I'm So Sure (11 page)
I pounce as soon as he sits down. “Why didn’t you tell me you were working with Luke Sullivan?”
Budge picks a piece of lint off his “Frodo for President” t-shirt. “I didn’t know I had to report to you.”
“I was taking care of clearing Anna’s name. And Ruthie’s. I don’t need Luke’s help.”
He pulls a pencil from his fro. “I don’t do turf wars, but Luke has my loyalty.”
I gasp. “He paid you!”
Budge’s stubbly jaw drops. “That offends me, Bella. I am wounded to the core. My mind is just reeling. In fact, I might have to look over your shoulder and copy off your final tomorrow just to ease my pain.”
I do a partial eye roll.
“
Good morning, Truman High! This is Tiger TV with our last announcements for the semester.”
“I was in the process of getting witnesses to confirm that Anna was at the coffee shop at the time the check was cashed.”
“I’m sorry, Velma. I didn’t mean to get in the way of you and the Mystery Machine.”
I narrow my eyes. “If you don’t help
me
out and keep me in the loop on Ruthie McGee, I’ll . . .” Thinking, thinking. “Tell her something that would destroy your reputation forever.” I lift my chin. “I know things.” Other than the fact that he has one Justin Timberlake CD hidden in his room, I’ve got nothing.
“Oh, I’m so scared.”
Maybe it’s the lighting, but I think I see a flicker of doubt.
“. . . The finalists for your senior prom queen are Anna Deason, Felicity Weeks, Ruthie McGee, and Callie Drake. Your prom king candidates are . . .”
I tune in to the announcements long enough to make a list on my notebook and reread the names.
“Get online and exercise your American right to vote. Results will be announced at prom in March.”
“Your girlfriend made the cut.”
Budge flushes red. “She’s not my girlfriend. And she scares me.” His mouth lifts. “I kinda like it.”
At lunch I’m supposed to meet cat girl Tracey Sniveley for an interview, but she doesn’t show. I fix a salad, buy a water, and walk toward my friends. As soon as I sit, everyone quiets.
I glance at the faces of Anna, Matt, and Lindy. All guilty-looking. I spy a flash of white. “What’s that behind your back there, Anna?”
“This?” It remains out of sight. “Nothing. Just, um,
Sports Illustrated
.”
“Really? Who’s on the cover?” Though she’s a cheerleader, Anna knows nothing about sports. Even less than I do.
“Uh . . . Tiger Sharapova.”
“Hand it over.”
With a worried glance at Lindy, Anna puts the magazine in my hand.
“The
Enquirer
?” I read the cover. “The Olsen twins are in secret negotiations with aliens from Mars. Cameron Diaz dates ninety-year-old men. Bella Kirkwood—”
What?
I pull the magazine closer. “Bella Kirkwood: Can This Wrestler’s Daughter Juggle Her Two Loves?” And there on the cover is a picture of Hunter with his arms wrapped around me. And another of me standing next to my car, staring into the eyes of Luke Sullivan, his hands on my shoulders.
“It’s okay, Bella. It’s just a tabloid.”
I glare at Matt. “Of
my
life! How can they print this? And why would anybody care?”
“Are you kidding me?” Anna takes back the magazine. “People can’t get enough of
Pile Driver of Dreams
. Even my grandma watches it.”
“But I’m no celebrity!” What if Luke’s seen this? Or his girlfriend?
Okay, calm down
. Nothing’s happened between us. No big deal. And do I even care what Hunter thinks? But then again, if he’s sick, does he need this kind of stress? I know I don’t.
“The pictures . . .” I search for words. “They’re not what they look like. I promise. No hanky-panky on my end. I’ve totally kept my lips to myself.” Tragic, but true.
“Heyyyy.” I turn at the deep voice. Ruthie McGee sets her tray beside mine. “Nice pics.” She elbows me in the ribs. “Juggling two guys. Atta girl!”
“But I’m not!” I take a long drink of Dasani. “Um . . . did you need something? I’ve got Budge doing his computer magic, so hopefully we’ll get to the bottom of who took over your MySpace and sent that picture.”
“Well, let me know if you need my help,” she says. “I have distant mob connections.”
After school I drive to my taco nightmare.
“Um, Manny, my cat kind of chewed a big hole in my sombrero. Do you have another one?”
Please say no. Please say no
.
