The Art of Lainey (11 page)

I unfold it and hold it against myself. It’s a baby-doll T-shirt, not even enough fabric to cover half of my chest. “No way,” I say. “This’ll never fit.”

“It looks like it would fit great to me,” Micah says
innocently. And then, when I frown: “Fine. You can wear one of my shirts.” He ducks his head in his closet and comes back with two Cardinals tees on hangers.

“Why do you have all these baseball shirts?” I ask, trying to decide between the red shirt with a cartoon bird on it and the black one with the more traditional
STL
logo. “I wouldn’t have thought you were into sports at all.”

“Everyone in St. Louis is into the Cardinals, aren’t they?” he asks. “My dad used to take Trin and me to games when we were little.”

“My dad and my brother go a lot. Steve loves baseball.” I pull the red shirt from the hanger. “I’ll wear this one.” I start to remove my soccer jersey and then realize Micah is staring at me. “Turn around,” I order him.

“But you’ve got another shirt on under there,” he says.

“Yeah, but it’s a tank top. Just turn around.”

He mutters something under his breath about me strutting around Denali in less—not true!—but gives up and turns to face his closet. I back away to the other side of his bed and tug the replica jersey over my head. Micah whistles and I almost drop it on the floor. He’s totally checking me out in the mirror.

“Micah!” I hurriedly pull the Cardinals T-shirt over my head. “What is wrong with you?”

“What? You said turn around. You didn’t say close your eyes.”

“Perv.” I give him a dirty look.

His lips twitch, like he’s trying not to laugh. “Man. I had
you figured for a lot of things, but uptight wasn’t one of them.”

“I am
not
uptight,” I say in what is probably the most uptight voice ever. “Now be quiet and find a hat or something to cover that freaktastic hair of yours.”

“You like this hair,” Micah says. But he digs a red Cardinals cap out of his closet. He flips the hat around in his hands and then puts it on backward. It’s amazing how normal he looks already. Well, except for . . .

I point at his eyebrow. I cough meaningfully.

“Not happening. It’ll close up if I take it out.”

“But—”

“No. It stays,” Micah says. “It’ll be like you replaced him with a bad boy. He’ll wonder if you’ve got some deviant fantasies he totally missed out on.”

The way he says it is almost flirty and I feel my cheeks growing warm. I ignore the comment and check my phone, even though I know exactly what time it is. “We should get going soon.”

When Micah stands up, other than the pierced eyebrow and tattoo on his neck, he looks like any other high school guy. But what will Jason think? Will seeing me with any other high school guy be enough to make him jealous?

“Want to drive my car?” Micah asks with a gleam in his eye.

“No freaking way. That thing doesn’t even qualify as a car.” I jingle my brother’s keys in front of his face. “I thought we’d take the train so we don’t have to worry about
traffic.” Traffic would mean long periods of time trapped in the car together with nothing to say. Not to mention I’ve never driven downtown by myself and would probably end up going the wrong way down a one-way street or parking in a tow-away zone. Best to play it safe.

“Whatever you want,” Micah says. “I’m just a fake date along for the ride.”

We leave my brother’s car at the nearest MetroLink station and hop into the first car of a Red Line train that’s heading east toward St. Louis.

The car is half full of people in Cardinals apparel. Micah and I find forward-facing seats together. We’re ten stops from the stadium and I talk nonstop through the first eight. As the train gets progressively more crowded, I talk about the weather, Jason, soccer, Denali, Bianca, etc. The funny thing is, my brain is so busy playing out worst-case scenarios where Jason doesn’t even notice me or my “date,” that I have almost no idea what I’m saying and even less of an idea of how Micah is responding.

Or even if he’s responding.

I stop talking for a second. Crap. He’s
not
responding.

“Sorry,” I say. “I ramble when I get nervous.”

He punches me lightly in the side of the arm. “You ramble all the time. No wonder you got dumped.”

I frown. The words sting even though I know he’s kidding. What if that’s part of why Jason left me? If he decided I was annoying, he’ll probably be
glad
to see me with some
other guy. Suddenly the whole plan seems like a terrible idea again, more art of insanity than art of war.

Micah hands me an earbud that’s connected to his phone. “Here. This will relax you.” A pulsing rhythm blares out of the tiny speaker. It reminds me of one of the songs we listened to on the way to Mizz Creant’s. Not the instrumental one. One of the faster songs. It’s got a catchy little chorus.

