Love Storm (9 page)

No, I thought, suddenly angry at myself. No, you can't go around thinking like that. Eva's an awesome girl, you're lucky she chose you. Who cares if Winter chose to lie to me?

-
Winter
-

Had Zack been upset about something? It was weird – I could have sworn I had picked up some angry vibes from him, but it was always hard to tell with him. And why should he be mad? He had gone out with Eva, and, according to her, everything had gone well. In fact, by the looks of it, everything had gone better than "well".

I finished drying myself off and slipped on my pajamas. The steam in the bathroom was scented lightly with my shampoo, and I breathed it in deeply before opening the door.

I stole softly to my room and lay down on my bed, my wet hair cool on my neck. I pulled the covers up to my chin and turned over, wondering about Zack.

Chapter Nine: Enter Martin Rifkin

Winter

By the following week, Eva and Zack were going steady.

By the beginning of November, a month after their first date, they were a couple people looked up to. They said, "Now look at that Eva and Zack. They've been an item for so long, and they're committed to each other. Why can't
we
be like that?" Eva and Zack were like Barbie and Ken. A more athletic Barbie and a curly headed Ken. Except that they weren't exactly doomed to be meant for each other for all of eternity. At least, I hoped not. It would be awkward for my best friend to be married to someone who so loved to exasperate me for no reason.

I watched from the sidelines, marveling that they weren't biting each other's heads off, something I had taken to doing every time I was left alone with Zack. He had been sweet that one night that now seemed so long ago – after that, he had continued to annoy and irritate me, but I always tried to refrain from saying things that were too harsh, for Eva's sake if not as much for the sanity of Tristan, who couldn't stand it when I yelled at Zack, for some odd reason.

Tristan and I had gotten even closer that month. Eva was constantly out with Zack, but I didn't complain. Even though she wasn't always there, I continued to go to the Westley house to help out three or four times a week. After school activities had started picking up in abundance for all the kids, so they weren't home as much as they had been at the very start of school. Tristan and I ended up hanging out a lot – we were close enough that I fell in love with the idea of him becoming my older brother. We often joked that perhaps one day I could adopt him. Tennis had also started for me, and he, too, was busy with practice for football, and conditioning for varsity basketball.

Things were going alright. Not great, but alright, and life was stable for a while, which counted for a lot. Mrs. Westley – now Ms. McCall I suppose, though she would always be simply Denise to me – seemed to be doing okay for herself too. She had finally found a cheap apartment in Hampton, and had thrown herself into her work. She visited at least once a week, usually on the weekends now, and the kids practically lived for those days.

As for Mr. Westley – not Oliver, but Mr. Westley – he was doing okay too, I suppose. I hoped he was doing well at work. He was some kind of business man; I didn't know the logistics of what he did for a living as I had never interested myself in matters concerning him in the first place.

One day in early November, our varsity tennis coach, Burling, started the yearly practices from hell. Our season had ended already, two few weeks previously, but he still got to hold on to us until spring sports started. A few lucky people had already started their winter sports, and as such did not have to go through these terrible conditioning practices, but everyone else had to push through six more weeks with our crazy and completely unbalanced, maniac Coach Burling.

"Alright, ladies!" he shouted. "Gather round, gather round." We had just finished running four laps around the perimeter of the sports fields – the equivalent of two miles. We were all breathing heavily, and more than half the girls were doubled over, still trying to catch their breaths. Panting, hot, and sweaty; and we were all outside too, the wind blowing cold and harsh on our faces, bare arms and legs. In a moment we would all be wishing we were back to sweaty and hot, I knew – the wind in Branner City could freeze sweat on your skin in an instant and bite all the way into your bones. Living in northern California on the coast often meant unsympathetic weather for tennis players in the winter.

"Liners," Burling said. "For the next couple of weeks, you ladies will be living and breathing drills, games, and conditioning. Liners, squats, timed miles, wall-sits, Hot Seat, BVO, Queen of the Court, Two-Touch One-Bounce." He ticked them off on his fingers. "Drills – forehands, backhands, volleys, slices, overheads, serves. We might not be the best team in the league, but we can still be the best conditioned. I'm proud of the way we finished this season – nine for sixteen is not bad. But we can do better."

I rolled my eyes. This was Coach Burling's beginning of the conditioning off-season speech on how we would be the best conditioned team in all of California. It sounded suspiciously like what he had said last year. "Two bucks says Mariko's the first to throw up today," I whispered to my good tennis buddy, Rebecca.

Rebecca glanced at Mariko, the smallest girl on our team and Japanese to boot – 'delicate', was the word Coach used to describe her.

"No deal," she panted. "But you know she saves us every time."

I nodded, still trying to catch my breath. Every time Mariko or someone else threw up, we were allowed to stop the drills and rest.

"Okay everyone, line up at the doubles alley. Liners on the whistle. Ready… go!" The shrill whistle rang out happily, the first blow of the season! Whoohoo! It and the coach were the only ones celebrating out on the courts today.

By the end of practice, my lungs were burning and I was so tired I almost fell asleep in the showers. But man, it felt so good. There was something about pushing my body to its physical limits that made me feel really great – like I was washed clean, or something.

I exited the locker rooms, the last person to come out. All my teammates were gone. My head was freezing – the wind was still blowing, and my hair was dripping wet. I shivered in my clean shorts, flip-flops, and last year's tournament t-shirt.

"Unh," I groaned aloud, feeling extremely stupid. I had forgotten to tell my dad I needed a ride home. I rummaged through my duffel bag for my cell phone but came up empty-handed.

"Crud," I muttered, teeth chattering, going through the contents in my bag again. Still no cell phone.