“You got it,
señorita
.” My boss holds up a meaty finger. “Wait here.” He goes back into his office and returns with a hat bigger than the last. “You’ll grow into it.”
“Only if my head swells,” I mumble. I slip on my poncho, flop on the sombrero, and take my place behind the counter.
Two hours later the dinner rush is in full swing.
Two men walk in and I give them the standard greeting. “Welcome to Pancho’s Mexican Villa!” We serve tacos and humiliation.
“I’ll have a Nifty Nacho and a Mucho Munchie Burrito. Sam, what do you want?” The taller of the two steps back to let his friend order.
“You,” I hiss. The black-haired guy with the camera. “You work for the show. And you sold the pictures to some
trash
magazine!”
His grin stretches wide. “I got a kid to support. Nice shots though, eh?”
My mouth opens and closes. I filter all the words I
want
to say, but know I shouldn’t. “This is my life you’re distorting. I have friends, a family. People’s feelings are getting hurt.” Like mine.
He shrugs. “Who cares? That’s the biz, baby. If you were smart, you’d work it. You could have all of America involved in your love triangle. That sells.”
“I am
not
for sale. And there is no love triangle.”
Chris Stilwell hands me the first order.
“Get used to it, babe,” the photographer says. “I’m not going anywhere. And it’s okay to be a girl who plays the boys. Keep stringing them along, I say.”
Oh!
As if my hand disconnects from my brain, I reach for the salsa and throw it on his shirt. “I am not some cheap skank.”
The tall one laughs. “You don’t have to be. That’s what Photoshop is for.”
I turn around, grab the refried bean dispenser. I pull the trigger and bean burrito innards squirt all over my target.
“Dude.” Chris twirls two cheese shooters like pistols and hoses the photographers down. “Right on!”
A table of teenagers in the back joins in, throwing
queso
and chips clear across the room.
A woman screams and holds up her tray in defense while her husband grabs three tacos and flings them like grenades.
The air is filled with hamburger meat and other lardy delights. I lunge for the floor and crawl military-style toward Manny’s office.
I knock on the door, and it opens. Manny looks side to side, then down. “Did you lose something?”
A tortilla smacks him in the face.
“My job?”
Why is it lately when I come home at night, I need to be hosed off?
I guess tonight is the last night for smelling like a nacho platter. I think I got all the research I can from Pancho’s. And Manny agreed. I try to focus on something more positive, like getting out of school a day early and leaving for my dad’s Friday. I can’t wait to get out of town.
With the beans out of my hair, I step out of the shower and into some clean clothes. A little quality time with Robbie will cheer me up before I cram for finals.
My towel still on my head, I walk down the hall to Budge and Robbie’s room. Hearing the TV blaring and someone singing, I know Robbie’s got to be in there. I knock once and then shove open the door.
My brain shudders as I process the sight before me. Budge screams and flies off the bed. With his bulky body, he shields me from the TV.
“It’s not what you think!” His face is white as a tortilla.
“Let me see what you’re watching there, stepbrother.” I smile.
Whatever it is he’s hiding, I have a feeling I’m going to be able to use it.
“Just walk away and pretend like none of this ever happened.”
“I heard singing.”
His Adam’s apple bobs. “Radio. It was the radio.”
I glance at the stereo sitting quietly in the corner. “Nah. And the tune . . . it kind of sounded familiar.”
Budge closes his eyes. “Leave my room!”
I’m in a scrappy mood tonight, so I do what any stepsister would do. I get a running start, leap into the air, and tackle him. He spins around and around, and I hang on for dear life.
“Aughhhh!” With a battle cry, he flings me across the room, and I land on Robbie’s bed.
Where I get a perfect view of the TV. “Hannah Montana!” I dissolve into giggles. “Budge watches
Hannah Montana
!”
“No!” he shouts. “I was just flipping channels!”
I roll off the bed. “It’s okay, Budge. I’ve watched a lot of her too.”
He stares back toward the screen. “Really?”
“Yeah, when I was like twelve!” I barely dodge a pillow and run out of the room.
I search the rest of the house and finally find the brother I actually wanted to talk to in the living room. He’s sprawled on the floor, tongue stuck out and crayon in hand. An empty bag of chips is nearby.
“Hey, Robbie. Nice picture. What is it?”
He doesn’t even look up. “It’s a pastel representation of my feelings on the corruption of our legal system.”
