The Queen B* Strikes Back (4 page)

“Hello? Used to dealing with gay guys here, not straight ones.”

I fought the urge to throw my phone out the window. “You sure were handing out advice at the lake.”

“Give me a moment to think like a straight guy dealing with a stubborn, irrational girl.”

Richard was about three seconds from getting smacked.

“The last line shows he’s concerned about you, which is a good thing,” he said at last. “It means he’s not a total dick.”

“I gathered that much.”

“Then why don’t you try the friends thing and see what happens?”

I stared out the window as we entered my neighborhood and passed Brett’s house. His 4Runner was parked in his driveway. “I already gave him a chance, and I told you what happened.”

“Then give him another chance.”

Could I? Did I dare? And if I did, would it be worth the risk? Would the in-crowd use our friendship against us? Would I be able to stay in control (and away from his lips) if I hung out with him?

Richard pulled alongside my house and put the car in park.

I didn’t get out right away. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll go out with Brett once you get the balls to try out for the debate team.”

Richard’s cheeks paled. “You know I don’t stand a chance there, not with Kelsey Buchannan running the team. She’s such a tight-ass conservative, she makes Supreme Court Justice Scalia look liberal.”

I got out of the car, but before I could close the door, Richard called out my name.

“If I do it, will you hold up your end of the bargain?”

I swallowed past the lump of doubt forming in my throat. Richard had been moaning for years about wanting to be on the debate team, but had never even tried out for it. And I suspected there was more to it than just Little Miss Conservative Christian Values getting in the way. Kelsey may have been one of the captains, but she didn’t have complete control. Chances were that Richard would chicken out, and I wouldn’t have to follow through. “Sure.”

“I’ll hold you to it, then.” But his words lacked his usual swagger. I knew he was actually terrified of keeping his part of our deal, but I brought it up because I also knew how much he secretly wanted to be on the team.

Just like I secretly wanted to be with Brett.

He drove off, and I went inside. There was a note from my mom saying she was meeting up with Pete, the plastic surgeon who was training her on this skin laser technique she wanted to incorporate into her dermatology practice, and she would be gone all day. My younger sister, Taylor, was nowhere to be seen, so I could only assume she was out shopping with the other cheerleaders at the mall. I was all alone in the big, empty house once again.

Brett’s shirt was still hanging from the banister where I’d left it this morning. One whiff revived the warm glow I’d experienced for those brief seconds he’d held me in his arms. If we hadn’t been in front of our classmates, I would’ve gladly stayed there.

The quote from the Dalai Lama that Brett had thrown out at me last week echoed in my mind.

If you want to be happy, practice compassion.

I pulled out my phone and reread the message he’d just sent me. If he’d been anyone else, I’d reply with a giant
FU
. Brett was one of the few people who had unearthed my softer side, so I felt a little more at ease typing something different.

Thanks
.

I’d only made it up three steps before my phone beeped again.

Want to come over for blueberry pancakes tomorrow?

My lips twitched in a grin. Last weekend, I’d joined his family for breakfast and seen a side of Brett no one else had, and now he was inviting me back.

How high are you planning on flipping them?
I typed back.

High enough to impress even you,
he boasted.

But not high enough to smack the ceiling with them, right?

Give me some credit. Besides, my mom would kill me for getting batter all over her kitchen.

I laughed at the visual and continued up to my room. Richard had challenged me to give Brett another chance, after all.
What time?

Nine OK with you?

Sure.

I looked at the string of messages, and my palms grew damp. It was a date. But not a
real
date. His whole family would be there, but it was the kind of things friends did together, so I wouldn’t be in any danger of crossing the line. No chance of any kissing. No worries of falling into his arms. And no risk of making him think I wanted to be more than friends.

But I still looked forward to it like I would a real date.

Chapter Three

I made sure my outfit Sunday morning was appropriate for small children (no T-shirts with Hello Kitty giving the world the finger) and walked the two blocks that separated our houses. I half expected to find him playing horsey with his four-year-old twin sisters with finger paint smeared on his face like last time, but when I rang the doorbell, his dad answered.

“Alexis, good to see you again. Brett’s in the kitchen.”

Brett’s parents were an interesting combination. His dad reminded me of a Viking—tall, blond, solid. Brett had mentioned his dad had briefly played in the NFL, which explained where he got his athletic prowess from. Mr. Pederson was fixated on his son getting an athletic scholarship to a football powerhouse, much to his wife’s dismay.

Brett’s mother was a dainty Indian woman, although her accent was more British. She was petite and elegant, but unafraid to speak her mind in front of her husband, who towered over her. She wanted Brett to get a good education, even if that meant going somewhere that didn’t have a football team. If Brett’s dad was the brawn in the relationship, she was the brains, and I suspected Brett inherited his computer skills from her.

A pair of high-pitched giggles came from the kitchen, and I arrived just in time to see Brett flip a pancake into the air for his younger sisters’ amusement. The twins clapped their hands and shouted, “Again, again.”

“This one’s done.” He slid the pancake out of the pan and onto the pile on a waiting plate in the oven. Then he finally noticed me. “Lexi, you came.”

“Were you expecting me to turn down blueberry pancakes?”

“They’re not blueberry,” Bitsy said.

Her twin, Evie, added, “They’re banana ’cause we had to use up the brown ones.”

Brett gave me a sheepish smile while he buttered up the pan for the next pancake.

“Well, I was promised blueberry,” I teased. I winked at him and started for the door.

The twins cut off my escape route and pulled me back to the kitchen island that housed the cooktop. “No, please stay,” Evie begged.

