How to Hook a Hottie (9 page)

Fifteen

W
hen I picked Lexie up after school, I could tell she was having a hard day, too. I couldn't even get her to accept a Life Saver, and as we crossed the parking lot after practice, she didn't take her usual offense when I answered my phone, or when Chelsea stopped me for a good-luck hug before her big date.

I was getting kind of worried about the little brat, so as we pulled into her family's darkened driveway that night, I played my trump card. “I got a voice mail from Brandon a little while ago. Wanna hear it?”

She broke free of her seat belt. “Does he do loveydovey mushy stuff?”

I turned and gave her a look that said “In your dreams.”

“Talk dirty, then?”

“Lexie!”

“Then
why
would I want to listen?”

I smiled. “Because you're the one with the crush on him?”

She sighed and inched toward the passenger door, then gave me a very grown-up frown. “Nothing lasts forever, Kate.”

Yeah,
I wanted to reply.
Like my patience with you.
But instead of losing my job, I got out of the car and followed her to the door. Maybe this time Mrs. H. would be available.

Lexie bolted into the house, leaving the door ajar. She must have told her mother I was waiting, because before I could knock, Mrs. H. pulled the door open and invited me in. I stepped inside the entryway, spying the circular staircase and hanging chandelier, and shivered a little as I acclimated to the room's warmth.

“I need you to drive Lexie tomorrow,” Mrs. H. said as if she'd called the meeting. “Her father is unavailable.” Then, as fast as she'd approached, she turned and walked away.

I stood on the Oriental rug, confused. Had I been dismissed or should I wait for her to come back? After an embarrassing amount of time passed, I fished for my cell phone, pretended to answer it, and slipped outside as if to take the call. If there was some hidden security camera, I didn't want to look like a
total
idiot. When another few minutes passed, I headed for my car, feeling as powerless with my employer as I did with my clients.

•

That night, I opened my chem book, knowing full well that across town, Vince Hammer's party was about to blaze into the night sky. It was one of the first times I'd been invited to an A-list event, and here I was, blowing it off.

Suzannah thought I'd lost my mind. Maybe I had. But the bright lights and demands of my newfound popularity were taking their toll on me. I was too tired to go hang with Brandon's friends and to pretend I cared about him as much as they did.

Eventually my sister went off to a friend's and Dad sank into his TV haze. I was alone, with superdull homework and a cell phone so quiet I had to check to see if it was still working. So I did what I always did when the walls closed in. I tried to lose myself in the Dow, the S & P 500, in the Trump Organization Web site—in my future.

The laptop made its usual noises as it warmed up, but for some reason, I couldn't make mine. I couldn't get any more interested in the Consumer Price Index than I had been in electron orbitals. One subject was as just-kill-me boring as another.

It was crazy. Crazier than skipping an A-list party. Crazier than telling the guy who makes your blood race to “have fun” with his girlfriend in her dorm room. Crazier than . . . well, anything I could think of.

The one thing that separated me from the rest of the world was my dream. I wasn't settling for the traditional track. I was going to make a mark, make a name, and make lots and lots of moolah. And the only way of achieving that fantastic dream was by careful planning. The amount of energy and research I put in this year would directly affect the outcome of my first big business venture, whether I doubled or tripled my college fund and set myself on track for my next Ideal Opportunity or lost everything.

There was no room for distractions. Not quasi boyfriends or best friends with girlfriends. Or deepseated fears that I might not be as naturally gifted in business dealings as I liked to believe.

No, it was not the time for any of that.

The real trouble was, I thought, staring at my laptop screen, I just couldn't figure out what it
was
time for.

•

The next morning, Carlton called. He'd watched Brianne and her friend jump up and down in the halls the day before over his anonymous love note.

“What's next?” he asked. “Send flowers to her house?”

I bit my lip. I'd just read an article that suggested that in matters of the heart, time spoke louder than cash. “How about you burn her a CD of your favorite songs? Then type up a playlist, and I'll give her the package on Monday. And maybe Tuesday, after she's had time to listen and really wonder, we'll reveal you.”

“You're a genius!”

I laughed. “Actually, I prefer the term Love Goddess.”

As soon as I hung up, the smile slid from my face. I wished I really
did
have a fail-safe plan for Carlton—six-point or otherwise. And I couldn't stop worrying that all I was really doing was setting him up for one giant fall.

