Class Favorite Read online

  “What are you doing here? Were you invited?”

  Shiner looked offended and said, “By the host himself. What are you doing here?”

  “I was invited too.” I hadn’t meant my question to sound mean. “You guys friends now or something?”

  “I mean, we’re not best friends or nothing,” he said, sounding a little insulted. “But, you know, since basketball we’ve been talking more at school about next season. Jason thinks I could make first string next year. Maybe it’s just basketball, but I guess I finally found something I’m good at.” He shrugged and said, matter-of-factly, “It makes people like me.”

  “Why do you care if these people like you?”

  Shiner’s skin didn’t look great, but he looked like he’d gotten an actual haircut, not the choppy job he usually had. And he had made an effort to dress nice, even if his button-down was from Dollar General. It had to be—it looked exactly like the shirts my dad wore on the road.

  “Thurman,” he began. “There’s something you ain’t figured out yet.”

  “Haven’t,” I corrected, although I don’t know why.

  “You still ain’t figured something out yet. Don’t you know that you and me are a lot alike?” He took a step closer and moved his head to mine, conspiratorially. “I mean, come on. You’re not going to stand there and tell me that you don’t like Miss Rosemary Vickers talking to you? When people started to notice me on the basketball court, I felt like I got some respect, finally. It’s nice when people take you seriously instead of seeing you as someone stupid. Right, ballbuster?” He smiled good-naturedly—his teeth were the color of chewed-up Double-mint gum, but his smile was goofy and truly happy. Looking at him, I couldn’t believe that he and I wanted the same thing: to be seen as true contenders.

  “I guess you’re right.” He smiled at me, proud but not arrogant. “Hey, I never did thank you for trying to warn me about the Mrs. Everly outfit. You didn’t have to do that. And for helping me out with stats when I first started. That was really cool of you, so . . . thanks.”

  “What are you, on step nine or something?” My stomach dropped. How could he possibly know about the list? But, wait, I thought. There was no number nine on my Class Favorite list. Shiner said, “Ask for forgiveness? The twelve steps? Forget it. I was joking. I don’t know why you’re bringing all this up now, but okay. Apologies accepted.”

  “Hey, Moonshiner!” Jason approached us with a red plastic cup and handed it to me. “You feeling better?”

  I nodded, and when he nudged my shoulder with his, I smiled as wide as I could without showing my teeth.

  “So how’s it going, man?” Jason asked Shiner. “You talked to Coach about next year?”

  “Yeah,” Shiner said. “He told me to talk to him on Monday. I guess we’ll see.”

  “Hey,” Jason asked, “is it true that it was your dad, Something Camry, who played in the eighty-nine game?”

  “Yeah,” he mumbled.

  “That’s pretty cool. You’re, like, part of Bowie’s legacy.”

  A hint of a smile formed on Shiner’s mouth. “I guess I never thought of it like that.”

  “Hey,” Jason said, turning to me. “Want me to show you around?” I vaguely remember nodding. “Cool. I’ll see you in a while,” Jason said to Shiner. We walked toward the entry hall where the stairs were, his hand resting lightly on my back—it sent tingles up my spine.

  “Have fun,” Shiner said as we walked away, and I swore I saw him wink.

  20

  What’s Your Kissing Quotient?

  When it comes to being kissed, you:

  a) are just getting started.

  b) have never been kissed.

  c) could write the book.

  “You want to see the coolest room in the house?”

  Jason led me upstairs, taking them slow on his cast, and down a hardwood-floored hallway covered with a long, skinny rug. My palms sweated with the anticipation of what was about to happen. Quick flashes of us kissing darted through my brain. The walls were covered in faded photos of his family, dating all the way back from when Jason was in a crib—there was one of him holding a plastic rattle, and one with him and his sister, who was still in elementary school, hugging maniacally.

  At the end of the hall, Jason turned a dull brass handle on a door on the left. We stepped inside what looked like a small guest bedroom, with a white wicker double bed with matching nightstand, and lavender walls. My heart started racing, and I thought I might pass out from my sudden lack of breathing.

