Shuffle, Repeat (6 page)

“Don't be rude,” I hiss.

Itch settles back as Ainsley arrives on our row. “Hey, guys,” she says in a voice that is somehow made for both shouting cheers over packed stadiums and whispering poetry into the ears of worshipful boys.

I tense up. Is she here to start something with me? I'm pretty sure she could take me physically—she's taller and probably stronger from cheerleading—but she
is
wearing those heels. Maybe I can catch her off balance. “What's up, Ainsley?” I ask like it's no big deal.

She gestures to the row in front of us. “May I?”

“Of course,” I say graciously.

“It's a free country,” Itch says, and I elbow him.

Ainsley lowers herself to a graceful sitting position like she's a peacock feather drifting to the ground. “Are you going to the first game?”

“The
football
game?” It comes out of my mouth in a tone of incredulity. Is she trying to figure out where to deploy her band of evil pom-pommed henchwomen to kick my ass? Or is she warning me away, staking her claim to anything sports-related…anything that involves Oliver?

Itch speaks for me. “We don't do tournaments of brutality.”

Ainsley turns her dark-lashed gaze on him. “High school
is
a tournament of brutality.”

Itch looks surprised at her comeback. “I'll give you that.”

Ainsley taps me on the knee. “You should go.”

“Why?”

“It's the first game of the season. We're trying to have a big crowd to show support for the team.”

I somehow think there's a little more to this invitation than school spirit, but for the life of me, I can't figure out her angle. “Maybe,” I tell her.

“There's a bonfire after,” Ainsley says. “You guys can catch a ride with us.”

“Us?”
Itch repeats.

“Oliver and me.”

“Like a double date?” I ask, and watch Ainsley's smile grow even wider.

“Exactly like that.”

I guess Itch and I had to have our first fight sometime. I just didn't think it would happen in the middle of a Rite Aid.

I'm standing with my hands on my hips, watching him browse a rack of corn chips. “It wouldn't kill you,” I tell him. “It wouldn't actually make your heart stop beating and your blood stop pumping.”

“It might. You don't know.”

“One game. One party.”

Itch laughs and the sound comes out brittle, like it would break if it hit the ground. “That's how it starts,” he tells me. “A game, a party, a bunch of booze. Then suddenly you're part of their crap and doing their bidding.”

“No one's talking about doing anyone's bidding! It's football, not slavery.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” Itch swipes a bright orange bag off the shelf. “There's a reason we're not joiners, June. It's not because we're geeks and it's not because we buy into some sort of outdated hierarchy of popularity.”

“I never said—”

“It's because we're better than it.” Itch walks over and slings an arm around my shoulders, which are tensed up higher than they should be. “
You're
better.”

He kisses me and I let him.

I always let him.

The sun has barely risen and already there are two guys installing a storage bench in the entryway. I nod at them as I go by on my way to the kitchen, skirting a pile of boards and tools on the floor.

I find Mom and Cash perched on stools, sipping coffee. Cash stands when I walk in. “Sorry about the noise and the mess.”

“It's cool,” I tell him. “The banisters look great.”

“Thanks.” He nods at Mom. “See you tonight?”

“Yes!” She says it a little too loudly and glances at me. “Omelet?”

Uh-
huh.

I nod and watch her start to pull out ingredients. “How long until the house is done?” I ask.

“The entryway will be finished this week. Next is my studio. Cash is going to redo the drywall and put in new flooring. We're also…Sorry it's still crazy, honey. Sometimes things get messy before they get good.”

“You're so deep,” I tell her, and she laughs. I realize that Mom doesn't look messy at all. In fact, she's wearing coral lip gloss and hoop earrings, so I ask the obvious question. “Mom, are you dating Cash?”

Mom flushes. “No!” I raise an eyebrow and she sets down her spatula. “We're friends.”

“Friends,” I say.

“And in the spirit of
friendship,
he's coming over tonight for dinner.”

This time, I say it out loud: “Uh-
huh.
”

“Settle down,” she tells me. But she flushes again, and this time her eyes sparkle, too.

School let out three hours ago, and I'm still in the main lobby. I've already organized my locker and done my English reading for the weekend. Now I'm sitting on the bottom step, braiding strands of my hair. And waiting.

When my phone vibrates—
finally!
—I check the text from Mom:

at least 45 more mins

sorry

mtg still going

dept chair droning on about budget

wish you were old enuf to buy wine

luv u

Damn.

