Love? Maybe. (4 page)

I think about the rising mountain of homework that is threatening to bury me. I start to text her back, asking if she can call Mrs. Bateman, but before I can finish, Mr. Reyes is standing beside me, his hand outstretched. Everyone in class watches me as I hand off my phone. The bell rings for
lunch and I gather my books together. Mr. Reyes doesn’t say anything as I walk past his desk. He just holds up my phone, along with a pink slip of paper. A detention. Hurray. This day just keeps getting better and better.

“Where do you want to eat?” Claire asks when I meet her at my locker. She seems better—a little less liquid.

“I’ll be in The Pit,” I say, holding up the pink slip. We can serve detention morning, noon, or after school. Since I’ll be spending my afternoon with Lucy and Dom, I have to spend lunch in detention.

“Ouch,” Claire says. “Sorry.”

I shrug and try to be cavalier about it. “No big. Maybe I’ll finally get caught up on my homework.”

She nods. “I’ll grab you something from the caff,” she says. “Sushi?”

“Burger,” I say.

“Your mother would be shocked.” She smiles the tiniest bit when she says it. My mother is a well-known health nut.

Thinking less of my mother and more of my last three “meals”—peanut butter, bacon, and a cinnamon roll—I amend my order. “Veggie burger and carrot sticks.”

“Enjoy The Pit.”

I snort. Not one of my more ladylike characteristics. “Not likely,” I say.

Claire smiles a little before heading toward the cafeteria,
which is a relief. At least little bits of Claire are still poking through. I start heading toward The Pit, a quaint nickname for the shop room where they have detention. Nothing like a little sawdust and the smell of motor oil to make you hungry. My phone buzzes again. I take a look before heading down the steps to the basement.

Thanks, P. Love M.
I roll my eyes. She didn’t even wait for my answer. She just assumed that I don’t have anything else going on. And the sad thing is, other than homework, she’s actually right.

I step into the land of cars and power tools and walk over to a stool near the back. I’ve only been here once before and that was because I refused to dissect a cat in biology. Ms. Heimer wanted me to spend the whole week in here, but one call from my mom and all I had to do was one day. I wipe at the decade of grime on the table with a rag that’s been left there. I give up when I notice all I’m doing is moving the dirt around. I sit and drop my bag on the table in front of me. Mr. Bell, the shop teacher, is supposed to sit with us during detention, but all he does is take roll and give us a couple gruff sentences about hanging us up by our ankles if we mess around. Then he heads into his office and shuts the door. About three seconds later we hear the opening chords of a Zeppelin song.

I slide my Brit lit book out of my bag, trying to ignore the grunting from the other side of the room. Today’s distraction seems to revolve around lifting something very big and
very greasy. It’s better than last semester, when they had a chew-spitting contest. I still feel vaguely ill when I smell anything wintergreen-scented.

The Pit is populated half by people in detention and half by students I’ve never seen anywhere else except here. Pitters don’t look the same as the rest of the students. To be totally honest, I sort of admire Pitters. Even if they’re gross, at least you know they’re real.

There is a burst of yelling from the other side of the room as the Neanderthal Games really get going. I look over at Mr. Bell’s office door, expecting it to fly open at any minute, but his only response is to crank up the squealing guitar solo. I sigh and try to find my place in my lit book. Mr. Reyes, ever the romantic, has assigned us Valentine’s Day–related words for our homework. Just another reminder of how inescapable the holiday is. We’re supposed to be prepping for the PSAT, and since Mr. Reyes is a self-proclaimed “logomaniac” (word lover), we just keep getting lists and lists of vocabulary. I’ve complained about him so much that my Christmas gift from Charlie was a calendar for my desk at home. It’s called 365 Obscure Words. So far I’ve learned that mundungus is something that smells really bad and that mytacism is the incorrect use of the letter
m
. Useful stuff.