  “You’re going to love this,” he whispered, a mischievous grin on his face.

  This was the coolest room in the house? What guy would think wicker and lavender were cool? It looked like something my grandparents would love. “Yeah,” I said, confused but trying to sound earnest. “It’s nice.”

  I followed him into the room, anyway, and watched anxiously as he closed the door behind me with a soft click. I could hear the party going on downstairs, the laughing and the music, someone playfully yelling, “You cheated!” and I wondered, briefly, who had cheated at what.

  Jason nodded toward the closet door. We crossed the room, and he opened the door deliberately, as if afraid of getting caught. I peeked over his shoulder with anticipation and saw clean white shelves stacked with dozens of board games: Trivial Pursuit, Outburst, Life, Monopoly—all the usual stuff. I wondered what he was looking for. The closet was a) not very romantic, and b) pretty small, with hardly enough room for the two of us to squeeze into. I didn’t have a problem with being pressed up against Jason Andersen in tight quarters, but I wondered what the point was when we had this whole bed-and-breakfast–type room to ourselves?

  “Uh . . . Jason?”

  “Shhh . . . ,” he whispered. “Follow me, but be quiet.” He grabbed the center shelf, tossed one final wicked smile over his shoulder at me, and pulled the entire rack of shelves open like a door—a secret door.

  He stepped through the back of the closet into a big, deep room with high ceilings. Jason turned back and took my hand, pulling me through the secret passageway. I stepped into the cavernous room, my eyes wide with excitement, overwhelmed by the beauty of the colors.

  “Isn’t it great?”

  Kites hung above us—at least twenty of them, so many that I couldn’t see the ceiling. Kites flew over kites, wide-winged ones up the highest, boxy and odd-shaped ones suspended underneath, tails hanging limp, waiting for a breeze to lift them skyward. The were all brightly colored, wings spread as if ready to take flight just as soon as that window in the back opened up. They weren’t like kites I’d ever seen before—there was even one in the shape of a pig. The lights from the backyard shined up through the window, casting a candlelike glow into the room and through the kites. It was pretty awesome.

  “Wow,” was all I could gasp, realizing I’d been holding my breath as I took it all in.

  “I love it in here,” Jason said, looking around. “Well, I love it better when I get to take these out and fly them, but when I can’t, I like to sit up here and just hang out, you know?”

  I ripped my attention from the kites and noticed pamphlets and magazines scattered on the floor near a blue beanbag chair. One cover read Kiting Journal of the American Kite Association. “So . . .” I paused. “You like to fly kites?” Actually, the whole thing made me smile. I mean, kite flying? This meant that a bit of his inner geek from school years past hadn’t totally escaped him. I liked that.

  As if reading my mind, Jason replied, “Okay, so it’s not like playing football or having paintball wars, but there’s something about it. My dad bought me my first kite when I was seven or so and we were on vacation at Galveston. The kite wasn’t anything special, but man, flying it was so cool. I kept letting the string out farther and farther, and it kept getting higher and higher until it was like a little orange and yellow dot in the sky.” He looked at me, his eyes all shiny, even in the dark room. “I guess it sounds pretty stupid, huh?”

&
nbsp; “No, no. Not at all.” I searched for the right words. “Actually, I think it’s really cool. I just didn’t know, is all.”

  “It’s not something I advertise. But I love it. My dad is helping me get into stunt kiting, where your kite does all these flips and twists. It’s really hard to steer them, and you never know which way the wind is going to blow. The only thing between you and this big cool flying thing is a thin little string wrapped around a spindle.” He paused, a little embarrassed, I guess, at going off again. “Anyway, I like it. I mean, yeah, I’m usually the youngest one at the kite events by about forty years, but the old-timers are cool. Not as grumpy as I would have thought. Just real nice.”