“Who is this?” I ask, momentarily setting aside my doubt.

“It’s Hannah in Handcuffs. I saw them in concert not too long ago. The song is called ‘Terrible Beauty.’ You like it?”

“It sounds like a bunch of cats being crushed by a steamroller,” I say, even though I don’t totally hate it.

Micah smiles. He’s not fooled.

The train slows to a stop and the stadium rises up in front of us, all red brick and black metal. I take a deep breath. Too late to turn back now. We exit with everyone else decked out in Cardinals gear, funneling out the MetroLink doors and across the platform in a stream of red. The gray pavement reflects the sun back at us. It’s shaping up to be a scorcher.

We pass the statue of Stan Musial, who according to my dad was one of the greatest athletes of all time. I’m thinking he couldn’t have been as good as Caleb Waters, but St. Louis never manages to keep a professional soccer team for very long, and the Cardinals have won, like, eleventy million championships, so baseball is much more popular here.

Micah and I enter the stadium where I am glad to be out of the sun for a few minutes. Vendors carrying coolers
of beer and soda gracefully navigate the throngs of people. Pockets of blue—Cubs fans—snake their way through the red-and-white masses.

“Do you want food or anything?” Micah asks.

It’s a nice gesture considering that food here would probably cost more than I paid for our tickets. “No, that’s cool. I’ll eat later.”

We find the right-field bleachers and it only takes a few seconds to pick out Jason in the fifth row. I’d recognize his broad shoulders anywhere. A shock of blond hair juts out from his fitted Cardinals cap. I’m torn between wanting to run toward him and wanting to hide.

He’s sitting next to Dan Spencer, a guy who just graduated, who Kendall dated briefly when she went through what she called a “slumming phase.” I barely hear Micah saying something as I stare at Jason’s back, at the way his muscles pull the fabric of his replica jersey taut. A family of four squeezes past us carrying nachos, hot dogs, and a tray full of sodas.

Micah nudges me. “Are we going to sit or what?”

“Yeah. He’s in the fifth row.” I nod my head toward Jason and then slowly make my way down the concrete steps, keeping my eyes locked on him the whole time. Jay’s row and the row right in front of him are mostly full already. I pause halfway down the stairs, praying he doesn’t turn around. I’m not ready for him to see me yet.

Which is stupid. The whole point is for him to see me with another guy.
Don’t be a coward,
I tell myself. Boldly I
move down to the fourth row. Micah and I start squeezing our way toward the center.

“Do you know the guy he’s with?” Micah asks.

“Yeah. Kendall went out with him a few times.” I do a quick check of the surrounding seats but don’t see Alex, the world’s sexiest EMT. Score one for divide and conquer. Well, divide anyway.

When we pass Jason and Dan, I look up and pretend to be surprised. “Oh, hey,” I say.

Jason’s got sunglasses on so I can’t see his expression. “How’s it going, Lainey?” His head angles slightly toward Micah, but he doesn’t say anything. Dan gives me a nod and a slow smile, but there’s no time to say more since people behind us are pushing forward to find their seats.

“Enjoy the game,” I say brightly, resting my hand on Micah’s lower back as he makes his way to the end of the row. As I settle next to him, I casually sling my arm around the back of his chair, lean over, and murmur in his ear. “That was perfect.” Hopefully from Jason’s vantage point it looks like I’m giving Micah a kiss on the cheek.

He turns and brushes my hair back from my face and I catch of whiff of his cologne. “I think you just violated our minimal touching rule.” His breath is hot against my cheekbone. “I feel like a whore.” He traces one finger across the bare skin of my leg and I stiffen. “Chill, Lainey. Pretend you’re an actress. Shouldn’t be too much of a stretch, a big commercial star like yourself.”

I make like I’m going to hold his hand, but instead I give
him a hard pinch above the knee. He smells really good. In fact, he smells like Jason. “Is that Red Lynx you’re wearing?” I ask, smiling as he winces in pain.

“Yeah. Why?” He tries to pinch me back, but I slap his hand away. This is perfect. To anyone who doesn’t know what’s going on, we totally look like a couple play-fighting. “Oh, don’t tell me what’s-his-face uses that too. I’m going to go buy something else as soon as we’re done here.”

“Why are you wearing cologne for a fake date anyway?”

