I sigh. “Okay. I’ll think about it.” I won’t think about it. There’s no way I’m going. “Who are you taking to the dance?”
“Haven’t decided.” Marcus grins. “But if you’d like to give me that chick’s number . . .”
“Not going to happen.”
“Well, maybe you should take her.”
“You think I’m going to the homecoming dance? Have you lost your damn mind?”
“You can’t not be there, dude. You know you’ll probably be homecoming king.”
“No, I won’t. We both know I only got the nomination because everyone feels sorry for me. Plus Sheila’s been busy campaigning against me. I should probably thank her for that.”
“Sheila’s not campaigning against you. Freaking narcissist.” Marcus flicks a piece of bread at me.
“You ever think of asking Cara?” I ask.
“Cara? Are you high? That chick knows what I’m all about. I’d love to hit that, but there’s no way. She’s too smart to fall for my shit. Why?”
“Just trying to figure out who you haven’t banged yet.”
“Well, yeah. Man, her tits!”
“Right?” I say.
“But yeah, no. There’s no way she’d go for me. Unless you know something I don’t?” he asks hopefully.
“Sorry, man. You’re right. She is too smart for your shit.”
FOURTEEN
Dog Shit Rick meets me at the butt crack of dawn on Monday morning. I had to get up so early that Captain didn’t want to get out of bed. I had to carry him out of my room so I could lock the door, and he groggily climbed onto the couch and went right back to sleep.
I’m making five dollars per house. So it’s a matter of how many houses I can get in. Rick gives me a list of all the Monday clients, which, luckily, are all fairly close together. There are twenty of them and I have an hour and a half before school starts. I don’t waste any time. It’s not even that bad, except for the one house that has three Great Danes with shits the size of footballs. I wonder if Rick charges them more but pays me the same.
I, amazingly, get all twenty houses done and I’m only ten minutes late for school. Like I care.
Mrs. Ortiz tries to stop me in the hallway. She wants to check in on me. She says that my being late is a blatant cry for help, but I explain that it’s just because it was my first day on a new job and I’m still trying to figure out my scheduling. Then I lie and say that we’re having a test in calc and I can’t miss it, and she lets me go if I promise to stop in at the end of the week. So I do. Promise. Not stop in. Screw that.
? ? ?
At lunch I actually have enough money to buy a pathetic slice of pepperoni pizza and I’m a little too excited about it. Until I see Sheila walking toward me with a purpose.
“I heard you’re taking the bus now. You poor, poor thing. Anyway, I’m not here about that, I’m here to make sure you won’t be at the homecoming game or the dance this weekend.”
“I hadn’t planned on it.”
“Good.” And with that, she turns back to her table.
Really? Well now I’m definitely going. She thinks she can dictate where I can or cannot spend my weekends? Who the fuck does she think she is?
I’m forced to walk past Brett on the way to eat in my car. He shakes his hair out of his eyes and snickers something that involves the word bus. What a dick. He’s the one guy on the team who should actually be happy I’m gone—I mean, he is the running back now. But for some reason he gets off on trying to push my buttons. Whatever. I bet he’s going to homecoming with Sheila. Well, good luck to him and his sloppy seconds.
? ? ?
“Haven’t seen you at any of the games, Blackwell. Does that boss of yours hate football?” Coach chuckles, trying to cover his disappointment—annoyance?—that I’ve been avoiding him. “I hope he’ll find it in his heart to let you come to the homecoming game this week.”
“I will absolutely be there. Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I say. And then I feel really bad because of how happy this news makes him. So, of course, I overcompensate. “I’ve been following the school blog every Saturday. Marcus is having quite a season. And Reece? He’s getting better and better. Brigham Young is lucky to have him. Bummed I haven’t had a chance to play with him this year.” I’m shocked to realize I kind of mean that.
“Yeah. I’d have loved to see what kind of damage we could’ve done with the two of you. McPhearson’s not half the player you are. But don’t tell him I said so.” He winks, and heads off.
For a second, I feel like such an asshole for missing this season. Then an image of Mom cheering from the bleachers hits me, and— Nope. Coach is the one who should feel like an asshole for trying to make me feel guilty. I don’t think I can go to the game.
? ? ?
By Thursday I’m really sick of eating in my car, so when I see Jordyn, I follow her to her usual lunch spot.
“Really?”