If I'd known in advance, I could have asked Itch for a ride and lured him with the promise of an empty house. Or maybe Shaun would have driven me. Or Lily or Darbs. Or
anyone.
If it at least was Monday, it wouldn't be so bad, but on a Friday? By the end of the week, I'm ready to get out of here.

I wonder if there's a chance Shaun hasn't left yet. He's not answering his texts, but it's a very Shaun-like thing to not check his texts. He keeps his phone on silent all the time, even when not in class.

I head out into the student parking lot. There are quite a few cars still here, but I don't see Shaun's. I trudge across to see if I'm missing any on the other side—maybe hidden behind a gas-guzzling behemoth like Oliver's, over there in the center, where he always parks and…

Oliver! That's a new idea. I didn't even think about checking with him. It didn't occur to me that I could ask him for a ride
home.
Oliver isn't a guy who leaves when the bell rings. He's always hanging around after school because of all the throwing and kicking and dribbling. I head toward the gas-guzzling behemoth, pulling out my phone to send him a text, and run straight into him.

Oliver catches me by the arms. “Hey, texting and walking. Not safe.”

“I was texting
you,
” I inform him.

“Really?” His eyes dance over me, and I suddenly remember I have these crazy little braids all over my head.

“Are you going home?” I ask.

“Yep. Need a ride?”

“Yes, please.”

He gestures toward the car, and a minute later, I'm in the passenger seat, trying unsuccessfully to smooth out my hair, which has flown into a frenzy of static electricity. “Why are you still here, anyway?”

“I had to talk to Coach Rand after practice.”

I assess him. Oliver isn't carrying himself in his usual jaunty, confident way. He's drooping a little and looks forlorn, sitting behind the wheel. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” But I keep watching him and he doesn't
look
okay. In fact, now that I think about it, he seemed subdued this morning, too. He realizes I'm looking at him. “Coach is pissed because I'm missing two practices next week.”

“You're not allowed to miss
ever
?” It seems extreme.

“Not really. And definitely not at the beginning of the season. We're supposed to be focused.”

“But it's just a game.” The minute it comes out of my mouth, I wish I hadn't said it.

“You sound like my dad.”

We drive in silence for a few minutes before I ask the question. “Why do you have to skip practices?”

“Oh, you'll love this,” he says. “I'm hanging out at a bank with my uncle Alex. He's supposed to teach me the joy of finances.”

“That's
terrible.
” Again, I immediately wish I hadn't said it, but this time, Oliver laughs.

“Thank you. It
is
terrible.” His smile drops away. “My parents aren't even coming to the game on Friday. Dad has a dinner with the partners.”

“What about your mom?”

“She doesn't miss Dad's work dinners. They're a team.”

I try to come up with something reassuring to say. “Next year, you won't ever have to miss a practice if you don't want to.”

Oliver shoots me a look. “No offense, but you really don't know anything about football.” We come to a four-way stop and he trains his eyes on mine. “I'm high school good, June. I'm not college good.”

I make a
pfft
sound. “Please. I'm sure you can handle a ball.” I flush at my own unfortunate choice of words and hurry to cover. “A
foot
ball.”

Oliver smiles, but the smile is sad. “It's cool. I'm not like you. Some people peak early.”

I stare at him, not sure how to respond. It's the most openly painful thing I've heard him say, and it seems like I should say something open and honest in return.

But I'm not that brave.

A horn honks behind us and we both jump in our seats. “Oops,” says Oliver, and he steps on the gas.

The rest of our drive is silent. Oliver doesn't start our playlist and I don't ask him to. When we crunch over the gravel into my driveway, Cash's truck is parked ahead of us and Cash himself is just trotting down the front steps. He waves an arm and I assume he's saying hello, but then he does it again and I realize he wants us to come over. “Who's that?” Oliver asks.

“My mom's contractor and not-boyfriend.”

I introduce Cash and Oliver to each other, and Cash asks if Oliver can give him a hand with something. “I thought my guys would still be here, but they already took off for the weekend.” He jerks a thumb toward his truck. “It takes two people to unload a generator.”

“At least,” Oliver agrees, and follows him toward his truck, stripping off his jacket.