Micah widens his eyes into a pretend-innocent look. “It’s aftershave. I splash some on when I’m too lazy to shower.”

I laugh. “You’re gross, you know that?”

“Yup,” Micah says, smiling. “And proud of it.”

The section fills up quickly and we’re surrounded by chatter from Cubs and Cards fans alike. As Micah gets engrossed in the pregame warm-up, I risk a couple of glances back at Jason, but I can’t tell if he’s paying me any attention. The electronic scoreboard informs the crowd that the air temperature is 94 degrees, and the temperature down on the field is a tropical 102. I pull a floppy hat out of my purse and adjust the brim down to protect my face from the sun. At this rate, the SPF 50 I slathered on my face will sweat off before the third inning.

The Cards take an early 2–0 lead on a Cubs error and the whole section goes crazy. I jump up and cheer along with everyone else in red, trying to stay out of the path of the guy next to me whose beer threatens to slosh all over my sandals each time he moves.

The game continues to be almost all Cardinals and by the end of the fourth inning, we’re leading 5–1.

“Man, that was one of the most beautiful bunts I’ve ever seen,” Micah says.

“I know, right?” I say, even though no one ever makes it on base when they bunt so I couldn’t tell a good one from a bad one.

I spend the next two innings laughing loudly at everything Micah says, even though I’m not really paying attention. I just want Jason to feel like I’m having more fun with Micah than I ever had with him. He’s competitive—that sort of thing will get to him even if he’s not feeling jealous. Look at me—exploiting a weakness I didn’t even think about with Bianca.

Blotting the sweat from my face, I turn my attention back to the field. The Cardinals are up to bat again and the first batter hits a home run. The whole crowd is cheering in time with the organ player. Micah exchanges high fives with the people sitting around us. I smile and do the same with Sloshy Beer Guy.

The Cardinals score twice more and now we’ve got an 8–1 lead. It’s shaping up to be a long game for the Chicago fans. When the Cubs finally come up to bat again, I pull my phone out of my purse and check my messages. There’s an email from my brother that says he’s finally settled in and starting to explore Ireland, and he hopes I’m taking good care of his car. The way he babies the Civic, you’d think it was Lamborghini. I email him back and tell him I’m at the
game. I glance up at the field—one out, a man on first—and then scan the pro soccer scores and CalebWaters.com. Nothing new has been posted about
Flyboys.

The crowd roars and I reluctantly get to my feet again, clapping one hand against my phone, even though I’m not sure what happened.

“What is more important than a perfectly executed double play?” Micah peers down at my phone.

I shrug. “I was checking my messages.” I fan myself with one hand.

He scoffs. “Expecting your ex to text you from the next row?”

“I was emailing my brother.” When Micah looks confused, I lower my voice and add, “Sorry. I’m not really into baseball.”

“Don’t you think this is going to look a little obvious then? You showing up here with me?”

“I don’t know.” I pick at a fraying thread on my jean shorts. “This is one of the only places I knew for sure we’d run into Jay, and
you
seem to like baseball well enough.” A gnat buzzes in my ear. I claw violently at the air around my head. “Maybe if it wasn’t ten million degrees. Aren’t you dying in those jeans?”

“A little,” he admits. “You want to go hang out in the shade for a bit?” He winks. “Maybe Jason will think I’m dragging you off to some deserted corner so I can do bad things to you.”

My eyes narrow. “You wish.”

“You wish I wished.” Micah says. “Come on. If you’re nice, I’ll buy you a water.”

“Woo, big spender,” I say.

We wait for a break in the action and then I make a production out of standing up and gathering my purse. Micah takes my hand as we tromp down the long row of bleachers and back onto the steps.

Dan leans over and whispers something into Jason’s ear as we pass and both guys burst out laughing. My stomach twists itself into knots. What if my plan is totally transparent? Or what if Jason thinks I was so devastated by our breakup that I just went out and grabbed the first guy I could find? No. Must. Not. Panic. I smile brightly and act like everything is fine.

I stare at my tan fingers curled inside Micah’s pale ones as we head back into the stadium tunnels. I’m a little sweaty, and so is he, but it doesn’t feel nearly as weird as I thought it would to hold hands with another guy. Jason used to squeeze too hard sometimes and practically crush my fingers, but Micah’s grip is firm and relaxed. Kind of nice. It feels almost normal, really. Like, in another world, the two of us could actually be on a date.