“Remember to tell them as soon as they walk in the door,” I said.
“I’ll remember,” she said, huffy again. Like I didn’t know there was a fifty-fifty chance this conversation wouldn’t cross her mind again until breakfast time tomorrow.
I told her good-bye, and then handed the phone back to the not-a-lurker guy.
He slipped the phone into his jacket pocket. “Is someone coming to pick you up?”
“Eventually. My parents are out, but I left a message with my sister.”
“Really, it wouldn’t be a problem for me to take you home.” He looked beyond me, out across the parking lot and into the distance. “This is Three Forks. How far away could you live—five minutes?” He said the last part scornfully, like there was something wrong with living five minutes away from where you work.
“It’s six minutes,” I told him. “And what’s wrong with that?”
He held a hand out as though it should be obvious. “It’s such a small town.”
“So?”
He shrugged and put his hands in his pockets. “Forget I mentioned it. Do you want a ride home or not?”
I did and I didn’t, so I changed the subject. “You’re not from here, are you?”
“Nope.”
Despite the fact that he was young and good-looking, I took this as the first good news of the evening. He didn’t live here. I would not run into him and be repeatedly reminded that I tried to drive off in his Honda. No one would ever know about this event.
“You’re just passing through Three Forks?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“Visiting?”
“I wish. My mom and I moved here yesterday.”
“Oh.” I tried not to let my disappointment show. I mean, just because he’d moved here didn’t mean I’d ever see him again. He probably already graduated from high school and came between college semesters to help his mom adjust to a new place or something. “How old are you?” I asked.
“Seventeen.”
“Crap.” This was probably not the best word to use to hide my disappointment. Still, I couldn’t help myself. I leaned back against my car door and ran a hand through my hair.
He raised an eyebrow at me. “Crap?”
“You’re going to go to high school with me.”
“Is there a problem with that?”
I folded my arms close to my body in an attempt to warm myself even though Three Forks is in the desert area of New Mexico so it never gets that cold outside. “Yeah. The problem is you’re going to become the new cool-kid, which means I’m going to become the idiot who has to avoid you until you graduate because I accused you of trying to carjack your own car.”
He smiled, dimples forming in his cheeks. “It’s pretty funny when you think about it.”
“I’ve been thinking about it since it happened, and it’s yet to be funny.”
He laughed then, which just goes to show he’s not the sympathetic type.
“Do you know your class schedule already?” I asked him. “The sooner I can plan my route to avoid you in the hallways, the better.”
Still smiling, he shook his head. “I haven’t even started my first day of school and girls are already avoiding me. It figures.”
Right. As if he didn’t know he was good-looking and every other girl at Three Forks High would be throwing herself at him. “You don’t know my name,” I told him. “And it’s dark out. Maybe if I dye my hair brown, you won’t recognize me at school.”
“Nah, I’ll recognize you. You’d better just get it over with and tell me your name.”
I kept my face totally straight. “Lauren Riverdale. And when you relate this story to everyone, be sure not to leave out the parts that make me look really stupid.”
He tipped his head to one side. “That’s not your name.”
He was either very perceptive or my acting skills needed work. “All right, maybe it’s not. But the school could use some more good Lauren Riverdale stories, so why don’t we just pretend she’s here and you’ve never seen me before.”
“I can’t believe you’re refusing to tell me your name. The car mix-up could have happened to anyone. You shouldn’t be embarrassed.” The corner of his mouth turned up, and then a small laugh crept out. “Although the way you dumped stuff out of your purse trying to find your phone was kind of funny.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I feel so much better now. You’ve probably never had anything embarrassing happen to you in your entire life, have you?”
“Not true,” he said.
“What? Did you accidentally walk into the wrong restroom once? Everyone’s done that.”
“I haven’t,” he said.
“Then what? You were talking about how much you liked somebody, and then that somebody walked by and heard you. Everyone’s done that too.”
He shook his head. “Not me.”
“Okay, what then? One time in PE you meant to take off your sweat bottoms and you took off your shorts along with them?”
His eyebrow rose. “You’ve done that too?”
I blushed, and didn’t answer.
“Man, you really need to start paying attention better. You’re just one big accident waiting to happen, aren’t you?”
“I’m not—I mean . . .” I pushed strands of hair out of my face and tried to make sense of my words. “Okay, maybe I am accident prone, or embarrassment prone, or whatever it is you call people who sometimes run into walls when they’re talking to their friends in the hallway. But the point is, I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t tell everyone about this little mishap.” Still leaning against my car, I fiddled with the door handle. “Please?”
He surveyed me, then he looked from my car to his and nodded as though silently deciding something.
“Can I see your Honda for a minute?”
“My Honda?” I asked, then shrugged. “I guess so.”
He opened my car door, slid behind the wheel, and inserted his key into the ignition. It turned but didn’t start.
I leaned up against my car. “That’s not supposed to happen, is it? Your key isn’t supposed to turn in someone else’s ignition.”
He held his hand out to me. “Let me see your car key.”
I dug through my purse for my key chain and put it in his hand.
