom's face when I walked through the door with Emma was priceless.

Emma shrugs. “For including me.”

I'm surprised. She has plenty of friends at Winston. Doesn't she?

“I wouldn't have any customers if it weren't for you,” I say, trying to hide my smile and keep my cool. This mushy friendship stuff is too weird. “Thank
you
.”

I think we're having a moment. Maybe. I don't know. It's hard to tell.

Time for another belch.

Suddenly, Emma gasps. “Oh! We should make a website! We could make it
pink
!”

“Not a bad idea.” I crack open a soda. “Except for the color choice.”

“What do you have against pink?” She makes a face and straightens a cardboard movie poster leaning against my bed.
No Country for Old Men
.

“Pink is too girlie,” I reply.

Emma's delicate features scrunch up when she frowns. “You say
girlie
like that's a bad thing.”

In my universe,
girlie
feels like a term thrown around to express distaste for something. A color. A movie. A book. That's too
girlie
. Quit being so
girlie
. Even terms like
chick flick
or
chick lit
somehow suggest
not good
.

As Emma wiggles out of her plaid skirt and slips on a pair of jeans, she says, “‘We've begun to raise daughters more like sons…but few have the courage to raise our sons more like our daughters.' Gloria Steinem said that. Think about it.”