Shuffle, Repeat(17)

“You’re so deep,” I tell her, and she laughs. I realize that Mom doesn’t look messy at all. In fact, she’s wearing coral lip gloss and hoop earrings, so I ask the obvious question. “Mom, are you dating Cash?”

Mom flushes. “No!” I raise an eyebrow and she sets down her spatula. “We’re friends.”

“Friends,” I say.

“And in the spirit of friendship, he’s coming over tonight for dinner.”

This time, I say it out loud: “Uh-huh.”

“Settle down,” she tells me. But she flushes again, and this time her eyes sparkle, too.

? ? ?

School let out three hours ago, and I’m still in the main lobby. I’ve already organized my locker and done my English reading for the weekend. Now I’m sitting on the bottom step, braiding strands of my hair. And waiting.

When my phone vibrates—finally!—I check the text from Mom:


at least 45 more mins

sorry

mtg still going

dept chair droning on about budget

wish you were old enuf to buy wine

luv u



Damn.

If I’d known in advance, I could have asked Itch for a ride and lured him with the promise of an empty house. Or maybe Shaun would have driven me. Or Lily or Darbs. Or anyone. If it at least was Monday, it wouldn’t be so bad, but on a Friday? By the end of the week, I’m ready to get out of here.

I wonder if there’s a chance Shaun hasn’t left yet. He’s not answering his texts, but it’s a very Shaun-like thing to not check his texts. He keeps his phone on silent all the time, even when not in class.

I head out into the student parking lot. There are quite a few cars still here, but I don’t see Shaun’s. I trudge across to see if I’m missing any on the other side—maybe hidden behind a gas-guzzling behemoth like Oliver’s, over there in the center, where he always parks and…

Oliver! That’s a new idea. I didn’t even think about checking with him. It didn’t occur to me that I could ask him for a ride home. Oliver isn’t a guy who leaves when the bell rings. He’s always hanging around after school because of all the throwing and kicking and dribbling. I head toward the gas-guzzling behemoth, pulling out my phone to send him a text, and run straight into him.

Oliver catches me by the arms. “Hey, texting and walking. Not safe.”

“I was texting you,” I inform him.

“Really?” His eyes dance over me, and I suddenly remember I have these crazy little braids all over my head.

“Are you going home?” I ask.

“Yep. Need a ride?”

“Yes, please.”

He gestures toward the car, and a minute later, I’m in the passenger seat, trying unsuccessfully to smooth out my hair, which has flown into a frenzy of static electricity. “Why are you still here, anyway?”

“I had to talk to Coach Rand after practice.”

I assess him. Oliver isn’t carrying himself in his usual jaunty, confident way. He’s drooping a little and looks forlorn, sitting behind the wheel. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” But I keep watching him and he doesn’t look okay. In fact, now that I think about it, he seemed subdued this morning, too. He realizes I’m looking at him. “Coach is pissed because I’m missing two practices next week.”

“You’re not allowed to miss ever?” It seems extreme.

“Not really. And definitely not at the beginning of the season. We’re supposed to be focused.”

“But it’s just a game.” The minute it comes out of my mouth, I wish I hadn’t said it.

“You sound like my dad.”

We drive in silence for a few minutes before I ask the question. “Why do you have to skip practices?”

“Oh, you’ll love this,” he says. “I’m hanging out at a bank with my uncle Alex. He’s supposed to teach me the joy of finances.”

“That’s terrible.” Again, I immediately wish I hadn’t said it, but this time, Oliver laughs.

“Thank you. It is terrible.” His smile drops away. “My parents aren’t even coming to the game on Friday. Dad has a dinner with the partners.”

“What about your mom?”

“She doesn’t miss Dad’s work dinners. They’re a team.”

I try to come up with something reassuring to say. “Next year, you won’t ever have to miss a practice if you don’t want to.”

Oliver shoots me a look. “No offense, but you really don’t know anything about football.” We come to a four-way stop and he trains his eyes on mine. “I’m high school good, June. I’m not college good.”

I make a pfft sound. “Please. I’m sure you can handle a ball.” I flush at my own unfortunate choice of words and hurry to cover. “A football.”

Oliver smiles, but the smile is sad. “It’s cool. I’m not like you. Some people peak early.”

I stare at him, not sure how to respond. It’s the most openly painful thing I’ve heard him say, and it seems like I should say something open and honest in return.

But I’m not that brave.

A horn honks behind us and we both jump in our seats. “Oops,” says Oliver, and he steps on the gas.