  “Wow,” I said again. “That’s really awesome, Jason.” I couldn’t help but think of the similarities between a stunt kite and my own life in the past few weeks, both up in the air, whipping wildly around in the wind, attached to Earth by one little fragile string. Instead of standing on solid ground, attempting to control my life, I had been the kite itself, up in the air, flapping and spazzing out. Like the kite, I had been at the mercy of the forces of nature and whoever and whatever held the handle down on the ground. I wanted to be like Jason, in control, trying to maneuver a kite through jaunty stunts, or maybe just to sail smoothly on the wind. It seemed like the harder I tried to gain control of my life in the last few weeks, the higher and farther I flew from the point of control. But then I realized that, lately, I had gotten more control of my life. I was finally realizing that I had the power to make things the way I wanted them to be. It was a pretty awesome feeling.

  “Maybe someday you can come with me,” he said. I gasped on the inside and tried to remain calm—couple-dom wouldn’t be far away. “My dad and I are members of the Red Rivers High Fliers, and we meet once a month at the VFW post. The old vets would sure get excited about a pretty girl coming to visit their club.” He nudged my foot with his, and I smiled. It wasn’t a dream ask-out, but it was pretty close. I liked the sound of the possibilities in our future together.

  “Look,” he said. “This might sound kind of lame, but don’t tell anyone about this room. Or the kites. I don’t really care if people know about it, but I kind of like keeping it to myself. It’s something I only do with my dad.”

  I immediately knew exactly how he felt. It was like when I went with my dad to the shooting range. Even though I’m not exactly down with firing lethal weapons, it was always pretty awesome to have something that only Dad and I did. Like eating dinner at Luby’s.

  “I won’t tell,” I told him. “Not a soul.”

  He nudged me with his shoulder. “Come here,” he said, walking to the window. “We can spy on them for once.”

  I looked down and saw several adults sitting in the backyard drinking wine. I recognized his mom, sitting with her legs crossed. She threw her head back and laughed easily.

  We stared out the window for what seemed like ages, neither of us speaking. Jason took a deep breath and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

  I played with my earlobe while I tried to think of something to say, but all I could think about was how I was standing in a secret room in Jason Andersen’s house, that we were alone, and that once we finished doing whatever it was we were about to do, an amazing party still awaited us downstairs. I mean, how perfect was this night?

  “You about ready for finals?” he asked.

  “Not in the least. I’ve always been a bad test-taker.”

  “Oh, come on. What about that last algebra exam you killed on?”

  “Please. That was pure luck.”

  “Hey, what about the brilliant tutoring?” He did that cocky-wicked-adorable smile that made my heart go hum-an-a-hum-an-a.

  “Actually, I didn’t learn a thing,” I said, trying to keep calm. “Used a cheat sheet.”

  “Aw,” he said, and grabbed my waist like he had on our library sorta-date, giving me a tickle that made me squeal like a total girly-girl. I tried to break free—from the tickling, not his hands—but he stopped, and leaned beside the window again. I looked out the window, wondering how I got to be here, in Jason Andersen’s secret room.

  “Whatcha thinking about?” he asked.

  Instead of confessing any of the number of thoughts running through my mind—do I smell, what is Arlene doing, will he kiss me, does this mean we’re together?—I asked him the question I really wanted to know the answer to, even if I looked dumb asking it. “How come?”

  “How come what?”

  “How come you asked me here tonight?”

  Jason laughed, looking toward the window as he brushed his hair off his forehead. He looked back at me. “Are you serious?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, realizing I was totally putting him on the spot and asking a stupid question. But I wanted to know. I folded my arms across my chest as a gesture of defiance. “Yes.”

  He laughed at my seriousness. “Okay, I’m game. Let’s see . . . why do I like Sara Thurman. Hmm . . . let me count the ways. . . .”

  “Forget it! That’s not what I meant. I’m not fishing for compliments or anything.”

  “Then what do you mean?”

  “I don’t know.” I suddenly felt stupid. To ask a guy why he likes you seemed like a good way to make him not like you. But I didn’t get a lot of what was happening in my life right then, so I figured I might as well try to get one thing straight. Besides, why would Jason Andersen like me? I wasn’t exactly a smooth kind of girl.