He took out his own key and placed it against mine. “It’s the same key.” Smiling, he held the two up for me to see. “The makers reuse the same key codes in different states. We’ve got the same key.”
“Then how come my key didn’t start your car?”
“Because each key also has an individual microchip that only starts your own car.” He handed me back my key chain. “I think we could reach an agreement about me keeping this incident quiet. You do me a favor, and I’ll do you one.”
I folded my arms. “What kind of favor?”
“Not a big favor, just this: You let me borrow your car sometime.”
I laughed, then saw he was serious. “My car is exactly like yours. Why would you want to borrow it?”
“Part of the agreement is I don’t tell you why I want to borrow your car, and you can’t tell anyone about it.”
I tilted my head at him, trying to discern his intent from his facial expression. “No, really. How come you’d want two identical silver cars?”
He grinned back at me. “Do we have a deal, or do I have a really good story to tell on my first day of school?”
“But how do I know you’re not looking for a getaway car or something?”
He grunted and rolled his eyes. “You’re determined to think of me as some sort of criminal, aren’t you?”
“No …,” I stammered. “It’s just an odd request.” See, this is what happens when you listen to your mother tell you mugging stories for years. You automatically think the worst of strangers. Only, I didn’t want to think the worst about him anymore. “Fine. You can borrow my car anytime you want. You know, assuming it’s running.”
It was then th
at headlights came toward us. For one moment I thought someone would ram into our cars, and then the next moment I realized it was just my dad pulling up next to my car in his truck. His door swung open, and he strode toward me dressed in his usual cowboy boots and bolo tie. Dad routinely dresses like some sort of ranch hand even though he’s a junior high math teacher. “You’re having trouble with your car?” he asked me.
“It’s the starter motor again,” I said, “Well, either that or the car is possessed by demons.”
Dad opened my front door and slid halfway onto the seat, then motioned for me to hand him my keys. After I did, the not-a-lurker-but-a-cute-guy-who-for-some-inexplicable-reason-wanted-to-borrow-my-car turned to me. “Well, I guess you’re going to make it home. See you at school, Jessica.”
He opened his car door while I stared at him openmouthed. “How did you know my name?”
Smiling, he sat down behind the wheel of his car. “It’s on your name tag.”
My hand flew to my Wal-Mart vest and the name tag pinned there. I had forgotten about it, and now felt extra-stupid for refusing to tell him my name.
“I’m Jordan,” he said.
“I think the battery is dead,” my dad called to me. “Get the jumper cables out of your trunk, and we’ll see if that does the trick.”
I turned toward my trunk, then realized I ought to tell Jordan thanks, or sorry, or at least nice to meet you; but when I turned back, he had already pulled away.
Two
As it turned out, my battery was dead. Dad thought it was very considerate of the car to die right in front of a Wal-Mart, where they sell both jumper cables and batteries, you know, just in case someone needs them. While he jumped my car, he told me in this patronizing tone that eventually I’ll live on my own and I’ll need to learn simple car maintenance like changing tires, checking the oil, and noticing that when none of the lights in my car come on, it means the battery doesn’t work.
This, he told me, is a dead give-away that I need to do something other than lean against the hood of my car and flirt with passing boys.
“You had jumper cables in your trunk and a guy who looked capable of helping you, and instead you sat around in a dark parking lot chatting.” He shook his head slowly. “This is what’s wrong with today’s teenagers.”
Um, right. I had just tried to drive away in a stranger’s car. Even if I had noticed the minor detail of the interior lights not coming on in my own vehicle, I wouldn’t have attempted to attach wires to my battery. In my flustered state I would have most likely electrocuted myself and everyone within a half a mile radius.
See, parents should think about these things before they accuse you of being irresponsible.
Anyway, without telling my dad about the first part of my parking lot adventure, I tried to explain to him that since the starter motor gives me so many problems, I hadn’t thought about the battery. So then he gave me his you-just-need-to-be-gentle-with-it speech again. Like turning a key in the ignition is some art form I hadn’t perfected yet. He was just too cheap to take the stupid car into the shop.
I really hoped that after he attached the jumper cables, the car still wouldn’t start up, because this would prove my point—but no, the car hates me, and it purred to life as soon as Dad put the key in. While I drove home I gave the car a piece of my mind. “I’m going to let that new guy borrow you,” I told it. “He’ll probably use you to run over mailboxes or something, and I won’t even care.”
Saturday is chore day at our house, which means I try to sleep in as long as possible. Usually I can make it until ten before Mom comes bursting into my room demanding that I clean the bathroom. Of course, I used to have a good reason to sleep in until ten. I used to stay out late with Brendan on Friday night.
I woke up at 8:47, couldn’t go back to sleep, so I lay on my bed wondering if Brendan and Lauren had gone out with his friends last night, and if they were all nice to her now, like they used to be with me.
Which is enough to ruin your Saturday morning even before you have to scrub out toilets.
