The Flip Side (11 page)

He shrugs. “She likes it. We figure we can set the DJ up over there.” He points to the opposite end of the rink.

“That would work. I assume the rink itself will be the dance area.”

“That's what some of the committee members were saying before you came in.”

“We could set up little tables in the area around the rink, like sidewalk bistros in Paris. Have little refreshment stations.”

“That could be fun. Have you been to Paris?”

I nod. “I went last year. It's a beautiful city.” I glance around. “Are we supposed to be meeting up with the other student council members somewhere?”

“We're actually finished. Well, except for the decorating committee. Kristine is talking things over with them, but everyone else is free to leave.”

I furrow my brow. “We went to all this trouble to come here just so we could take a peek and then leave?”

He grins. “Apparently so.” Leaning forward, he places his forearms on the railing. “Do you skate?”

“Not in a while.”

He glances back over his shoulder. “Do you want to? We have free passes. We might as well use them.”

An image of us skating around the rink, holding hands, flashes through my mind. I want to accept his invitation, but then other images bombard me. Losing my balance, landing hard on my wrist or shoulder. Someone tripping me. Me twisting my ankle. This close to trials, I can't take the risk. “I'm way out of practice. I'd probably do a face-plant.”

He turns, presses his back to the railing. “I wouldn't let you fall.”

So he's planning to stay close enough to grab me. The temptation to say yes is so strong. What would it hurt? Just for a few minutes—

A series of shrieks echoes around us. I jerk my attention to the skaters and see three sprawled on the floor, legs and arms entangled. People are dodging around them as they slowly sit up. I could end up in a pile just like that. A scrape wouldn't be a big deal, but a broken bone or torn muscle could ruin everything.

“Thanks, but there are just way too many people out there,” I tell him, hoping he can hear the genuine disappointment in my voice.

“All right, then.” He looks up at the ceiling. “You mentioned putting twinkling lights on the ceiling. I wonder if there's something we can do so that we could have some shooting stars.”

“That would be cool.” And definitely romantic. “I've never seen a shooting star.”

He jerks his gaze back to me. “Never?”

He sounds so mystified that I'm a little embarrassed I brought it up. “Well, I've seen them on TV and in movies, of course.” I think. Surely I have.

“Since we're part of the group responsible for making sure the prom experience is all that it can be, we need to do some further research.”

He grabs my hand and starts leading me away from the rink. I notice how his large hand envelops my small one, how warm his skin is against mine. “Where are we going?”

“Someplace special.”

•  •  •

We are in the middle of nowhere. Or it feels like the middle of nowhere.

Bobby drove out of town, then down a two-lane country road, and finally pulled off the road and into a field. I can see a few other cars parked out here. Apparently we're not the only ones into stargazing.

We're reclining on the hood of his car. It's so dark out here. No lights to brighten anything up.

“It's better when there's a meteor shower,” he says, “but we ought to see something tonight.”

“Before I turn back into a pumpkin,” I say, subtly reminding him that I have a curfew.

“If you're Cinderella, it's only your clothes that will change. It's my car that will become a pumpkin. Unless you're thinking I'm Prince Charming. . . .”

He is charming. I can't believe he went to this much trouble to show me a shooting star. I also wonder if he knows about this place because he brought Kristine here. I clear my throat. “So . . . Brandon mentioned that you and Kristine . . .” I let me voice trail off, although I roll my head to the side and study him through half-lowered lashes. With the darkness surrounding him, I can't tell if he's blushing, but he does turn toward me, and I feel his gaze land on me.

“You didn't know about us?”

Slowly I shake my head. I wanted to attend public school so that I could have normal teen experiences. But I'm beginning to think I'm walking around with my head in the clouds—or my thoughts constantly on the gymnastics mat.

“I guess that makes me unusual,” I admit self-consciously.

“I like that you're unusual. I like that you don't care about all the gossip that goes around the school.”

“Well, I wouldn't go that far—to say that I don't care about gossip.”

“What kind of gossip do you like?” He turns his attention back toward the stars. I do the same.

“I don't like any gossip, but I do
care
if there is gossip going around about me.” It's one of the reasons why I keep my elite gymnast status a secret, of course. I don't want people speculating about my triumphs and failures.

“I haven't heard any gossip about you,” he says.

I grin. “And I like it that way.”

“Is there some I should know about?”

He sounds genuinely interested, as though he's trying to make a decision—about us. Only, there can be no us. Not right now.

“Nope. I'm pretty boring.”

“You're not boring, Charlie.”

I nearly choke. I swallow hard. “Why did you call me that?”

“You just don't look like a Charlotte to me.”

Sitting up and crossing my legs beneath me, I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose, let my hair fall forward, suddenly very self-conscious. “I like ‘Charlotte.' ” And he might randomly search the Internet for a Charlie Ryland. I don't want that name in his head. Or for it to catch on at school.

He pushes himself up as well. “How about ‘Shar,' then?” he asks.

“What's wrong with ‘Charlotte'?”

“There's nothing wrong with it. It's just long, formal. Does it bother you that I want to call you something else?”

“It just seems . . .” Strangely intimate for him to have a unique name for me. “I don't know. But a princess is named after me, so there will probably be a whole slew of Charlottes in a few years.” And if I win gold at the Olympics, some über-fans might name their kids after me too. “And don't think I didn't notice how you changed the subject.”

He slips a single finger beneath the curtain of my hair and moves it aside, back over my shoulder. A pleasant shiver courses through me.

“What do you want to know?” he asks quietly.

“Why did you break up?”

He looks off into the distance. “We started dating freshman year. We were both athletes. It seemed a good fit. She was different then. Not so . . . interested in the spotlight. We'd just started high school. No one knew who we were.”

I can see that. Three middle schools meld into Jefferson High. It means there are a lot of new people to meet.

