Shot Through the Heart (8 page)

I need to man up and simply tell Molly I’m not interested and make it clear that being friendly with her—like when I return one of her smiles—does not mean I want to go out with her. Of course, knowing I should tell her and actually forming the words are two entirely different things.

I wasn’t lying to Peyton yesterday when I said I was chicken. However, I may have failed to convey the scope of my chicken tendencies.

“Sorry if I interrupted you yesterday,” she says. At my quizzical look she explains, “When I sent you that text and you had Josh and Peyton over. I think that’s so sweet of you to give her your chemistry notes. You’re the most thoughtful person, Connor. Josh is lucky to have you as a friend.”

Ah, crap.

I stop walking and turn to face Molly. I wish I could communicate via osmosis that I enjoy being her friend, but that’s it. Her
friend
. My stomach pitches as she looks at me in anticipation. I dread seeing disappointment on her face when I say the words aloud.

The hallway crowd is starting to thin. Still, I pull her off to the side. Drew might’ve embarrassed her in front of everyone, but I’d rather be discreet. “Look, about yesterday, I need to talk to you.”

I almost tell her that Josh wasn’t at my house when Peyton picked up the notebook, then decide I don’t want to take the conversation down that road. I don’t want Molly—or anyone else—to suspect what’s up with me and Peyton.
If
anything’s actually up, because even I don’t know that.

If what happened yesterday afternoon with Peyton isn’t a one time thing, I don’t want Molly to assume I’m pulling a Drew on her, leading her on and then ditching her for another girl.

“Did Peyton tell you what I told her?” Molly looks around as she says this, as if afraid someone will overhear.

“Um—” A hard lump forms in my throat at the sound of Peyton’s name coming from Molly’s lips. The two of them talked about me? “No. I don’t think so.”

“Well, I told her to tell Josh, but I figured she’d talk to you, too, especially since the three of you were at your house yesterday.” Molly’s practically vibrating with excitement. She leans forward, her mouth only inches from my shoulder as she whispers, “Everyone knows you guys were assigned Drew and Grayson in Senior Assassin. Right?”

This is about Senior Assassin? After a second’s pause, I tell her, “I will neither confirm nor deny.”

I can’t imagine where this is leading. The entire senior class received a warning e-mail from Jayne Dover this morning instructing us not to post any more videos of Senior Assassin hits, stating that doing so from now on will result in automatic elimination from the tournament. Everyone knows it’s in direct response to the anonymously posted video of Grayson standing in his front driveway, eyes growing wider and wider as a bright orange water balloon comes hurtling at him, then soaks him completely when he turns and ducks a second too late.

Even if the new rule states that people will be automatically eliminated
from now on
, I’m not about to verify to the school at large—let alone to Molly, who’s Jayne’s best friend—that the Grayson video came from Josh.

“You don’t need to confirm it. Everyone’s talking about how Josh got Grayson. I mean, how cool is it that you see the broken balloon stuck to the back of Grayson’s shirt?” She glances behind us to see who’s walking nearby, then drops her voice to add, “You know that with Josh posting that video, Drew and Grayson are dying to prove themselves by winning it all. Drew’s eliminated both his targets already, so they’re into the next round as long as Drew stays dry. It would also mean that you and Josh are out.”

Careful not to say anything to implicate myself, I keep my expression neutral. “What is it that Peyton was supposed to tell me?”

“That if I can help you and Josh in any way, I will.”

Help us? “What do you mean?”

A wicked light fills her eyes. “I mean that I can act like there’s something important I need to tell Drew to lure him out in the open. I’ll have him meet me in public or even at my house. Then boom! You know he won’t expect it from me. And you know—well, given what happened last spring—he’ll feel obligated to come talk to me if I ask him to, assuming he has even one decent bone in his body.”

This is not what I was expecting to hear at all.