Brendan wouldn’t be happy with Lauren for long. I knew this because I knew him. Granted, he’s on the football team, so maybe it’s a status symbol or unwritten law or something for him to date a cheerleader; but Lauren only talks about herself, her clothes, and what shade of auburn highlight is currently in. It won’t take long before Brendan’s eyes start glazing over at the mere mention of shoe sales and frosty lip gloss.
Lauren thinks she is some sort of fashion diva, but excuse me, a real fashion diva would never consent to wearing a miniskirt that’s purple and bright yellow, even if it is the cheerleading uniform.
Our school colors are actually purple and gold—colors which go together—but the athletic uniforms, the flag, and just about all other school memorabilia come in purple and yellow. Yellow is not the same color as gold, but whoever orders stuff for our school apparently thinks we won’t notice the difference.
This is probably the reason our teams always lose. I mean, how can you psych out the other team when you’re dressed as if Barney the dinosaur and Big Bird got together to create your uniform?
No one who knew or cared anything about fashion would wear our cheerleading outfit, so I don’t know why Lauren thinks she’s the “supersized” version of cool. And I certainly don’t know why Brendan agrees with her.
Besides, cheerleading is a useless skill, as opposed to acting, which I could use to—say—steal Brendan back. And I was going to steal Brendan back. I just wasn’t exactly sure how to go about it.
While I poured milk on a bowl of cornflakes the phone rang. I stabbed my cereal with the edge of my spoon and didn’t get it. It wouldn’t be for me.
Nicki, who sat next to me pouring way more sugar than was healthy onto her Cheerios, plodded over to the phone. She answered it with a “Yeah, hello?” then walked back and held out the phone to me. “It’s for you.”
“Who is it?”
She shrugged like this was a ridiculous question. “I don’t know. Some guy.”
I dropped my spoon onto the table and wiped my hand against my nightgown. “Is it Brendan?” I mouthed.
“How should I know?” she said back, and put the phone in my hands.
But who else could it be? No other guys had shown any interest in me since Brendan dumped me.
For a moment I just looked at the phone. Let it be him. And let it be him for some good reason, and not some painful one, like he can’t find his history book and is wondering if he left it over at my house. I took a deep breath and held the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Hi, is this Jessica?” It wasn’t Brendan’s voice. My stomach felt like it physically dropped to my knees.
“Yes,” I said.
“This is Jordan. The guy from the parking lot last night.”
“Oh, hi.” And then a moment later, when it had all sunk in, I asked, “How did you know my phone number?”
“You used my phone to call your house last night. I just looked it up on the call history.”
“Oh, right. I’d forgotten about that. I mean, the phone call—not the call history part, because I do know how to work a cell phone.” This is the problem with making a fool of yourself in front of someone. You become so eager not to let it happen again, you sabotage your own efforts to appear competent. I licked my lips and tried to think of something to say that would make me sound like a coherent human being. “So, how are you?” I came up with.
“Fine. I’m calling because I figured you’d know where the nearest mall is.”
I picked up my spoon and stirred my cornflakes while I talked. “It’s a half an hour drive away in Las Cruces, but you can find most things you need in the Wal-Mart in town. What are you looking for?”
“Clothes. But I refuse to wear anything bought at Wal-Mart.”
I leaned back in my chair and gave up on my cereal. “Oh, you’re a fashion elitist. I should have figured that out from those holey jeans you wore last night. I
guess it’s a half an hour drive for you then.”
“Hey, I’d been unpacking all day. Those were my unpacking jeans. Most of my clothes—well at least some of them—are hole free. I have great clothes.”
“Then why do you need new ones?”
There was a pause on the line, and then he said, “My mom’s been bugging me to change my style, so we’ve come to an agreement. The ponytail stays if I get new clothes.”
“What about the earring?”
“Mom says the earring can’t go to school.”
“Good, because the guys at my high school don’t wear earrings.”
He let out a sigh. “Yeah, I figured as much. It’s always a sign you don’t fit in when a girl sees you and her first thought is that you’re trying to mug her.”
I blushed, and was glad he couldn’t see me. “Hey, it was dark, I was alone, and you didn’t tell me why you were standing outside of my car. Under normal circumstances you wouldn’t frighten me at all.”
“Oh, well in that case do you want to go to the mall with me? Maybe you can help me pick out the kind of clothes you wear here.” He let out another sigh, as though he really didn’t want to give up his jeans with the holes.
I couldn’t say no. Not when I’d just told him I didn’t think of him as a thug. Besides, I wanted to go, which was odd since I’d started out this phone conversation being all depressed because he wasn’t Brendan.
“Sure, I’ll go. Do you want to take your car or mine?”
He laughed as though I’d told a joke. “I don’t think I’m ready to borrow your car yet. Let’s take mine.”
My mood picked up considerably after I hung up with Jordan. See, I wanted to say to Brendan, this proves I’m still a totally together teen princess. I’ve already got another date. I ignored the fact that Jordan had called me because I was the only one he knew in town, and he only wanted to go to the mall because he was afraid the girls at school would think he was a hoodlum—which was kind of my fault too, since I’d been the one accusing him of hoodlum-ness in the parking lot last night. But hey, he’d still asked me to go with him, so it counted as a date.