  “It’s just that,” I continued, “I’ve known you since elementary school. And we’ve had English together this whole year. How come you just now started to like me?”

  Jason sighed and said, “Well. I don’t know. I guess I didn’t really notice you before. I don’t want this to sound harsh, but you’ve made it pretty hard to miss anything you do this year—or at least this semester.”

  “So you like a girl who loves making a fool of herself?” I was trying to sound hurt, but the truth is, I knew what he meant, and I liked that he was so honest.

  “Maybe,” he said. “But for a girl who gets herself in more . . . situations than anyone I’ve ever met, you’re pretty good at staying cool through it all. Most girls would have started homeschooling the second they read the card on the flowers. And those things on your locker. . . .”

  “Oh, God, please, Jason!” I buried my face in my hands in mortified embarrassment. “Don’t ever talk about that again!”

  He laughed. “You know what I mean. I guess I admire how, no matter what you’re dealt with, you seem to take it all in stride. Most girls in our grade would have freaked out long ago. You just seem above all that.” He admired me?! I couldn’t believe that.

  He looked at my lips, his eyes all soft, and before I knew it, he was leaning into my lips and we were kissing. I tried not to exhale too much, worried that my breath might stink of guacamole. I was also thinking, Jason Andersen is kissing me. Oh, my god, Jason Andersen is kissing me!

  I tried to enjoy the moment, but I couldn’t help thinking about how I should react once we stopped: Should I do a no-teeth-showing smile with flirty eyes? Or say something hot like, “That all you got?” Should I be aggressive and dive back in for more? Should I thank him?

  It wasn’t until we stopped that I realized how awesome kissing was. I’d heard slobbering stories about unfortunate first kisses, but with Jason, in the secret room at his party, kissing was sublime. And you can believe me, because I’d never use a word like sublime unless I really meant it.

  Jason took a slight step back and, looking down at the carpet, asked, “You want to go back downstairs?”

  I thought, Um . . . no!! But I nodded yes, and we started toward the door.

  As Jason pushed open the door-shelf, he asked, “Hey, did you ever find out who did that to your locker?”

  I thought of Arlene and how amazing she was for babysitting so I could be here with Jason, just like I’d been dreaming of. I thought of Kirstie, too, and how nice she’d been to me since first
starting school here, but also how she hadn’t made many other friends. I couldn’t help but remember what Arlene had said about her: Just why was she so nice to me, so quickly?

  “Never found out for sure,” I told Jason. “But I know who didn’t do it.”

  21

  Do You Fight Fair?

  Your sister has just accused you of stealing her favorite green cardigan . . . again. You:

  a) tell her she can shove her cardigan where the sun don’t shine, then take her silver hoop earrings just to show her.

  b) simply tell her you didn’t take it, and refuse to continue the conversation if she persists.

  c) tell on her for falsely accusing you, and try to get her grounded for it.

  As Jason and I left the secret room and walked down the stairs, I felt like we were royalty, walking regally, with our people below us. I saw Olivia Randall, whose locker was in the same hallway as mine, do a double-take when she saw us, and Richie Adams did the same. I thought I heard the quiet gasps of Bowie students, and then the frantic whispering of the new gossip: Him? With her? I’m not sure people actually said that, but it wouldn’t have surprised me. I still couldn’t believe it myself. Me? With him? But there I was, and there we were. And it felt pretty great and surprisingly comfortable.

  Everyone was crowded in the living room, and the music was louder than I remembered. It looked like everyone was having a great time, and with Jason there with me, it was turning out to be a stellar night—one of the best ever.

  Shiner sat on the edge of the beige couch, people-watching as he drank from his plastic cup. He looked at me sort of knowingly—it was something in the way he held his mouth, slightly nodding his head. Like he approved, but not in a gross way.

  “Jason!” Rosemary called as she and Kayla scooted over to the three of us by the couch, all smiles. “So, uh . . . where’ve y’all been, huh?”