On my way to the supermarket, I called Yvette and left her a voice mail. I knew Dal had talked to her before leaving for the university yesterday, and I also knew she was pretty pissed off and was demanding her money back, whether or not making me the fall guy softened Lamont's heart. I sure hoped our plan worked.

Lexie was actually ready when I drove up later, and it was clear her tongue was in fine working order again. Lucky me. From the backseat, she told me how to drive, and as we entered the rink, she proceeded to explain that what I really needed to get my business booming was to hire
her
.

“Think of me as your apprentice, Kate. I'll watch and learn, and make helpful suggestions. And when I get to high school, I'll take over the business.”

I choked back a laugh. The day I needed a twelve-year-old's help was the day I admitted my parents were right and I needed college before making my foray into the business world. “Nice try.”

“Okay, just let me in on a few of your secrets so I can sell them at my school.”

“My secrets,” I said, “are just that. Secrets. And besides,” I added, lowering my voice, “they're getting mixed results.”

Lexie jutted her chin. “So tell me one or two and give me a chance to make them better.”

I just shook my head. She was
such
a piece of work.

As I steered Lexie through the locker room door, Chelsea was walking out. She looked pasty-faced, and her hair was all stringy again. My first thought was that the banquet had been a disaster. But that would not explain the elation that seemed to radiate from her every pore.

“Oh, Kate, the banquet was
so
great,” she said, and flashed the hundred-watt smile that had probably cupid-darted Mark to begin with. “He paid attention to me, introduced me to the other guys and their dates, and told me how pretty I looked. Wow, huh?”

“Wow,” I agreed.

Then she let out a sigh, and for some reason, my gaze went to the leftover mascara smudges under her eyes. “The only problem is, he isn't talking much to me today. I mean, every time I walk up to him, he seems to get real busy.”

I chewed on the inside of my cheek. Technically, she was not my client anymore. But I really
did
want everyone to be happy, and the solution to her dilemma was
such
a no-brainer.

“Well, Chelsea,” I said, and swallowed. “You've definitely got the grunge thing going. And last night, you were probably gorgeous, right? You're probably confusing the poor guy.”

Her brow knitted. “You're saying that the normal, regular, everyday me isn't good enough for him?”

Ouch. How to dance around
this
carefully? “No, but it seems that the better a person looks, the more the opposite sex seems to pay attention. You two
did
hook up during that breakfast when you looked so hot. And,” I continued, “you've been looking great at school lately.”

I could see the thoughts dancing in her eyes. Finally, she refocused on me, her voice matter-of-fact. “So the secret to your hooking-up business is being what the other person wants you to be. Not your real self.”

“No! Of course not,” I said. While thinking, Omigod, is it? Have I become totally superficial just to close deals?

She shook her head, then marched off. I wanted to run after her, but what if I blurted out something that made things worse?

I tried to tell myself that she just needed to calm down (and brush her hair) and everything would be fine again. But I sure wished Dal was here. He was my voice of reason, the one with the great ideas and solutions, who always knew just what to say.

Of course, he was probably saying incredible things into Marissa's ear right now. And I
so
didn't want to think about that.

Instead of heading up to my office, I took a seat on the lowest bench, with the mothers. I smiled at the group, willing them to talk to me and distract me from my life, and I kind of didn't mind getting a closer view of Lexie skating, either. The girl was
good
.

Catching myself smiling at her smooth double-axel landing, I realized I'd actually grown fond of the little whiner. And that in some ways, we weren't all that different. We both had difficult mothers, were headstrong in our pursuits, and probably had more bark than bite. Not that I'd tell
her
that—she'd likely figure out a way to use it against me.

After practice ended, I said goodbye to a few of the friendlier moms and wandered toward the locker room, only to come face to face with Mark and Chelsea—holding hands. Which was wonderful. Perfect. Relieving.

Except for the death stares they were drilling into me.

“You told Chelsea I only liked her when she had makeup on?” Mark said, and left his mouth hanging open like he had lots more to say.

“Not exactly,” I said, and shifted a bunch of stuff from one hand to another. Why was it suddenly so stuffy in this rink, so hard to breathe?

“You really think,” he went on, “I'm
that
shallow, Kate?”

“No—”

“If I was blowing her off this morning, it was only because I had work to do. I gotta keep my job, you know? And about me asking her out when she was looking incredible—well, it just so happened that was the day she gave me the signals that she was interested.”

