Chapter 12
Twelve
CHLOE
“Itold you so,” Charlotte says.
I gaze at the racks of clothes. Other people’s cast-offs given a second chance at life. Kind of like the music that plays over the speakers, which is donated vinyl records the owners are trying to sell. Now it’s some crooner I can’t name who’s going on about being confused.
Welcome to the club, buddy.
“That is totally unhelpful,” I say.
Charlotte moves a few items down the rack and studies a golden leotard.
Despite being one of the few financially well-off people I know, Charlotte loves thrift shopping.
She picks up the leotard I one hundred percent would never have looked at twice and gasps when she checks the tag.
“This is a premium Nicolette Q. Aubert design.”
“Should we know who that is?” Anita asks the exact words I’m thinking.
“It’s in pristine condition,” Charlotte says, awestruck.
“She’s not here with us anymore,” I say to Anita. “She’s in the zone.”
Charlotte flits to a different area of the store with Anita and me trailing her like lost puppies.
She stops at a rack of cropped jackets and picks up a golden fur one of questionable origins.
After sniffing it to affirm it’s not gross, she holds it up next to the leotard and nods, oblivious to her friends’ existence.
Luckily, I already have my Dorothy costume and am just along for moral support and to whine.
Dionne’s party is fast approaching, and as Charlotte keeps reminding us, we have to search a little harder for costume pieces.
We don’t want to buy a ready-made costume from the Costume Depot like everyone else, do we? We want to stand out, don’t we?
After a five-minute spiel, I gave in just to stop her from talking. So here we are, rummaging the racks at Cardinal Ridge Thrift on my one free afternoon of the week.
“Find a winner?” I ask.
Charlotte finally exits her shopping haze and focuses her attention on me. “I think I did. And you’re telling me you spent eighty, unsupervised minutes with Hotty McStriker, and you didn’t kiss him?”
Apparently she can still hear over the siren song of discarded clothes. She picks up and puts down a brown fur coat, wrinkling her nose. As I pass it, I get a whiff of must and old lady perfume.
“Stop calling him that.”
“If the name fits.” Anita picks up a plaid shirt and holds it out for approval.
“Too lumberjack. Try this one.” I hand Anita a slightly fitted shirt instead.
“Chloe.” Charlotte scoffs. “Your life can’t just be about soccer.”
“Did you swap bodies with my mother? Because that impression was spot-on.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m just saying that you can afford to have some fun with a very cute boy and still be the amazing athlete we all know you are.”
“Char, I think she’s had enough of a lecture today,” Anita interjects. She adds a pair of skinny jeans with rips in the knees to her stack.
“Thank you, Annie.”
Without missing a beat, Anita continues. “We both know it’s inevitable. The data clearly illustrates he’s more interested in you than anyone else. I haven’t seen him so much as smile at another girl since you talked to him after his home game. Have you, Char?”
“Nope.” She pops the “p” and smirks in her satisfaction.
“Furthermore, you almost kissed today, and it was your first training session.” Anita does finger quotes around the word “training,” and I do not appreciate the implication.
“What? You think I can’t resist his charm or something? That I’m too weak-willed in the presence of the hair and the jaw and the coffee-colored eyes?” I rest my hand on my hip like a preteen with an attitude problem.
“You didn’t deny almost kissing him.” Charlotte pauses, her hands hovering over the rack. She sighs dramatically. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. We just want you to be happy. To go to formal with a date who deserves you. But you’re going to have to get out of your own way.”
I roll my eyes. That’s currently the theme of my whole life, I guess.
“Does this hat make my head look enormous?” Anita asks. She tries to push a cowboy hat on over her full head of curls, but it makes her hair poof out the bottom.
“Maybe try a bandanna as a headband instead,” Charlotte says, appraising. “If you wear a hat, no one will see those eyes of yours. How will you flirt?”
Anita puts the hat back on the rack. “This is why we love you, Char. Always looking out for us. Not that I have anyone to flirt with. But I guess it’s practical to give myself a chance.”
Charlotte offers a small smile. “Just think about it, okay?” she says to me.
I try my hardest not to think about it. But the memory of our training session is seared into my mind.
The way my pulse spiked when he handed me the controller.
The ridiculous, childlike laugh he let out every time his avatar passed mine on the course.
The way he didn’t let me win but also didn’t brag when he inevitably crushed me.
The look in his eyes right before the bell rang. His palm against mine.
A shiver goes up my spine. What would have happened if the bell hadn’t rung then, hadn’t broken whatever spell we’d both been under?
To distract myself, I hand Charlotte a gold sequined dress.
Charlotte is short, but the dress looks like it will hit her mid-thigh, anyway.
Way too short for me, but right up Charlotte’s alley.
“There’s nothing to think about. We’re just helping each other out.
” Saying it out loud helps me decide it’s true.
Whatever might have happened in the classroom didn’t, and I’m going to continue on this path.
