One of the Guys (17 page)

“Well? Are we still in business?” she whispers.

“I think so,” I say with uncertainty. I should knock on the door. Force Cowboy to talk. But Emma slaps me on the back and giggles with excitement. I don't want to ruin her mood. Together we walk back to my house for a night of junk food and manicures.

Maybe Cowboy is just tired. I hope.

Monday at school, Winston girls actually say hello to me. They ask how I'm doing. I get invited to some parties. Suddenly, I'm
known
. I am no longer New Girl with the romantic name. I'm a powerful business woman. I'm a woman with connections.

I've decided to give Cowboy some space for now, but I still don't know what happened on his fake date. I haven't heard from Carrie though, so I assume things were at the very least satisfactory. I'm running late this morning so by the time I stop at my locker, the hallway is almost empty. As the last bell rings, I curse and start jogging. Suddenly, the bathroom door swings open. I startle and drop my books.

A black high heel steps on my French book as I reach to pick it up, pinning it to the floor. I'm surprised to see Carrie Sanders staring down at me. Her silky black hair falls into her face. The weird thing is she's not smiling.

“Can we talk?” She doesn't move her heel from my book.

I stand, dread creeping in. My heart is already pounding. “What's up?”

“I want my money back,” she spits, pressing her books to her chest. Her face is filled with fury.

I blink a few times. “Cowboy said the date went great.”

“Your weird friend made things worse.” She rolls her eyes. “My sister is never going to let me live this down.”

“First of all, he's not weird,” I reply, trying to keep my cool. “Second of all, what happened?”

“You know, I didn't ask for much.” She digs her heel into my book. “A boy who didn't swear. A boy who would answer some simple questions. A boy who would pretend to be George. But George
talks
. Your guy spoke eleven words all night! I counted! And one of those was
shit
.”

I groan. “Um…” I don't know what to say. I knew something was off with Cowboy, but I chose to leave it alone. “What were the other ten words?”

Carrie glares. “I. Am. Not. Really. George. My. Name. Is. Justin. Sorry.”

I lean back like the wind just got knocked out of me. “Oh.”

“
Yeah
,” she hisses. “
Oh
.”

“I'm sorry,” I stammer. “Full refund. Of course.”

My cheeks burn from embarrassment as Carrie follows me to my locker. I pop it open and dig through my bag for the cash. Cowboy must've been too paralyzed to text Emma or I for help because he never did. Foolishly, I thought that had been a good sign. I thought he had everything under control. Why did I let him go on that stupid date?

Carrie tucks the cash I give her into her sock and says, “You must think we're just pathetic girls with too much money, huh?”

Before I can respond, she walks away, her black heels clicking against the floor. I stand there a moment, shaking. And here I thought I might be accepted by these girls. I'm the pathetic one.

After school, I stop over at Cowboy's to demand an explanation. His mom lets me in. She has dark circles underneath her eyes, and she's wearing a blue bathrobe. According to Cowboy, she's been depressed since the divorce. She doesn't say much to me.

Cowboy and Ollie are in the basement, playing a game of
Mario Kart
. The glow from the TV provides most of the light. There's no furniture so they both sit on the carpet, which still smells new. Cowboy's dad planned to create a massive entertainment center down here, but that didn't happen before he moved out. All that remains is fresh paint, new carpet, and an old television set.

I stand at the bottom of the steps and watch them, hurt they would perform this after-school ritual without Loch and I. Ollie finally acknowledges me with a “McRib.”

“Hey.” I swallow my hurt and sit down beside Ollie. Cowboy won't look at me. His eyes are glued to the television. “I think you know why I'm here,” I tell him.

Cowboy drops the controller. “I'm sorry!” he exclaims. “I just couldn't be her fake boyfriend!”

“Should've booked moi,” Ollie says. He keeps playing.

“What went wrong?” I look to Cowboy. Waiting.

“I should've said no.” Cowboy shakes his head. He's red again. “I'm sorry. I thought I could do it. I thought it would be good practice for me or something.” He pauses. Frowns. “I was wrong.”

“These girls think I'm taking advantage of them now,” I say, my voice unsteady. “That I'm making fun of them or something.”

“Aren't you taking advantage of them?” Ollie pauses the game and stuffs a handful of chips into his mouth.

I can't believe he would even suggest that. Of course I'm not taking advantage of them. “I'm providing a service.”

“Why do you care what they think of you anyway?” Ollie smacks his lips. “You're going off to college next year. It's not like you have history with them or anything.”

I sigh and pick at the pale blue carpet. “I just care, okay?”

“A riveting answer,” Ollie replies. He smacks Cowboy on the arm. “Come on, man. It's no fun to beat you unless you try.”