To my supreme relief, Lexie's coach appeared and thrust an invoice at me for her competition costs, with the word overdue tattooed on top. Since I was already in groveling mode, I nodded during the brief lecture on how it wasn't his job to collect the money, and promised to deliver both the invoice and the word on to Mrs. H. personally.

When I turned back to Mark and Chelsea, they were gone. That didn't keep me from wanting the earth to swallow me whole. I grabbed Lexie, who at that moment felt like the closest thing in the world I had to a friend, and ushered her out the door.

•

Back home, I left a message on Aimee McDonald's cell phone that she was being moved from our Wait List to Active Status. I tried to sound all chipper and excited and in control, and not like someone who was having as many failures as she was successes.

That night, Summer called. But instead of a standard hello, she greeted me with “Why weren't you at Vince's party? And don't tell me you weren't invited. Brandon's girlfriend gets invited to
everything
.”

“I was tired,” I said, without adding exactly of what.

“Whatever. Look, I'm ready to sign up for your little business.”

I grimaced. “
My little business
costs one hundred bucks. Twenty now, to be Wait-Listed—”

“Wait-Listed!”

“What can I say? I'm popular.” After a pause long enough to drive that statement home, I continued. “But the twenty's applied to the first fifty when you move to the Active List.”

She made a noise that I took for agreement. “Now,” she said, “as far as the guy, I want you to surprise me. I mean—duh—we obviously have the same taste in males.”

“It doesn't work that way.”

“What—I pick the guy?” She laughed, but it was dry and without humor. “I can pick and
get
any guy I want. What I want is for you to use that hexagon everyone's talking about to find the right guy to make me prom queen. Someone from a different group, who'll get all his friends' votes, while I get all mine.”

I made a face into the receiver. What she needed was a campaign manager. But money was money. “You're pushing me here, Summer.”

I felt her grinning over the phone line; she thought she was winning me over.

“But I'll do it,” I told her. “For an extra twenty.”

“What?”

“Take it or leave it.”

She grumbled and hung up, but I knew I'd be hearing from her again. And that her money would look oh so good in my shoe box.

•

Church bells rang in the distance the next morning as I slipped my feet into my Uggs. For a moment I thought I heard another bell, too—shorter, louder—but I just shook my head and topped a pair of sweatpants with a Seattle Seahawks jersey. Perfect laze-around-the-house attire.

Suz was suddenly in the doorway, her glasses in her hand, high color in her cheeks, flicking her thumb toward the staircase.

Thoughts of Dal raced through me. Something had gone wrong with Marissa, and he needed me! Yes!

Except that the only time Dal ever talked to me about her was in passing. Like he didn't think I had enough life experience to understand the stuff they went through—or like everything between them was so frigging perfect, there was nothing to discuss.

“Dal?” I asked.

She shook her head, then took the stairs two at a time.

I rushed behind her. And a moment later, her thrill and astonishment made sense. Filling the doorway was the broad physique of my so-called boyfriend.

Brandon was back.

Sixteen

“H
ey, Kate,” Brandon said, and flashed a toothy grin.

I tried to make sense of his presence but came up short. I mean, (a) he was supposed to be in Arizona for another week, (b) he should have at least called first, and (c) I'd half figured that when I saw him again, he'd look different somehow, like a love interest instead of the lab partner who'd been annoying me all semester.

“Hi,” I said, and tried to smile. “You're . . . back early.”

“Yeah.” He moved in and pressed his lips against my cheek.

From somewhere close, I heard a dreamy sigh. But it wasn't from me. Sure, Brandon smelled good and his lips were warm against my skin. But my insides—where it counted—were still coolly indifferent. So much for absence making my heart grow fonder.

He pulled back, and I noted with satisfaction that he moved entirely out of my personal space. Good little hostess that I was, I led him into the living room, where I made a fast butt-plant in my dad's easy chair. No chance of touchy-feely back-together stuff.

He settled on the couch, his shoulders rounded inside his jacket, his blue-jeaned knees wide open. It was nice that one of us seemed comfortable.

While forcing some semblance of a smile onto my face, I heard my sister scurrying off. Which was good—I didn't want her lovesick sighs turning into full-bodied moans and embarrassing us all.

“So,” I said. “How'd it go?”

“Good.” Another grin curved his lips. “Okay, great. A few coaches told me to go home and get working on my grades so they can try to recruit me to play for them next year.”

