Connecting (Lily Dale #3)(22)

She glances back at Pam and her gossipy friends, to see if any of them are paying attention to her and Jacy.

It doesn’t seem like it, but you never know.

Calla might be free to talk to other guys, or even date them, but she really doesn’t need anyone running back to Blue and starting trouble.

“Come on,” she tells Jacy. “Let’s go.”

Jacy obliges, but he’s wearing a confused expression. “What do you mean, ‘he beat you to it’?”

“I mean, he asked first. What was I supposed to do, say no because I’d rather go with you?”

“Go where?”

Suddenly uneasy, Calla asks slowly, “What do you mean, ‘go where’?”

There’s a long pause.

“I, uh, don’t think we’re talking about the same thing.”

“You said . . . last Saturday night.”

“Right. I was up late that night, and I saw the cops over at your place, and—”

She gasps, pressing her hands to her flaming cheeks. “That was what you meant?”

“Some lunatic breaking into Odelia’s house and attacking you. Yeah. After I warned you to be careful.”

Totally mortified, Calla shakes her head, barely hearing his words.

So he wasn’t talking about Blue, and her love life, and his wishing he had asked her out.

No, he was talking about that lunatic killer coming after her.

Meanwhile, I just basically told him that not only do I have a thing for him, but that I’d much rather go to the dance with him than Blue.

It’s a wonder he’s even still here talking to her, but he is, not that she can really even grasp what he’s saying.

“I told you I thought there was something . . . I just had a bad feeling. I knew you were in trouble. You should have been more careful. If you had just—”

“I, uh, I’m really sorry,” she cuts in, glad her locker is just around the corner. She needs to get there, fast.

“You’re sorry for what?”

“For everything.” Mostly, being a total loser and opening my big fat mouth and sticking my big old foot in it.

Quickening her pace, as if she’ll somehow be able to just lose him, she makes the turn around the corner—and slams right into someone, who immediately drops what he’s carrying with a deafening slam and clatter.

Donald Reamer. And the world’s biggest, loudest wooden chessboard, along with an entire collection of pieces.

“Oh . . . I’m so sorry!” she tells Donald, a hugely obese kid whose looks aren’t helped by thick glasses and a line of dark fuzz on his upper lip, which is quavering as he looks down at his chess set.

Oh, no. No, Donald, please don’t cry.

Of all the people she could crash into, it had to be poor Donald, the resident scapegoat?

He’s always tripping, bumping into furniture, dropping things . . . probably because he’s so nervous about the kids who constantly make fun of him. Of course, the clumsiness only fuels the teasing—a vicious, cruel circle.

Sickened by the snickers around them as Donald grunts and struggles to bend his hefty body, Calla tells him, “No, it’s okay, I’ll get your stuff.”

But Jacy’s beat her to it, already on his knees, handing the board to Donald and reaching to retrieve the scattered pieces.

Calla drops beside him and crawls around grabbing what she can, aware that a bunch of kids have stopped to watch and, of course, make some mean-spirited comments about Donald.

She sees Donald bend to pick up a black pawn in time for a clean white Nike to kick it out of his reach.

Furious, she looks up to see a wiry, smirking freshman attached to the sneaker.

“Oops, sorry,” he tells Donald.

Laughing with his idiot friends, he’s poised to kick a white rook when an arm snakes around his ankle and gives a sharp tug.

The kid goes down hard, sprawled face-first on the floor.

“Oops, sorry,” Jacy says, then calmly and swiftly retrieves the white rook, the black pawn, and the few remaining pieces.

He stands and hands them to Donald with a casual, “Here you go,” as the freshman would-be bully slinks away with his henchmen and Calla gets back on her feet and dusts herself off.

“Thanks.” Donald is focused on the pieces, taking inventory.

Calla notices an older man, then, heavyset and bearing quite a strong resemblance to Donald. He’s standing just behind him, leaning over Donald’s shoulder and looking silently into the box.

He must be a teacher. Calla wonders why he didn’t say anything to the kids who were taunting Donald. She’s noticed that faculty members, aware of what goes on with him, usually step in to stop the bullying if they’re around.

“Got everything?” Jacy asks, and Donald nods. “Good.

Chess club meeting today, huh?”

“Yes.” Donald nods, then offers awkwardly, “One Christmas, my dad made me this board and carved all the pieces. It took him months to do it. He’s the one who taught me how to play, when I was little.”

“Seriously?” Jacy leans in to get a better look. “That’s really a great set.”

“Do you play chess?”

“A little.”

“Really? You should come to chess club.”