I look around The Pit and decide that this is the epicenter of mundungus-ocity. It’s weird though. While The Pit is full-on nasty, the cars in here are pretty nice. From where I’m
sitting, I can see one Mercedes, one BMW, one Lexus, and half a Hummer. In all truth, Montrose Academy is about as fancy as you can get.

“Look, the princess is back.” A hand, almost as big as a page in my English book, plants itself on the table next to me. He’s so close I can feel his breath on the side of my face. Wintergreen. I just keep working on my vocabulary, remembering another word from my calendar. Ablutophobia. A pathological fear of washing or bathing. “Hey, princess.” I don’t look up. Meat Hand pulls my book away from me, snaps it closed, and slides it across the table to another set of hands. Smaller, but equally grungy. I finally look up.

“Hey, Barry,” I say. Like most everyone else at Montrose Academy, I’ve known Barry since we were in elementary school.

“The name’s Booger,” he says.

“And you prefer that to Barry?” I ask. He sneers at me, or at least he tries to. He needs to work on it, though, because it just looks like he’s about to sneeze. “Can I have my book back?” I ask, reaching my hand across the table to where his sidekick is still holding it.

“What are you going to give me for it?” He attempts another sneer, but this one makes him look like he’s in pain. I sigh.

“Gum?” I ask. It’s the only thing I have in my bag besides books.

“How about a kiss, beautiful?” It’s my turn to give a pained
look. I’m not about to have my first kiss in The Pit with a guy named Booger. I try to think of something clever to say, something that will get my book back. Something that won’t hurt Booger’s pride and send my book into the nearest trash can. My chem book still smells minty-nasty from the chew glopped on it the last time I was in here.

“Leave her alone.” The voice comes from the other side of one of the gutted cars they have scattered around the enormous room. Nearly everyone has been watching The Booger and Piper Show, mostly because there’s nothing else to do. Now everyone, including me, turns to look at the guy coming around the back of the car.

“Why should I?” Booger asks, but his voice is definitely different. Less Booger. More Barry.

“Because you’re not a total jerk.” The guy coming around the car is definitely not like these other guys. In fact, I’m not sure he’s even real. Because unless I’m starting to hallucinate from the fumes, the guy coming around the back of the car is Ben. Period. Donovan. Period.

“Jerk?” Booger begins. He looks like he’s trying to figure out if this is worth the trouble. Apparently he decides it’s not. “We’re just messing around.” He looks at me for confirmation, but I don’t oblige. He reaches for my book. “Here,” he says, pushing it hard enough to send it off the table and onto the floor.

“Thanks,” I say. I start to say Barry, but decide to just go along. “Booger.” He shrugs and heads back to the other side
of the room, where they are starting up another game, this one involving a couple of long rubber tubes and a tire. I bend and retrieve my book, noting that there is now a big splotch of grease on the front. I gather my courage to say thank you to Ben Donovan, but he’s gone already back around to the other side of the car. I get up and walk across the shop, careful of the grease smears along the way. I’m not really sure why it suddenly matters—my boots are designed to keep out just about anything.

When I circle the car, only the lower half of Ben Donovan is visible. His upper half is hidden under the car. “Thanks,” I say to his feet. There’s a clanging noise in response.

“Dang it.” He rolls out from under the car. He stops when he sees me standing there.

“What?” he asks.

“I just wanted to—” For a moment I can’t remember what it is I wanted to do. I just stand there looking at him. He frowns at me, then rolls to one side to grab another wrench out of the toolbox.

“Yes?” he says.

“I just wanted to say thank you.” He stares at me. “So, um, thanks.” He nods and looks around again, clearly still wondering what I’m doing here. I watch him for one more awkward moment before turning to walk back to my table and more irrelevant words.

“Hey, Piper,” he says from behind me. I turn to find him staring at me with a half smile on his face. “Nice boots.”

I feel my face get red. “Thanks,” I say, because I have no idea what his half smile means. But it’s definitely still there, and just as I’m about to ask him what he wants, he shakes his head and slides back under the car. I stare until all I can see are the bottom of his coveralls and his shoes. I try to focus on my English homework, but all I can think is that Ben. Period. Donovan. Period. actually knows my name.