“Yeah, it’s our fault ’cause we didn’t eat enough bananas this week,” Bitsy continued.

“And we want you to braid our hair with the ribbons again.”

“Yes, please, braid our hair.”

I looked to Brett for help and found him silently laughing. “What can I say? They kept pestering me to invite you over to do their hair.”

“Is that the only reason you invited me over?”

He met my gaze, and I saw the same glint in his eyes that made my insides quiver. It was hot and intense and full of challenge. It was the same look he had right before he’d kissed me the other night, and it took all the strength I could muster not to swoon like some half-wit.

“We’ll talk after breakfast,” was all he said.

“But for now, braid my hair.” Bitsy shoved a bunch of ribbons into my hand.

Their mother came in and cleared her throat, which prompted both girls to add a harmonizing, “Please.”

I helped each of the girls up on the barstools and started working on Bitsy’s dark curls. “Any chance I could score a few walnuts in my pancake?”

“Ask, and you shall receive.” He grinned and backpedaled to the pantry, his attention never wavering from me until he had to find the bag of nuts. He sprinkled a few chopped walnuts on the batter in the pan. “Look good enough for you?”

“It looks yummy enough to flip.”

A chorus of “Flip it, flip it” rose from the twins, and Brett sent the pancake flying with a flick of his wrist. It turned somersaults in the air, coming with inches of the ceiling, before landing perfectly in the pan.

“Impressive,” I said.

“Glad to know I can do something that impresses even you.”

There were far more impressive things about Brett than just his pancake-flipping skills, but I didn’t want to inflate his ego any more than it already was.

Brett’s other sister, Sarah, came in and helped his mom with the last-minute breakfast details—slicing up a few not-so-ripe bananas and setting the table. Bacon was frying up in the microwave, and my stomach rumbled. I finished Bitsy’s hair and moved on to Evie’s, which was more of a tangled mess than her sister’s. By the time I finished, Brett had a stack of pancakes over a foot high, which he balanced like an acrobat when he brought the plate to the table.

No calls to breakfast needed to be made. The rich aromas of banana pancakes and bacon were enough to lure the only person not already in the kitchen—Brett’s dad—into the room. The family gathered around the table, and once again, I was sitting next to Brett on the bench along the back wall, his thigh pressed against mine and making my thoughts fuzzy from the contact.

The noise of a chattering family sitting down to a meal together was so foreign it paralyzed me. Between my mom’s work schedule and my sister’s extracurricular activities, I usually was on my own when it came to meals. Had we ever eaten as a family, even when I was little before my parents divorced?

Seeing how quickly the food was disappearing, I jumped in and managed to get a strip of bacon and the banana walnut pancake Brett had made for me before someone else did.

Once everyone settled down and started eating, I asked, “How much money did the carwash raise?”

“Almost four thousand dollars,” Brett replied, his chest puffing up with pride. “The marching band ended up raising the most money, by the way.”

“Good for them.” And even better that jerks like Summer and Sanchez didn’t win the competition.

“You were part of that team, too, Lexi. You should be proud of yourself.” He nudged me with his elbow. “Maybe even come out to a few more fundraisers later this year.”

“You know me and school gatherings.” I refrained from rolling my eyes, but if I had a choice, I’d prefer to have as little contact with my classmates as possible. It was bad enough that I had to endure them during classes.

“Yeah, I do, but I also saw a great leader in the making.” His words were heavy with implication, and the fluffy pancake in my mouth suddenly seemed dry and chewy.

As the founder of
The Eastline Spy
, I held a certain amount of power over the student body. None of them wanted to get on my list and end up on my blog. I targeted the in-crowd, the people who thought they were so high up on the social hierarchy that nothing could touch them. My exposés reminded them that even they weren’t untouchable and served the justice the administration was either too ignorant or too scared to employ.

But this wasn’t the first time Brett had challenged me to be a leader. When he uncovered the identity of the person behind the locker room videos, he’d asked me to show the kid some compassion and not out him to the world. And for the first time in the history of
The Eastline Spy
, I didn’t name names. I just hope it wasn’t a signal that I was going soft. If the in-crowd lost their fear of me, I’d be in danger of finding myself in the same hellish predicament I was in back in junior high.

“I think I’ll leave all that leadership stuff to you,” I said at last.

His smile fell, revealing his disappointment, and I began to wonder what his real agenda was. Did he invite me over because the twins had demanded it? Or was he trying to talk me into taking over some class project? And it was silly of me to even think he’d invited me over because he wanted to spend time with me.

I didn’t have to wait long. As soon as the table was cleared, he approached me with his hands in his back pockets and said in a low voice, “Um, Lexi, do you mind coming upstairs with me for a moment? There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

A tingle of anticipation rippled down my spine, and I checked the room to see if either of his parents was giving us the
Hell no!
glare. Neither of them seemed to notice his invitation, so I gave in to my curiosity. “Sure.”

As he led me up the stairs, I thought about Richard’s argument that I’d messed up any hope of a friendship with Brett, and I weighed the cost of apologizing. But before those words could leave my lips, Brett beat me to them.

“Listen, Lexi, I’m sorry about yesterday,” he said as he closed the door behind me.

He was being vague, but I snatched at the opportunity to be the one in control of the conversion. “Sorry for what? For dragging me out of bed so I could get soaked?”

“Not at all.” His gaze fell to my bust. “You looked awesome in a wet T-shirt.”

I crossed my arms over my breasts. “You are such a perv.”