We’re just acquaintances swapping soccer skills and breakfast recommendations.
Speaking of, I’ve got to decide the first “secret” I’m going to share.
“If that’s what you need to tell yourself,” Anita says.
“Alright, it’s my turn to be the center of attention.” Charlotte laughs. She holds out the leotard and the gold dress. “Now, which of these outfits says, ‘girlfriend material?’”
* * *
“Five cars in an hour.” I sit, defeated, in the grass of the empty school parking lot on Saturday morning as Charlotte’s mom pulls her sparkling cherry red SUV onto the road. We can always count on Mrs. McKinnon to support a school cause. Like mother, like daughter. At least in their case.
“It’s still early,” Bailey says, but unease tinges her voice.
“It’s a disaster. We can’t buy new uniforms for the tournament with—” I flip through the thin stack of bills— “twenty-five dollars and eight cents. What are we going to do?”
Teagan places her hand across her forehead and squints into the distance. “There’s someone.”
“They probably aren’t coming for us.” I don’t even look up. What’s the point?
“No, they definitely are. It’s a truck. He’s pulling in now.”
I stay seated with my head buried in my folded arms, resting on my knees. The sun beats down on my bare shoulders. A citrusy scent, more orange than the lemon from the soap, wafts into my nose. The back of my neck prickles with Big Moment energy. Maybe a rich donor has appeared to buy our uniforms.
The air shifts to accommodate someone bending down next to me.
“What are you doing down here?” he murmurs into my ear. Adrenaline traces a path through my aching muscles.
“Wallowing,” I respond, careful to keep my voice even. Great. Of all people to bear witness to this travesty, Rhoads Simpson is the last person I’d choose. A light pressure on my elbow makes me lift my head. I look into Rhoads’s face.
“What for?”
“Did you not see the lack of—?” I stop. Glance around. A line of cars stretches the length of the parking lot. “Where did all of these people come from?”
Rhoads shrugs. “Seems the only other place to get a car wash is closed today. And a bunch of people did some serious off-roading last night.” He smiles crookedly. A secret plays behind his brown eyes. He offers me his hand, and I take it, standing.
In my mind’s eye, I remember the way he was dressed at Stuff ‘n’ Things. His uniform, not a suit. There’s only one place in town where teenagers would willingly wear that outfit. Sam’s Suds, the local car wash. I give myself a mental face-palm for not putting the two together sooner.
I brush the grass off my shorts, expression suspicious. “And I don’t imagine you know anything about that.”
“Me? Nope.” He rocks on his heels, his hands behind his back. “Not a thing.”
“Wait. Won’t your manager be mad that you’ve stolen his customers?”
“Nah. My uncle’s a pretty charitable guy. My aunt was a soccer player back when they were dating. He’s sentimental.” Rhoads winks.
I make a concentrated effort not to look at Teagan, though my friend is boring holes into the back of my head. Rhoads jogs back to the line of cars and directs them toward Bailey, who sprays the first one off with a hose.
When the last of the cars has driven away, its paint freshly dried and waxed, my shoulders finally relax.
“That was probably the best car wash we’ve had ever,” Ji-woo says, drying her hands on a striped beach towel.
“Yeah,” says Teagan. “Enjoy the rest of your weekend everyone. See you Monday at practice. Nice job, Chloe. Be sure to thank your boyfriend for us.”
Before I can correct her, she, along with everyone else, is gone, and Rhoads is approaching me. I hope he didn’t hear her. And I also curse my past self for losing the juggling contest my teammates and I had to decide who has to put away the gear.
“Thanks,” I say, my voice cracking. “You totally saved us.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’ll think of some way to repay me.”
“I will?”
“Yeah. I have a hunch about these things. I’m thinking Mario Kart plus car wash equals bacon. Extra crispy.” He starts to wind up the hose, then pauses, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. He directs the sprayer toward me with a full laugh. I turn, catching water on the back of my legs.
“That’s cold!” The water trickles down my calves and into my slip-on sandals, pooling in a cool puddle under my toes. “You are going to pay for that.” I grab a sponge and dunk it into the still-full bucket of soapy water. Lemon-scented bubbles float upward.
He sprays me again, soaking my hair this time. Water streaks down my face. I launch the sponge. It thwacks him square in the chest.
“I’m hit. I’m hit.” He sinks to his knees, dropping the hose.
I take the opportunity to shut off the water and stand over his prone body, one hand on the spigot and the other on the hose. “Admit defeat. Or accept the consequences.”
On his back, Rhoads looks up at me, tiny soap bubbles clinging to his jawline. It is unfair how good-looking he is, even like this. He holds his hands up in surrender. “You win; you win.” He sits up and reaches out his hand. “Nice aim.”
I toss the hose to the side and help him up. “Thanks.”
Someone coughs behind us. I turn and freeze.
Graham Carmack, my ex-boyfriend, leans against his Jeep, his arms folded and an amused expression on his face. “I guess I’m too late, huh?”