Pivot Point (Pivot Point, #1)(37)

Poison turns slowly, then looks her up and down. His gaze travels to Duke and then lingers on me. I lower my head and pull on Duke’s arm, wanting to walk faster, but Duke just stares at him and then says, “Can we do anything to help?” in the friendliest voice ever.

Poison wrenches open his door, throws his bag inside, and pulls out a cell phone from his pocket.

“I guess that’s a no then?” Duke says. Laila laughs.

As we drive away from Fat Jacks I turn around and smack Laila’s leg. “You are seriously demented. That guy is going to kill you. His name is Poison, Laila, remember? And did you see those tattoos on his arms?”

She leans back in her seat and laughs harder. “He’s a pathetic druggie. A hardcore loser.” Her laughter trails off, and she says in a voice I’m sure she intends to be light, but I can hear the pain behind, “Just like my dad.”





CHAPTER 16


NORM?trap: n. a device used to trap a Norm (okay, fine, I got trapped too)





Monday at school, Trevor, Rowan, Stephanie, and I sit in Trevor’s car. My notebook is propped on my knees, and all our ideas for “dare completion” are listed out.

“What happens if we fail?” I ask.

“They get bragging rights for the rest of their lives,” Stephanie says. Her sour expression—which I’ve decided is her face’s default setting—is present. “We are not failing.”

I doodle a couple of split lines on the corner of the page. “I say we add a rule to the dessert game that the dare must take place the night of the loss. None of this, ‘On Monday you have to steal the principal’s bobblehead toy off the dashboard of his car.’”

Rowan raises one eyebrow, and one corner of his mouth rises with it. Default setting = creep. “Are you scared?”

“What?” I blow air between my lips. “No,” I say, when really the thought of breaking into the principal’s car ranks right up there with suffering through one of my mom’s mind patterns.

“I still think me distracting the principal right when he comes back from lunch, and one of you climbing into the car before he has a chance to set his alarm is the best option,” Rowan says, pointing at my notebook. “Oh, and while you’re writing things down, Addison, write down the name Luis Vasquez. Look him up, Trevor. Last year he had a major back injury during a game. Does his name sound familiar? It should, because he was up for All-American, just like you.”

“This isn’t helping our current situation,” Stephanie says.

“I agree,” Trevor says. “I’m for the borrowing-the-principal’s-keys-out-of-his-office idea.”

“But then someone has to put them back,” Stephanie says. “And that’s assuming he doesn’t keep them on him.”

I glance at my cell. “Well, lunch is almost over, so we’d better figure it out soon.”

“Okay, let’s try the distraction technique,” Rowan says. “Who’s going in for the bobblehead?”

Stephanie’s head immediately whips toward me.

Not me. “Why me?”

“Because you’re the one who had the pathetic dessert.”

“She had no idea about the game, Stephanie,” Trevor points out.

Everyone stares at me, and I find myself saying, “No, it’s fine.” I close my notebook and tuck it into my bag. “I’ll go in. You just better keep him occupied, Rowan.” There is no way I’m getting kicked out of Norm school over a stupid dare.

“I will. I’m an expert at distraction.”

“I’ll help Addison,” Trevor says. “Stephanie, you be backup for Rowan.”

“Yeah, okay.” She blinks several times, then looks up. Just when I start to wonder what someone said to upset her, she pulls down her lower eyelid and sticks her finger in her eye.

I gasp, but no one else reacts.

“My contact is bugging me.” She pinches a thin, clear film out of her eye, and since nobody else finds this at all disturbing I try to control my facial expression.

I must not have done a good job because she says, “What’s your problem? You don’t know anyone who wears contacts?”

No, actually. A Norm lesson about subpar vision is skirting just outside my memory. I need to get a memory program fast, because I seem to have forgotten all our lessons.

“You have it back in?” Rowan asks, and Stephanie nods. “All right, break.” He ducks out of the car like he thinks he’s a spy. Stephanie follows.

“He needs some theme music,” I say, hoping Trevor doesn’t ask about my reaction to Stephanie’s contacts.

“Mr. Buford has some he can borrow.”

I laugh and move toward the door, my feet crunching papers as I do. “Your car is a mess.”

“You’re disgusted.”

“No, I’m not,” I say too fast.

He laughs. “Your face says otherwise.”

“Disgust is the wrong word. It’s not like it’s littered with half-eaten food or dirty socks.” I reach down to pick up one of the many crumpled papers. “It’s just …” I start to unfurl the paper.

“Negative,” he says.

“Negative? Did you seriously just use that word?” The paper is crumpled up into a pretty tight ball, and I can’t open it as fast as I want to.