Jillian is giving me “the look” again as I eat my lunch. Normally I have better manners, but I am starving and have only three minutes to shove food into my mouth before assembly. She’s eyeing me like I’m one of those nature shows where you just know the cute little bunny is about to get it, but you can’t stop watching.

“So, The Plan—” she finally says. Claire nods, looking past her to where a group of upperclassmen is climbing the steps from the caff and heading into the auditorium.

“Plan?” I ask around my last bite of veggie burger. I live for teasing Jillian.

Jillian sighs. “The Valentine’s Day Plan. We now need to find
three
yummy guys.”

I glance over at Claire, but she’s not paying attention. She’s still watching the stairs. Still looking for Stuart. “How about instead we find cupid and beat the stuffing out of him,” I say. “Or we could all wear black. You know, in protest.”

“Why are you so anti-Valentine’s Day?” Jillian asks.

“Don’t,” Claire says.

“Don’t what?” Jillian asks.

Claire looks over at me. “Too late.”

I take a deep breath. “Valentine’s Day is just a capitalist scam, designed to make people currently in a relationship spend unnecessary money in a fruitless attempt to ensure undying love and devotion. For those of us not in a relationship, Valentine’s Day is simply added pressure to identify ourselves within the context of a romantic relationship, whipping us into a frenzy that only the presence of our soul mates can relieve.”

Jillian rolls her eyes at me; Claire just shrugs. “I tried to warn you,” she says. A group of rugby players mounts the stairs. Stuart is in the middle of the group as if he’s hiding in their midst. He barely makes eye contact with Claire as he walks by.

“See?” I say to Jillian. “Why should we celebrate a day that is devoted to heartbreak?”

“I refuse to admit defeat,” Jillian says.

Out of the corner of my eye I spot Jeremy lurking across the hall, probably trying to work up the nerve to say hello to Jillian. I smile in his direction, but Jillian glares at me and shakes her head. This of course makes me smile even more.

“We should go in,” Claire says finally. “Afternoon assembly is about to start.”

“I’ll meet you in there.” I notice that my hands are sort of gross from the veggie burger and probably I’m sort of grungy in general from my time in The Pit. Unfortunately,
the closest restroom isn’t all that close. I have to actually go outside and over to the next building. Even more unfortunately, it’s raining. By the time I end up back in the main building, I’m pretty damp. Somehow, the twist my mother put in my hair is still holding up. But rubber boots + water + tile floor = an unbelievable amount of noise all in the form of loud squeaks that make it sound like I’m trying to smuggle a bunch of small rodents into the assembly.

As if the day couldn’t get worse, the assembly has already started and Father Birch is up at the front leading everyone in an opening prayer. Claire and Jillian are about three rows down from where I’m standing at the back and they’ve left a seat for me on the aisle.
I can do this.
I walk carefully, trying to make as little noise as possible. Once I hit the carpet, I think I’m home free. But wet boots can slip as easily on carpet as they can on tile. The heel of my left boot catches on the edge of the step and my foot slides out from under me. My arms start pinwheeling. My legs fly out at weird angles and I brace myself for impact. I probably would have ended up sprawled halfway down the stairs with the whole school staring at me if it weren’t for a pair of strong hands that manage to catch me before I hit the ground.

“Careful.” The voice is low and soft and his breath is warm on my neck. I stand up unsteadily and make my way down one more step to where Jillian and Claire are sitting staring at me.

“Holy sugar,” Jillian whispers in light of the fact that we’re in chapel. “That was Ben Donovan.” I shrug and both she and Claire look at me for a moment before turning their attention back to the front, where Father Birch is winding up the prayer. My cheeks still feel like they’re on fire. Okay, so maybe I’m not completely hardened to the concept of romance. Or maybe I’m still dizzy from eating too quickly, almost falling on my head, and Ben Donovan’s warm breath on my neck.