Chapter 3
Three
CHLOE
“Idon’t know how long it’s going to last.” Mom keeps her gaze on the ever-present checklist that has dictated every minute of my existence beginning at five-thirty p.m. today. She has a rundown for every event she plans. And she follows it to the letter, no exceptions.
White fairy lights twinkle along the ceiling of the Peachtree Inn’s ballroom. Guests mingle on the parquet dance floor. Their white ceramic plates of half-eaten lasagna and salad lay abandoned atop circular tables draped in midnight blue cloths.
“Well, what does the list say?” I rise on the toes of my sensible black flats to peek at the linen lieutenant.
Mom flips to the back page and sighs. “Seven. But then we have to tear down, and you know that’s always a variable.”
I do know that. But I also know my mom runs a well-oiled machine and the tear-down generally lasts less than half an hour. If we keep that pace, I can be out of here by seven thirty and in the stands by seven forty-five. I might get to see the second half of the boys’ first home soccer game.
I wouldn’t be going for Rhoads, of course.
His smooth voice tickles my mind. Try really, really hard.
Nope, I’m going to support the whole team. Plus, someone has to save Charlotte from Anita—the super fan’s—commentary.
Hope fuels me as I refill water glasses, bobbing my head to the eclectic playlist of ‘70s rock, ‘80s power ballads, and ‘90s hits with a few surprising swing numbers thrown in.
Mr. Everett, the 60-year-old birthday man, insists I dance with him to the Electric Slide, and despite myself, I smile the whole time.
A red-headed waitress wheels in the cake at six-thirty on the dot. I can’t believe I’m actually going to get out of here on time.
Ten minutes into the buttercream frosting, Mr. Everett’s daughter stands up and clinks her glass with a spoon.
I loosen the knot on my apron. Speeches always signal the end of the evening, and I want to be ready to whisk everyone out of there like a strong wind the moment they’ve finished. I am my mother’s daughter, after all.
“Thank you, everyone, for coming to celebrate my dad’s birthday. We’re so lucky to have such a supportive, loving family and group of friends. And we’re even luckier to have Dad.”
The room offers a collective “aww” and raises their glasses. “So lucky, in fact, that we wanted to do something extra special to show him how much we appreciate him.”
I glance at Mom, whose tight smile and rapid paper-flipping make me think she has no idea what’s going on. That can’t be good. Mom hates surprises.
“Bring them in, Frank.” Mr. Everett’s daughter—Jenny, I think? —motions to a White, bushy-browed man standing near the door to the event room.
Frank opens the door, and in walks a four-piece bluegrass band, complete with a banjo. I speed-walk to Mom’s side. “What are they doing?” I whisper through the side of my mouth.
Mom nods to herself, relaxing her shoulders.
“Darlene did mention they might show up. Dodd’s old band from college.
She tracked them all down, but she wasn’t sure if they’d be able to come because Clarence Walker had bypass surgery a couple of months ago.
But he looks healthy.” She glances down at her checklist and points. “They’re here in pencil.”
Darlene, not Jenny. That’s right. “They’re just doing one song, right? I mean, it’s already quarter ’til seven.”
“That’s what the list says.”
The band sets up on the stage and launches into a twangy song I’ve never heard before.
Mr. Everett—Dodd—bounces his knee to the rhythm from a cushioned chair in front.
Sunshine and rainbows leak from his eyes.
Applause thunders when it ends, and the group of fifty onlookers exchange hugs.
The fiddle player waves Dodd toward the stage with his freshly rosined bow.
The pine scent is already giving me a headache, though maybe it’s just my growing annoyance.
Dodd makes a show of trying to decline, but then Darlene pulls a mandolin out of a box near the stage and hands it to him.
Like a child on Christmas, Dodd accepts the instrument and joins his friends.
With each new song, my confidence burns down like the candle wax melting off the gold tapers in the middle of the tables. “Mom, how long until we get kicked out of the room?” Surely the group only paid for a specific number of hours.
“They just extended another hour,” Mom says.
“They can’t do that.”
“Sure they can. They paid for the time, and no one has the room after. They agreed to pay overtime for our crew.”
“But I can’t stay. I have somewhere to be.” Even before I open my mouth, I know appealing is futile. I try anyway. “I have to get to the boys’ soccer game. I promised Rh—Anita and Charlotte.”
Mom lowers her clipboard. “You made the commitment to work this event first, did you not?”
“Yes, but—”
“And you agreed when we paid for your car repairs to work off the money at my events, did you not?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then I don’t know why you’re arguing. You stay until the event is over. That’s how it works.”
“Could I just work a different event instead? You can even count this as a wash. Like I wasn’t even here.” Desperation doesn’t look good on me, but it flows from every pore of my body.
Mom turns her attention back to the room. “No, Chloe. You’ll stay until the last bit of confetti is swept up.”
“They don’t have conf—”
Each person in the crowd reaches into the golden bags a staff member just passed out and tosses shimmering pieces into the air.
I swat at the stuff coming at me, though the silver atrocities stick in my hair, anyway. Not only am I going to miss the game, I’ll be stuck in bluegrass heck sweeping up foil number sixties until my hair turns gray.
* * *
The stoplight gods are on my side as I speed across town, just fast enough that if any overeager cops are staking my route, I’m definitely earning a speeding ticket I can’t afford. But that’s a risk I’m willing to take.
Why? Good question. The boys will have other home games. I don’t allow myself to dig too deep into my own psyche. I’m not ready to admit what lurks there.
Instead, I convince myself it’s the honorable desire to keep a promise I made to my best friends.
The parking lot of the school is packed—not surprising—but there’s one open spot in the very back of the lot.