“Terrific,” I said out loud, while all I could think was what an
idiot
I had been to agree to wait for him. All I'd done was postpone the inevitable, this awful and awkward moment when I'd have to tell him this joke of a relationship was over.

My problem was, people might be paying me for hookups, but I had no
clue
how to gracefully
break
up.

“Yeah, but it was a long week,” he said, and a frown settled on his face. “I'm glad to be back. I missed you.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, fixated on how totally clueless Brandon was. He
had
to know we had nothing in common. He
had
to have noticed I never called, IM'd, or texted him back. How could he “miss” a person he didn't know and who didn't care?

“Brandon,” I said, sitting up straight.

“Babe,” he said simultaneously, so that our voices collided in the air.

We both laughed and he put his hand up, signaling he was taking the reins. Didn't his mother ever teach him about ladies first?

“Kate, I came over this morning to tell you that, well, I still like you and everything, and I hate to bum you out, but I gotta end this thing between us.”

I felt my eyelashes fly up to my eyebrows.

Wait. What?
He
was breaking up with
me
?

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to happen. I've been crushing on you for weeks, maybe months. But last week, I got together with someone else. She was really there for me like I needed.” He paused, and his unsaid words spoke volumes. “I don't know what I would have done without her.”

I cleared my throat, hoping that when I spoke, my shock didn't sound like heartbreak or devastation. “You met someone in Arizona?” I said, working for an even tone.

“No, I meant on the phone. And IMs . . . and e-mails. Jenn. You know, Jenn Hammer.”

My brain scrambled. Oh, sure, Vince's sister, the one who'd needed Brandon's address so she could e-mail him about some DVD.

A laugh bubbled its way up and out of me. I'd be crazy not to look at this as a blessing, not to feel relieved that I'd gotten off so easy. But wait, just for a moment, could it tick me off that he was giving me the heave-ho for a girl I'd sent his way?

“I hope we can still be friends,” he said, and sounded sincere.

My feeling-sorry-for-myself moment came to an abrupt end. “Sure,” I said, and settled deeper into my dad's chair, to show the same sort of casual body language he'd rolled in with.

“No problemo?”

“Three words, Brandon: just be happy.”

He let out a long sigh that ended in a half whistle. “Wow. Thanks. I knew you were different from other girls.” He scooted to the edge of the couch, itching to make his exit. “I don't suppose you'll help me get my grade up in chem?”

Oh, was this guy pushing it! But I saw a way to make this work for me. “Tell you what. You let me concentrate in lab, and I'll let you copy from me.”

“I already copy from you.”

You'd think he would've stopped while he was ahead. “Yeah, Brandon, I'll help you, okay?”

He stood, took some steps toward me, then nodded. It was
so
much better than letting him kiss me. I walked him out with an odd feeling of victory—and disbelief.

Closing the door, I turned to find my sister practically on top of me. It seemed that while she might have left the room, she had never really left the conversation. I should have been mad. But I wasn't.

“You okay?” she asked, slipping her glasses back on.

“Fine.”

“But he broke up with you.”

“He did me a favor.”

She studied my face, sisterly concern in her squint.

“Okay,” I conceded. “In a perfect world, he would have come to his senses and admitted we were never a couple to begin with. But the important thing is that this faux relationship is now officially over.”

She seemed to take this in. “Does that mean if he's ever free again, you won't be mad if I make a move on him?”

I sort of laughed. “Like you ever step out of your ‘safe’ crowd.”

She shrugged a shoulder. “It could happen.”

I went to make a face, then realized she was right. It could. Running full speed at what we wanted was certainly a female DelVecchio trait. And if Brandon was ever single again and he was what she really wanted . . . well, sure, whatever.

“It's fine with me. But we'd better go run it by the hexagon, don't you think?”

She grinned and hugged me.

•

The phone calls started that afternoon.

Cautious at first. “Is it true?” Then more direct. “I hear Brandon's back and he's moved on to someone else.” Finally, more aggressive. Like I was on suicide watch. “Do you need me to come sit with you?”

I didn't
need
anything. Except to get my focus back on the things that really mattered.

I mean, in the past week, I'd been so sidetracked I'd come close to sinking my English grade—which would have meant the death of straight As. I'd taken deposits from people I hadn't even begun to help, and had screwed some customers royally.