“Oh.” Why can’t he draw puppies and smiley faces like other kindergarteners? “Hey”—I crouch down beside him—“are you feeling okay? You seem a little down lately.”
Robbie spins on his stomach, drags his art with him, and faces the other direction. “I’m fine.”
“Robbie, what is going on with you? Is it school?”
Robbie’s sienna-brown crayon pauses. I watch as his eyes lift to mine and his chin quivers. “I can’t tell you.” He reaches his small hand into the chip bag, pulls back some crumbs, and licks them off his hand.
“But maybe it’s something I could help you with.”
“Nobody can help me. Superheroes work alone. We’re destined to walk this earth in solitude. If anything’s wrong, only I can make it right.”
Seriously, the boy watches way too much of those TV shows for smart people. His vocabulary is crazy. I should probably let him take my English final for me.
“You know you can tell me anything, right?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” He picks up his crayons and paper, and his feet make slip-slap noises up the stairs.
Hearing my mom talking in her bedroom, I follow her voice while I take the towel off my wet head. She sits on the bed with her cell phone to her ear and waves.
“Dolly, that’s great news. Keep us updated, no matter the time.”
Mom shuts her phone. “Dolly’s about to be a mom! The girl’s in labor right now.”
“That’s awesome.” Dolly deserves some happiness.
“Hey, aren’t you home from work kind of early?” She leans over and stares at my hair. “What is this?” She picks at my scalp.
I study the red thing in her hand. “Could either be a pepper or a tomato. Hard to tell.” I fill her in on my evening of projectile food.
“Bella—”
“I know.” I slip off the bed. “It was stupid. But I promise not to shoot beans on my next job.”
I
wake up early the next morning, and before my feet touch the floor, I have a chat with God about parents, boys, and burritos. Seeing I still have plenty of time, I crawl over an unconscious Moxie and go to my desk to catch up on e-mail.
There’s one from Dad with a picture of him, Christina, and Marisol at Rockefeller Center. Marisol gazes at my dad like he’s king of the world or something.
Delete
.
I click on the next one, which has my own e-mail address as the sender.
Dear Bella,
You don’t know what you’re dealing with. Take my advice and mind your own business. Next time I might not be so nice. You’re pretty when you sleep, by the way.
Your friend.
Chills flitter across my body as I click to open the picture in the attachment.
I clutch my chest. “Oh my gosh!” It’s me. Asleep. Someone was in my room last night!
I force myself to take some deep breaths. Okay, this is not funny. I’m totally creeped out. How did this perv get in? And why? I live with a wrestler, for crying out loud. Who would be stupid enough to break into
our
house?
An hour later, Officer Mark leaves the house after getting all the information he could. The kitchen is almost silent, yet the air is heavy with all the unspoken thoughts.
“You are not to go anywhere alone.” My stepdad rubs his face with his giant hand. “If you need to go anywhere, you call one of us. You can reach me anytime.”
“I’ll be fine. How about if I just let you know where I am at all times? I’m sure it’s just someone trying to scare me. He’s probably harmless.” I hope.
“So it’s a he, huh?” Budge asks.
I work up my first smile of the day. “This is the work of an idiot, therefore it has to be a guy.” Actually, I don’t know. I have no idea who it could be.
My mom stands behind me and wraps me in a hug. “Jake will call the security system company today.”
“I won’t let anything happen to you.” His expression darkens. “But you really do need to back off your investigative pursuits. Let someone else handle it.”
“Like the police,” Mom says as she walks to the fridge. “Robbie, why are there five Twinkies in your lunch sack?” She holds up his black Batman bag. “That’s not what I packed last night.” She takes them out one by one.
I watch my little stepbrother slide lower in his seat. “I dunno. Guess I thought I’d get hungry.”
Jake reaches out and tussles his son’s hair. “If you want to be a big, strong man like me, you can’t eat all that junk.”
“Yeah, you should drink raw-egg smoothies like your dad.” I’ll take my Pop-Tarts any day. After a family prayer, we all head our separate directions.
“Budge will be following you to school in his car.” Mom hands me my purse as I open the door.
“Well, my cool factor just took a nosedive.” I kiss her on the cheek and step outside.
“Bella?”
I glance back.
“I know you’re not going to let this go, so just promise me you’ll be careful. Trouble seems to have a way of following you.”