I throw the car into park, not caring that it’s crooked—I’m in the lines, at least—and fling open the door. I catch it just before it slams into the car next to mine and haul myself out. My bruised knee protests the pace, but I ignore it. Breathless, I sprint through the gate.
They quit collecting entrance fees with only ten minutes left in the game, so there’s no one to stop me.
The neon numbers on the scoreboard make my stomach turn. Two minutes left. Not great.
I weave my way through the crowded bleachers.
“Nice of you to join us,” Charlotte says.
“Don’t, Char.”
“Event run long?” Anita asks, not taking her eyes off the field. A Cardinal Ridge midfielder dances with the ball near the center circle. “Pass it, you idiot! Austin is wide open!”
“Three words to describe my evening: surprise bluegrass band.”
In tandem, Charlotte and Anita groan.
“Exactly. I didn’t even have time to change.” I undo the top button of my white-collared button-down shirt, taking a greedy breath of the cool air. “Regardless, I made it.”
“Good thing, too,” Anita says. “Hotty McStriker’s been checking the stands. A lot.” She gives me a knowing look.
“First, I’m ignoring that nickname. Second, I’m here for the whole team. They come to our games, so it’s only fair I support them, too.”
“Sure,” Charlotte says, totally unconvinced. “Whatever you need to tell yourself.”
“If he wasn’t potentially your something, I would have heckled him for not paying attention to the game.” Anita smirks. “For your sake, I held my tongue.”
I laugh. “He’s not my anything, Annie. Feel free to ream him after the game.”
I hold my breath as Rhoads winds up to strike the ball just inside the eighteen-yard box.
A defender comes out of nowhere with a risky slide tackle, misses the ball completely, and hooks Rhoads’s leg.
He falls a lot more gracefully than I would have.
It’s a no-brainer call for the referee. He blows his whistle and passes Rhoads the ball for the penalty kick.
Flashback to last night, complete with goosebumps on my arms. Me standing at the penalty spot. Missing the shot.
My throat tightens.
I force the memory away.
The stadium goes silent except for the handful of away-team fans who scream like jerks trying to mess with Rhoads’s focus.
He gives no indication that he notices anything other than the ball, poised on the white dot halfway between the eighteen-yard box and the six.
The ref blows his whistle. Rhoads takes three loping strides and connects with the ball. The keeper dives left, but the ball speeds along the ground and finds the right corner. He had no chance.
The stadium erupts. I jump to my feet and yell, my voice disappearing into the crowd. Beneath my feet, the bleachers vibrate from the stomping student section.
I don’t understand how he made it look so easy. That’s what my shot was supposed to do. Then again, he’s a striker, and I’m a defender. He could probably sink one with his eyes closed. For all I know, he just did.
“Chloe.” Anita punches my thigh.
“Ow, Annie. Today was leg day.” I rub the spot and glare at her.
“Might want to smile.” She points to the field. Rhoads stands, surrounded by celebrating teammates. But his gaze is on me.
I smile and shrug, pretending I couldn’t care less. Was it a great shot? Of course. But his ego is big enough already.
He just smirks, then wipes his face on the bottom of his jersey, turning back to his team and grinning from ear to ear.
The buzzer echoes through the night air. Game over.
I step down the bleachers with Charlotte and Anita, my dress flats clunking on the metal. They’re both giving me The Look. “We’re just friends. Or, not even friends. We just have a couple of classes together.”
“Sure you are, tiger,” Anita says.
More like house cat.
By the time I get to the gate to congratulate the team, the crowd has thinned. A few of the guys still hold court with adoring fans, parents, friends, and admirers alike. Rhoads stands off to one side, his gym bag slung over one shoulder.
Katie Song approaches him before I’m halfway there. Her hand reaches out and rests on Rhoads’s forearm as she leans in to congratulate him. The streetlights reflect off her glossy pink lips.
Rhoads beams at her with his full-wattage smile, and even though it’s not aimed at me, my knees wobble.
Are they an item now? Surely that would have made its way through the gossip mill already.
Katie giggles and tucks a piece of shiny black hair behind her ear before she says goodbye, joining her friends on their way to the parking lot.
I swallow hard and head over. I’m just here to say good job. So why did the sight of them talking rattle me so much?
“You made it,” Rhoads says, that crooked smile now shining at me.
“Just barely. Work let out late.”
“What’s in your hair?” My breath hitches as he reaches over and plucks something from my waves, turning it over in his palm. A silver 60.
The tingles are back, chasing each other down my spine, whispering about important moments.
I ignore them. “Confetti. Apparently, I didn’t get it all.
Thanks.” I sigh heavily. “I borrowed money from my mom to fix my car, and I have to work some of her events to repay her. Tonight was Dodd Everett’s sixtieth birthday. ”
“Hey, no need to explain anything to me.” He pockets the confetti, then holds his hands up. “I completely understand. You ditched me for an older man. I’m just surprised how much older.”
I punch him playfully on the shoulder. “I refuse to dignify that with a response.”
“Well, I’m glad you at least made it for the end.”
“Maybe next time I’ll aim for a whole half.” I’m deflecting. I know I am. But I also know Rhoads’s type. The flirting comes easily, but then feelings get involved and hearts get broken. Not this time. I’m on my guard. He was literally flirting with Katie ten seconds ago.
“So, I wanted to ask you—” Rhoads starts.
“Simpson!” Dillon calls, as he approaches and slaps Rhoads on the back. “Heck of a shot, man. Team is celebrating at Peggy’s. You in?”
Rhoads glances at me. He looks as if he’s about to say something, maybe finish his sentence from before, but decides not to. Instead, he shrugs, then picks up his bag. “Yeah. I’m in.”
“I’ll see you in class.” Well, if that isn’t the lamest thing ever to say.
“I’ll be there.” He leans forward just a bit and drops his voice. “Maybe you can teach me how to count to twelve.”