I recognize that in this scenario my role is to watch for loose gravel in their path and hold the front door open, but with that recognition comes realization: Oliver is going to get a firsthand sighting of my house's messy, unfinished interior.

“Maybe you can just leave it on the porch,” I say.

“Nah, we'll bring it in.” Cash climbs into the truck bed. He slides a big box to the edge before hopping out and bracing himself alongside Oliver. “Ready?”

“Ready,” says Oliver, and they lift.

I scamper to the porch and swing the door open, watching them move toward me. Even though I know it's cliché, even though I know it's superficial and ridiculous, my eyes are magnetically drawn to Oliver's arms. It's not that I'm one of those girls who's swoony-la-la-la about muscles, but when the muscles are doing all kinds of bulgy, strainy things against a tight shirt, one can't help but notice.

I'm cerebral. Not dead.

Cash and Oliver edge past me into the house, occasionally grunting and saying things like “watch it” and “almost there.” I'm hoping they'll set it down in the entryway and get out, but Cash wants it in Mom's studio, so of course they have to go all the way through, walking past a stack of wall sconces and avoiding various tools scattered around.

“I'll tell my boys to clean up their mess better when they vacate the premises,” says Cash, and I am re-horrified by the fact that he is talking about the mess in
my
house,
my
premises, and Oliver is right here to witness all the grimy glory of my life. After all, this is a boy who lives in one of the pristine mansions at Flaggstone Lakes, who has two parents sleeping in the same bed every night.

My mom, on the other hand, trades paintings for vegetables and pottery for woodworking. Dad is an actor-slash-waiter in New York. I'm a senior who doesn't know how to drive, and we live in a house that is currently one giant art project. It's not exactly a bastion of normality and I'm not exactly thrilled to have Oliver in the middle of it.

Yet in the middle of it is exactly where Oliver is. Once he and Cash have the generator settled in the built-in unit where it's going to live, he's back in the entryway, looking around. All I can see is the mess, and all I can smell are wood shavings, so I give Oliver my brightest smile. “Thanks so much!” I chirp in my best imitation of Ainsley. “Have a great weekend!”

I sweep the front door open, but Oliver doesn't walk through it. In fact, I'm not sure he even hears me. He's running his hand over the storage bench, touching the heavy iron hooks installed above it to hold our bags and purses. “Did you make this?” he asks Cash.

“Yeah. It's nice, right?”

“Gorgeous. Is that antique beadboard?”

“Antique” is a nicer thing to say than “old” or “crap someone else threw out.”

“Salvaged it from a place we were demoing down in Clinton.”

“Salvaged.” Try “trash-picked.”

“Awesome,” says Oliver.

“Thanks,” says Cash, clearly pleased. I, however, am the opposite of pleased, especially when Cash points toward the opening leading to the rest of the house. “Want to see what we did with the banisters?”

“I'm sure Oliver has to go home.” I say it hastily, but again I'm too late, because Oliver is already following Cash around the corner.

Crap.

By the time Mom gets home half an hour later, Cash and Oliver have embarked on a bromance that runs deep and hard and true and is based entirely on their shared appreciation of home renovation. They have argued the visual merits of stone penny tile versus ceramic. They've waxed poetic about cabinetry and crown molding. They've done everything except choose baby names together, and I'm no longer certain either one is even aware of my presence.

Which is maybe a good thing, because when I catch a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror, I appear to be wearing a fright wig. Neither Cash nor Oliver notices when I run upstairs to yank my hair into a ponytail and change into a clingy gray sweater with blue cuffs. Might as well look decent if we're going to have visitors at the house.

Mom is delighted to see Oliver. She tells him he's gotten so tall—which he seems to enjoy—and also reminds him that she used to change his diapers, which I definitely do
not
enjoy. The entire thing is super weird, and it only gets weirder when I'm trying to subtly urge Oliver toward the front door and he stops to browse a row of Mom's books lined up in the family room. “Sandburg,” he says. “Neruda. Rilke. Your mom has good taste.”

I gawk at him. “You know poetry?”

He places a hand over his heart. “At their core, my power ballads are poetry.”

“At their core, your power ballads are schlock.”

“You have no soul,” he says lightly. “I happen to be an admirer of the well-placed word.”

“I happen to have several words I'm considering placing,” I tell him.

Oliver laughs, and I suddenly realize how much I like the sound of his laugh. “I'm going to say good-bye to your mom and her not-boyfriend.”