Cowboy picks up his controller. The two continue the game as if I'm not even there. For a few minutes, I watch them, but I can't pay attention. My mind is elsewhere. I never felt worthy of Winston. From the start, the whole thing felt like a mistake. It was this place where I was dropped because of one stupid prank gone wrong. I could never live up to Winston Girl Standards. Could never be one of them. Could never learn to embrace my womanhood or whatever. If I did, that would set me further apart from the guys. As I watch Ollie and Cowboy play, I realize that there's nothing I can do about that. It's happening anyway.

I stand and narrow my eyes at each of them. But they're oblivious to subtle girl anger. So I leave.

seventeen

C
OWBOY'S OUT.
L
OCH AND
O
LLIE
don't have the time to keep up with the demands of the service alone. We need more dudes. Emma and I acquire two new recruits over the next few weeks. The first being Ollie's older brother Jason, who recently decided to “take a break” from college. Jason's got a lot of free time, plus he's trustworthy. The second is Henry Gardner from Burlington High, who moved here last year from Alabama. At one time, I thought Henry might become part of our group, but he eventually fell into a different crowd. He's sweet with a cute Southern accent. Bonus.

The day before Christmas, I lounge on my bedroom floor and work on my latest marketing ploy. Gentleman brochures. Winston girls interested in the service will now receive a profile of a boy, similar to the way a college would provide a brochure for a potential student. Included with each brochure: a photo of the boy, his schedule, and any special talents (tailored to fit client needs, of course). Not only do these iron out scheduling conflicts, but it practically guarantees customer satisfaction. The girls will pick the guy, rather than Emma and I scrambling to find a decent match.

A slant of rare winter sunlight creeps through the blinds and shines across the photos of the guys surrounding me. As I stare at the photo of Loch in a tux, I fidget with the string on my oversized black sweatpants. He looks really, really good in the photo. It's ridiculous.

To disguise the profiles, I place them inside a college envelope. I match each boy with a school that best represents what he has to offer for a particular date.

Ollie = Yale University

Loch = Purdue University

Jason = University of Vermont

Henry = Mississippi State

I pry my eyes from Loch's picture and stuff his profile into a Purdue envelope. Too bad there's still a handful of those photos on the floor. He's everywhere. Looking at me with that subtle grin. When there's a knock on my door, I shove everything underneath my bed and pop open my laptop. Mom walks in, her fuzzy slippers scratching against the carpet. She shouts, “Merry Christmas!”

“Christmas arrives tomorrow,” I say, my heart pounding. She'd almost caught me. “Check your Kitty Claus calendar again.”

She plays with the string on her sweatpants. Same as I do. “Come downstairs,” she squeaks. “Your present arrived early, College Girl.”

“I need to pass high school before you can call me that.”

“Oh, come on. You've been accepted to your top college choices,” she says, reaching down to play with my hair. “Doesn't that mean you can, I don't know, slack off for the rest of the year?”

I laugh. “Oh, Mother. You crack me up. There's no such thing as slacking off at Winston. No matter the circumstances.” Which reminds me, English homework awaits.

She tugs at my wrist. The woman can't hold still. “I have to show you something! Please come downstairs? Humor an old woman?”

I sigh and stand up, zipping up my Colts sweatshirt. I throw her a funny look. “You've clearly had too many Dr. Peppers today.”

Now I'm shivering in the driveway, snow seeping into my slippers, staring at a silver Ford Focus with a giant red bow on the hood. Mom, behind me, rests her hands on my shoulders. I can feel her excitement through her fingers.

Brian dangles a pair of keys in front of my face. Stunned, I take them. The keys feel cold in my palm.

“Merry Christmas.” He smiles and adjusts his Patriots ball cap.

I look past him, at the car. “What, um, is that exactly?”

“That would be your new car,” Mom says, rubbing her hands together for warmth.

I stare at the keys. I stare at the car. I stare at the keys again. This must be what shock feels like. I can't move. I can't say anything.

“Say something,” Mom whispers in my ear. “Say thank you, at least.”

“Check out the interior,” Brian says. He opens the driver's door. “It's got that new car smell. Nothing like it.”

I finally speak. “I don't understand. Where's the Maxima?”

Mom laughs. “
This
is your car now. Your shiny pretty new car.”

“I thought the Maxima was getting fixed.” A lump rises in my throat. The Maxima belonged to Dad. The Maxima belonged to me. It was an extension of me. It had my dirty clothes in the backseat. It had my fast food wrappers on the floor.

Mom moves over to Brian and curls her arm around his waist. I hate it when they do the semi-PDA thing. “Brian thought you needed a new car,” she says. “I agreed.”

“You need something reliable,” Brian adds, rubbing his hands together. “Something new. Especially for school next year. We can't send you out of state without a car.”

I understand how I should react. The same way I
should
have reacted the moment my mother told me I would be attending The Winston Academy for Girls. I should be overwhelmed with gratitude, screaming to the heavens, begging to take the new wheels for a spin. I should be showering Brian with hugs and thanks and general words of endearment.