He lies back down, his gaze on the stars. “She's good at soccer. Really good. I have a talent for wrestling. Soon people knew who we were, and everything became a big deal. She wanted to be popular, talked about. Being with me became more about my trophies than about me. Don't get me wrong. I'm happy for her success—soccer captain, student council president. But we just weren't in sync anymore. She wouldn't come out here with me to look at the stars, because it's too dark for anyone to see that she's out here with me looking at the stars.”

He shifts his gaze over to me. “I don't know if that makes any sense.”

It does. It makes so much sense. It's one of the reasons why I don't tell people I'm an elite gymnast. “She seems to want you to get back together.”

“It's not me specifically. If the quarterback broke up with his girlfriend, Kristine would be after him. Football is way more popular than wrestling.”

I'm not sure if it's true that Kristine would throw Bobby over for a football player. Bobby—wrestler or not—is nice, fun to be with. I unfold my legs and stretch back out over the hood of the car, resting my back against the windshield.

“I'm glad you broke up if you weren't happy,” I say.

“I wasn't miserable, but we weren't right for each other anymore. Have you ever had a boyfriend?”

I laugh. “The no dating, remember? Makes it hard.” And the focus on training for the Olympics.

“That doesn't mean there wasn't someone you liked.”

“No one.” I stop just short of confessing that I like him. Flirting is one thing. Giving him hope where there is none—What am I thinking? I'm probably reading way too much into his asking for my number and giving me a ride.

“There!” he suddenly says, pointing off to the right. “Did you see it?”

“No.” I can't hide my disappointment. “I was looking in the opposite direction.”

“Okay, don't focus on any one part of the sky. Just relax and look at all of it.”

“It's so amazingly big.”

“Immense. I always feel so small when I'm out here.”

“Do you do this often?”

“When there's something special like a meteor shower or an eclipse. Hold on.” He pulls out his phone.

“Is it time to go?” I ask.

“Not yet. I've set an alarm, but I'm checking an app that will tell me . . . Yes!” He turns off his phone, shifts closer to me. I can feel the warmth generated by his body. “Keep your eyes on that portion of the sky. You're going to see a bright light moving fast. Not a shooting star but—right there. Follow the line of my finger. Do you see it?”

“I do. Is it a plane?”

“It's the space station.” I hear the awe in his voice.

“Wow! That's awesome.”

“Yep. Circles the earth every ninety minutes. It isn't always visible to us. We got lucky tonight. Right place, right time.”

“It's almost better than a shooting star,” I say.

“Nothing's better than a shooting star.”

The space station disappears over the horizon. Just as it does, I see a streak of light arcing across the sky.

“Oh, there's a shooting star!” I cry.

“Make a wish,” he orders.

So many things to wish for. Making the Olympic team. Gold in Montreal. Gwen making the team, her bringing home gold. Raising my government grade. Zoe getting to actually date Michael.

I turn to look at Bobby. He's watching me. Our faces are so close, so close. I want more light so that I can see what he's thinking, see if he's looking at me as intensely as I'm looking at him.

“I wish I didn't have to be home by ten thirty,” I say.

His grin flashes in the pale moonlight. “You shouldn't have said it out loud. A wish doesn't come true if you say it out loud.”

It doesn't always come true if you only think it either. Because before the star burned out, before I told him what I'd wished, I actually silently wished that he would kiss me.

Sunday afternoon I pick up the phone when it rings even though I know I shouldn't. There are student council notes to type and tests to study for. But as interesting as cellular respiration is, I've got to steal a break.

“Hey, Gwennie,” I say, massaging my temple with my free hand. My studying would be going better if I didn't keep thinking about Bobby. He had me home with two minutes to spare last night. More than a dozen times I've thought about texting him just to thank him again for the ride, secretly hoping it would lead to his texting me back or, better yet, calling me. Pathetic.

“You're not going to believe it!” Gwen's voice is practically thrumming with excitement.

“You somehow made the Olympic team without having to go to trials?”

“No!” She laughs. “Are you going to guess for real, or should I just tell you?”

“Um . . . you won a million dollars?”

“No. But I feel about as happy as I would if I'd won a bunch of money.”

“Seriously? Okay, then I know it has something to do with either gymnastics or your family.”

“Very intuitive,” Gwen says. “It's something about my family.”

“They're moving to Columbus!”

“No. If that were true, I'd be pounding on your front door and doing back handsprings in your yard.”

“Okay. So, tell me!”

“My dad paid me a surprise visit this weekend, and . . . are you ready for this? He bought me a car!”

“Seriously?” I cry. “That's great!”

“I know! No more having Mrs. Gundersen driving me to practice. I'm free, Charlie!”

“I'm really happy for you, Gwen.” I won't have time to take driver's ed until after the Olympics. With homeschooling, Gwen was able to work it in, plus she was old enough to take the classes before our schedules got crazy busy. “What color is it?”

“Look out your window.”

“What!” I rush over to my window, pull back the curtain, and gaze out. Wearing jeans and a red top, Gwen is leaning against a red Mustang. “I'm coming down.”

I slip on flip-flops and race down the stairs, shouting that Gwen is here. Before anyone can respond, I'm out the door. When I reach her, I give her a big hug. “It's beautiful.”

“I know. Want to take a spin in it?”

I think of the stack of books sitting on my desk. “Definitely. Let me okay it with Mom.”

A few minutes later I'm sliding onto the leather seat, inhaling the new-car smell. “I have to be back in half an hour.”

Gwen looks crestfallen. “Why? We can't go anywhere in half an hour.”

“There's a park nearby. We can go there.”

She starts the car and carefully pulls into the street. “I thought Sunday was your relaxation time.”

“I'm behind on my studies. And I went out last night.”