And let's not forget that I'd somehow developed feelings for my best friend, who was in a long-term, committed relationship. Didn't it just figure that the one guy in our overcrowded school who suddenly
did it
for me was already
doing it
with somebody else?

It was no wonder I tossed and turned for hours that night.

In the morning, I looked like the walking dead, with circles under my eyes dark enough to match my peacoat and hair I was barely able to shove under my knit hat.

As we pulled into the school parking lot, Suzannah advised me to keep my head tilted down when I walked.

The last thing we wanted people thinking was that I'd been crying my eyes out.

“This is the one time,” Suz said to me, “you can truly use Mom as an example.”

I eased into an open space, then turned to her. “What? Mom? Why?”

“You know how she always acts as if there's nothing wrong with her and Dad? As if her being in Germany is only about school? I mean, we all know there's way more to it.”

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. “Suz,” I said softly, and reached out to touch her arm. I was proud of her for being so intuitive, and yet, like watching a little kid who'd finally figured out the truth about Santa Claus, I was sorry for her lost innocence. “How long have you . . .”

She shook her head, giving me the let's-not-go-there signal. “Kate, just remember today that you're a DelVecchio. Be proud, be strong. Be—”

“Full of it?”

She laughed. “Sure, that, too.”

We climbed out of the car and slammed our doors behind us. Keeping my head down as my sister suggested, I nevertheless saw a group of girls across the way, lounging by a staircase railing.

“Keep walking,” Suz advised. “If they see you, they'll just rush you with questions. And who cares, right?”

“Right,” I said, noticing with some surprise that none of them—not even Aimee McDonald—glanced my way.

Inside the building, I fell in with the advancing throng. Funny, but the halls seemed more crowded than ever. If I'd been paranoid, I would have thought it was because people were stopping to gossip about Brandon dumping me. But logically I knew it was more about what people weren't doing—moving very fast.

When I finally got to my locker, I felt like I'd scored a touchdown. Yvette had the door open and was doing a whole-body shimmy out of her jacket. She'd been one of my calls last night, so I knew she had the 411 on Brandon and Jenn.

I looked at her, my muscles tensing. Any way you sliced it, the curtain was rising between us for drama. For good news (Lamont loved the confession and they were now together), for terrible news (he told her where to shove it), for Twenty Questions (“Tell me everything about Brandon and Jenn!”), or for a pity party (“You
poor
thing!”).

“Hey,” I said, dropping my backpack to the floor.

She glanced my way. “I hope you have my fifty bucks.”

Ouch. “Lamont didn't go for you telling him I'd screwed up?”

“I'm not even trying it now.”

“Why not?” A numbness was coming over me, like when you know you're about to hear something you totally want to block.

“I can't admit I went to
you
for advice.”

Oh, yeah, me—Loser Extraordinaire.

But I couldn't dwell on that. The bottom line remained the same: this was business.

“All the more reason to try, Yvette. If he's at all interested, he'll try to comfort you and make you feel better for having hired a dimwit like me.”

“Just bring the money tomorrow.”

I hauled my backpack up on my shoulder, attempting not to think about how I'd tried to sell myself out. Or exactly how far I'd go to make this dream of mine come true.

The sight of Summer's blond hair in the oncoming rush was a welcome relief. With Brandon out of my life and Yvette about to become an ex-customer, I definitely had the time for her prom quest.

I hurried toward her, doing a little finger wave, but she looked straight through me. Was it possible she hadn't seen me enough times to recognize me?

“Summer,” I called out. “It's Kate.”

She halted. If the corridor hadn't been so crowded and noisy, I swear I would have heard her heels screech. I stopped, too. Someone bumped into me, swore, and carried on.

“I know who you are,” Summer said to me. “Or who you
were
.”

Her words connected squarely with my ego. “Well, if you still want to talk about my business—”

She cut me off with a laugh. “Yeah,
right,
” she said, and sashayed off. “You are
so
yesterday.”

I watched as she walked away, swallowing hard. Then I shrugged and took a step forward to try to get back into the flow of the crowd.

But no one let me in. No one acknowledged me, said hello, smiled, made eye contact, or even shot me a look of pity. Not strangers, not those with familiar faces, not friends, not clients.

It was like everything was upside down, like all the rules had changed. Like the opposite of soaring popularity was not disgrace, the opposite of love was not hate. And the opposite of being Brandon Callister's girlfriend (even his perceived girlfriend) was not simply being his ex.

It was ceasing to exist.