“Thanks,” I breathe, hauling myself up and through the square, then reaching back and closing it so I can’t lean back and accidentally fall through. I’ve only had a single beer tonight, but maybe that’s enough to rid me of my balance. “You saved my ass.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, and I look at her, confused. What is she apologizing for? For saving me? For existing?
But before I ask, I pause, actually getting a good look at her for the first time. She’s wrapped up in a thick jacket, but below that,something sparkly and colorful clings to her thighs, and I have to fight to keep my gaze from landing and staying there.
She looks like someone I know, but different. It’s more than the short dress. She looks… off. I vaguely recognize her from school. Maybe we had some classes together?
Although maybe not. I’ve always been decent at school, but my strength is hockey. Her, though, I remember one thing about her, and it’s that she’s really, really fucking smart. A genius or something.
She’ll probably be valedictorian; she’s in every single AP class the school offers. I bet the guidance counselor practically foams at the mouth when they talk about the Ivy Leagues she might go to. Plus, I’m pretty sure her parents are famous, so she’s probably got big plans, like me, right after high school.
With apop, her name enters my head:Lara Novak. Maybe I didn’t think of it straight away because she looks so different tonight. Shinier, definitely more makeup. Normally, that honey blond hair is loose and wavy, kind of puffier, but right now it looks like satin, hanging pin straight to her shoulders.
I like her casual look at school better - all soft beiges and plaid skirts, bows in her hair — but I’m obviously not going to tell her that.
She gestures, loosely, to somewhere below the tree house, bringing me back to the conversation as she runs her fingers nervously over her jacket. “I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. I was kind of hiding out in here, and I didn’t know anyone else was going to come out?—”
Oh. So, she heard the entire conversation between me and my dad, and that’s what she was apologizing for. That’s just great.It’s not like I want everyone knowing my dad is a fucking deadbeat.
The guidance counselor had recommended including something about the “struggles of my home life” in my essay for Michigan. But I don’t want anybody, including admissions people, pitying me. Even if that means I don’t get into my top choice.
“It’s not your fault,” I say, shrugging one shoulder and glancing away from her, hoping she buys that it’s not a big deal. It’s really not her fault. She obviously wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. If anything, I should have seen the open hatch and thought about my conversation spot before answering the phone.
Or maybe I shouldn’t have answered the phone in the first place. The second I saw his name on the screen, my stomach dropped, and that slimy, hot feeling of dread filled my chest. But if I’d ignored him the rest of the night, he would have kept blowing my phone up and probably told the other guys I would be there bright and early for the job, even though I have practice.
I hate letting thoseguys down. It’s not their fault my dad can’t get his shit together.
“Still,” Lara says, clearing her throat. Nervously, she shifts, then adds, “I’ll go if you want to stay in here a while?—”
“Nah,” I hold a hand up, and she stops suddenly, like I’m a police officer. It makes me laugh. “I mean, you can stay if you want. Seems like there’s not a better place to hide out from the party than this, and what kind of person would I be if I forced you to go back in there?”
Slowly, she lowers back down to her seat, giving me a curious, suspicious look. “What… you don’t want to go back into the party?”
That makes me laugh. “No. Warm beer, sloppy kids? Puke? Plus, I have practice in the morning.” I groan, thinking about it, and add, “Those guys in there are going to be a wreck.”
I need all the practice I can get, and I need it to be good. If all the D-men are floundering, still hungover, I don’t get as good a workout on my handling and shooting. And I don’t have the benefit of fancy camps and private coaches to fill the gaps.
“You’re the captain of the hockey team, aren’t you?”
The way she says it makes me think she knew that the second I came through the hatch, but I don’t call her out on it. Instead, I reach over and knock my sneaker against hers, which seems to surprise her, like she didn’t expect me to touch her.
“Yeah, but don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Captain of the hockey team. It doesn’t really mean a lot. I just have more shit to deal with, really.”
She laughs, tucks her hair behind her ear, and my eyes fall to the comic book in her hand. “Are you a big Spiderman fan?”
“What?” She glances down, then laughs again. “Oh — no, not really. I guess I just feel better with a book in my hand, so I picked this up, started looking through it. God, I don’t even want to comment on how dorky that probably made me sound, or I’ll feel like I’m in a lame teen movie.”
“There’s no such thing as a lame movie,” I counter, which makes her eyebrows shoot up. “What?” I ask, nudging her with my shoe again, liking the way it makes her eyes dart to the contact between us.
“Nothing. I just hadn’t pegged you for a movie defender.”
“Athletes are capable of appreciating the arts, Lara. I’m not all brawn.”
Her cheeks flush pink, and something inside me responds to it, wanting to make her do it again. “I know, I didn’t mean?—”