“Are you sure? I mean, you’d be comfortable doing that?” Teams pull these shenanigans all the time, using any con imaginable to draw a target out in the open. Josh and I never considered it as part of our strategy—well, other than in Josh’s text about disabling Drew’s car, which I assume was a joke—but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Besides, every time we try to stalk Drew we risk getting shot by Joe Delano, who still hasn’t been shot by the team targeting
him.

Molly would make things very, very easy. Especially since everything in her body language screams,
do it, do it!
But then an image of Peyton pops into my head, giving me a case of the guilts over using her as an excuse to stop Molly’s texting yesterday afternoon.

“You’re not going to get Drew without my help.” Her argument sounds very matter-of-fact. “And I’m totally comfortable with it.”

“But I’m not sure I’m comfortable with it.” I close my eyes for a moment and lean against the cinder block wall between two banks of lockers. The last thing I need is be part of some revenge plot between exes, particularly with Molly involved.

Nope. I can’t. No matter how tempting her offer.

I meet her gaze square-on. “Molly, between us—and I will deny this conversation ever took place if asked—Josh should never have taken or posted that video. It ticked off Grayson and Drew big time, which makes our job harder. Regardless, what happened with you and Drew shouldn’t—”

“Please? You can always pay me back by helping me knock out my target. People cut these deals all the time to advance. You know they do.” Her fingers are wrapped around my arm, right above my elbow, as she breathes close to my ear. “Don’t consider what happened with me and Drew, if it makes you feel better. We’ll look at it as two friends who are helping each other advance in the tournament. All right? Because I can use the help, too. I want to win Senior Assassin as much as you do.”

As much as we both know she’s flirting by putting her hand on my elbow, it’s not the right opening for me to explain how I feel or to pull away. It’s practically mandatory to stand this close when the topic of conversation is Senior Assassin. Even a guy would be leaning in to whisper strategy.

Although a guy might not smell like he popped a Cinnamon Altoid in anticipation of the conversation.

“Come on, Connor. You know you want to.”

She can tell I’m struggling. Her eyes are wide, innocent, and pleading, as if turning her down would be both idiotic and inconsiderate on my part.

I look away. She squeezes my elbow. “Pretty please?”

I nod.

She jumps and claps her hands. “Once you and Josh have a plan, let me know. If I come up with something first, I’ll text you. Okay?”

“Sure.” The more joy she exudes, the more I feel like a jackass.

The halls are nearly empty now. We start walking again, this time with purpose since our AP Calculus teacher likes to make an example out of late arrivals. His preferred method is to send you up to the board to make you work the previous night’s homework challenge question in front of everyone. Worse, he leaves it up for the next class with your name written above it.

“So, if Peyton didn’t tell you all of that, what is it that you wanted to tell me?” Molly’s voice is light and airy, filled with expectation. A smile plays across her face as she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Was it something about sharing chemistry?”

“No!” Crap, that came out strong. “I mean, it’s nothing important.”

If she only knew.

•  •  •

“Not that I’d ever complain, because your dastardly deed benefits me in a multitude of ways, but—”

“I’m not dastardly, and you’re going to complain no matter what.” I slide a quick look at Josh, careful to keep my focus on the empty street.

“After all your Molly Cannon whining, I can’t believe you agreed to this.”

Josh spreads his feet wide so he can flick a dime-sized beige spider off the toe of his shoe. We’re crouched between the rhododendrons alongside the Blanchard & Sons Funeral Home three blocks from the senior parking lot. On the plus side, no one’s around—Molly swore no one’s died in Eastwood during the last week—so we don’t have to worry about a hearse showing up to make a delivery or mourners tromping down the back stairs for a smoke and then demanding to know what we’re doing lurking in the bushes. On the downside, since we just finished a sweaty soccer practice and had to slink on our stomachs to maneuver between the gaps in the rhododendron branches, Josh and I both have mulch stuck to our knees, shins, and shirts. We’re itchy and filthy, it’s all I can do not to sneeze, and the spiders are driving me insane. But if this works, it’ll be worth it.

The hiding in the rhododendrons at a funeral home part of it, at least. I’m not so sure about the Molly part.