So there I was, standing in front of the gym, looking stupidly and desperately lost, when a BMW pulled up. Not just any BMW though – it was a nice one. Not new, but it had no scratches either, and was waxed to a shine. And I knew who it belonged to.

The window rolled down, and I could only stare as the friendly, honest smile of Martin Rifkin greeted me.

"Hey, you look lost. Need a ride?"

Indignation rose up in me.
Of course
I needed a ride, idiot. No, I wouldn't take a ride, certainly not from the likes of Martin. "No," I sniffed sarcastically. "I'm just standing out here because I feel like it and I'm clinically diagnosed with masochism. Thanks though." I waved him off, but to my surprise, he was laughing.

"Come on," he said, dark gray eyes twinkling. Pretty eyes, I marveled. "Put aside your pride for a moment. It's got to be freezing out there in shorts and a t-shirt."

I admitted to myself that he had a point. If I stood out here much longer, they'd have to defrost me at the morgue before I could be identified. I shivered as the wind picked up even more.

Martin just sat there, a faint smile playing on his lips, waiting for me to concede defeat.

"Okay, okay," I finally said reluctantly. A particularly harsh gust of wind had finally convinced me to suck up my pride and accept his charity.

Martin grinned and reached across to open the passenger door for me.

I slid in, pulling down my shorts a little, which now seemed to show an impossible amount of my legs. 'Damn Coach Burling's dress code,' I thought crossly. He never let us wear long sweats or track pants to practice, and I hadn't wanted to change back into my jeans today.

As soon as I buckled up, he pulled smoothly out of the gym's parking lot.

"Your name is… Winter, right?" Martin Rifkin looked at me sideways, a mischievous grin still lurking in his features.

"Yea," I said. "And you're Martin Rifkin," I couldn't help adding on. Martin Rifkin, who was one year older than me, MVP on the football field, and the fastest runner on the track team.

He chuckled. "The one and only," he said. "How do I know you, anyway? You're not a junior," he frowned, contemplating the question. I already knew the answer, and was rather flattered at his memory.

"Does this situation seem at all familiar to you?" I asked. "I've gotten a ride from you before. With Tristan Westley," I said, waiting for his reaction.

Realization dawned on his features. "That's right," Martin said, slapping the steering wheel as we cruised down the street, Branner High's brick buildings shrinking behind us. "Westley got a ride from me after track practice once. And you were with him," he scratched his head, accidentally making a small section of his light brown hair stick out at a funny angle. I laughed.

"What's so funny?" he said.

I shook my head, grinning and savoring that at this moment, the high and mighty Martin Rifkin, jock extraordinaire, probably one of the most popular juniors in the school, was indeed human, just like everyone else.

"I live on Storey Road," I informed him. "It's off Ivelson."

He nodded in understanding. "Tennis practice, huh?" He gestured at my duffel and tennis racket.

"Conditioning practices from hell," I sighed.

"I've been there before," he said sympathetically.

"Because we have to be the best conditioned team in Nor Cal, never mind that you're all throwing up by the end of practice, never mind that you'll probably all die from exhaustion by the end of the season, and, oh, it's cold out here? Too bad, you can only wear shorts and skirts," I barged on, ever sarcastically, and again, I was surprised when he laughed.

"Am I extremely amusing or something?" I said indignantly.

"You're funny," Martin declared with a pleasant chuckle.

"I hope that's a compliment," I said, grinning.

"Take it however you want," he replied with an amused shrug.

There was a slight pause and I looked out the window. "Nice car," I said casually.

He sighed. "I've heard," he said, an uncharacteristically resentful expression on his face.

I was taken aback by his sudden mood change and shifted in the leather seat uncomfortably. "Sorry," I said softly, again, not quite sure what else to say.

"No, I'm sorry," Martin replied, something like regret touching his beautiful eyes.

I cut him off before he could apologize any further. "Don't be sorry. There's no reason for you to be." I watched him out of the corner of my eye, wondering what Martin Rifkin could possibly be bitter about.

He looked like he was about to say something, but then closed his mouth again and simply nodded, tight-lipped.

"So, you ready for the football season?" I asked to smooth out the silence.

He nodded, looking thankful for my tact. "We've been having hard practices too. We'll probably down to two-a-days by the end of the week."

I winced. "That sucks." Two-a-days were exactly that – two practices a day, one early in the morning before class, the other, straight after school.

"Tell me about it," he said, though rather cheerfully. "At least it's playing time though, right? And it's all about the sport."

I agreed, and we drove the rest of the way in comfortable silence.

Perhaps ten minutes later we pulled up to the front of my house. (Was it just me, or was I always being dropped off by people?)

"Thanks for the ride," I said, "I really mean it. I'd probably still be back there, a frozen corpse with my pride being my downfall, had it not been for you."

Martin grinned, and I couldn't help smiling back – he was contagious like that. "Any time."

"Okay, see you around," was all I said, before getting out.

"Wait!" he yelled when I was halfway up the drive. I turned back and glanced at him.

"Can I… have your number?" He had to half-shout to compensate for the physical distance and the strong wind.

I smiled, walked back to his car, and gave it to him. He didn't write it down, simply nodded and assured me he would remember it. I didn't doubt it – if this guy could remember my name and an incident that happened over ten months ago, he could remember my number, if it was important to him.

"You know where I live, too," I teased. "Now you have two things from me, and I have nothing from you."

"You will, soon enough," he winked, and I contained my laughter at his confidence.

"I'll hold you to it," I grinned, and departed again with a half-wave.

Only when I was safely inside and closing the door did I see him drive off, his shining black BMW looking just slightly out of place on my street of middle-class houses.