“I can’t believe I agreed to this, either,” I say on an exhale. “So let’s not talk about it.”

“You know it’s only going to make things worse with Molly.”

Josh, never one to take a hint, apparently doesn’t take requests, either. “I’ll handle it.”

I’ve thought of little else since AP Calculus. I’d hoped soccer practice would clear my brain so I could figure a way out of the hole I’ve now dug for myself, but as Josh and I were walking from the locker room to the field at the start of practice, Molly texted to let me know she switched shifts with someone else at Cumby’s and arranged to meet Drew this afternoon behind her grandparents’ funeral home. She even timed it so Josh and I would be done with soccer but Joe Delano would still be at football, allowing us to stage our ambush in safety.

I spent the next hour-plus wondering whether it was lucky or unlucky that Josh kept our squirt guns stowed in the trunk of his car, ready to go. Or that he’d read Molly’s text at the same time I had—in his typical phone-stealing fashion—and texted back
it’s on
before I could think of a way out.

“You’re going for my fake girlfriend idea, aren’t you? Planning to let it slip that you’re with Peyton?” He doesn’t try to hide the self-satisfaction in his tone as he checks the water level in his gun for the third time since we arrived, then rests it against one knee. “Let the rumor mill inform Molly you’re not interested in her and you won’t have to. No embarrassment for anyone. I told you it was a brilliant plan. Now that you’ve convinced Molly to help us get Drew, you’re really going to need it.”

“For your information, Molly approached me, not the other way around. She claimed she told Peyton earlier this week that she wanted to help us, and Peyton was supposed to pass along the message.”

“No way!” Josh’s voice is incredulous as he stomps another spider. “I’m gonna kill my sister. She didn’t say a word.”

“Don’t do that. My guess is that Peyton either didn’t have time to tell you or didn’t think Molly was serious. This
is
Molly Cannon we’re talking about. You know, the girl who’d rescue those spiders from you, given the chance. If you were Peyton, would you have believed her?”

Josh lets out a long belch. “You’re denying me a reason to kill my sister? What kind of friend are you?”

“One who’s trying to tell you what happened.” If he only knew. “Anyway, when Molly figured out that Peyton hadn’t given us the message, she cornered me on the way to class.”

The stoplight down the street changes and a dark green coupe makes a left onto the street where we’re hiding. I gesture with my squirt gun to alert Josh. As the car rolls our way, I add, “Just so you know, I’m not doing the fake girlfriend thing. No way, no how. I’ll find a better way to deal. Now shut up, in case this is Molly. Looks like her car.”

Josh huffs out a sarcastic, “Right. Whatever you say.”

When I glare at him, he says, “You offered my sister your AP Chemistry notes. Why would you do that if you weren’t bribing her to help you with Molly?”

The car slows before turning into the narrow parking lot alongside the funeral home. Molly’s behind the wheel. She parks at the far end of the lot, which will force Drew—assuming he shows—to park between her car and where we’re hiding in the bushes.

“Maybe I did it because I’m nice,” I hiss. “It had nothing to do with Molly.”

He skewers me with a look of doubt. “You sure you’re not interested in Molly, then?”

“Positive.”

Josh starts to argue, but I hold a finger to my lips. Now that Molly’s here, it’s game on. I scan the sidewalk and street for Drew in case he’s on foot, then point to another set of bushes closer to Molly’s car. I raise an eyebrow. Josh nods, then ducks out of our hiding place to set up in the new location.

The rustling of branches as Josh departs kicks up a cloud of mulch dust, making me sneeze so hard my nostrils sting. I shake it off. It’s better to be miserable this one afternoon than be miserable all of next summer while mowing the neighbors’ lawns.

At the same time, Molly gets out of her car and strolls to the back, carefree as can be. She’s wearing a pair of surprisingly cute denim shorts, a ruffly pink top, and sneakers in a lighter shade of pink than her shirt. Her hair is back in a ponytail, but you can tell she didn’t just whip it up with a rubber band. She probably spent the entire time Josh and I were sprinting up and down the soccer field primping at her house.