The Trouble With Quarterbacks(26)

“Then what?” I ask, flipping through shirts, angry that they all seem to be something a sinner would wear. Red?! Spaghetti straps?! Really, Eve?! Where are all my denim dresses that reach the floor? My paisley tops with the ruffle neck detail? Oh right—I don’t own any.

“Then he walked away and went to have a piss, but I could tell we had a real connection. A sort of back-and-forth wordplay, if you will.”

“Sounds like it. Hey, I’m borrowing your blazer!”

It’s all I’ve got. I’ll throw it on over a white button-down and do it all the way up if I have to.





The church itself is just the closest one I could find to our flat with a service starting in the middle of the morning. We’re late, thanks to Yasmine’s shaving, but we tiptoe down the aisle and toward the first empty seats we can manage in the third row from the back.

The catholic priest is already up on the stage with his flowing robes, chatting away in a thick New York accent. I swear I can barely understand a thing he’s saying, but I’ll have to nod along convincingly all the same and hope God can’t tell the difference. It’s a solid plan up until Kat trips and tumbles into me so that we both end up going down onto the red carpet in the aisle with little yelps. When we stand and dust ourselves off, we get quite a few sidelong glares from old grans.

“Sorry!” I whisper under my breath.

One of them holds her finger up to her mouth and shushes me, and I shove Kat and Yasmine into their seats before they can cause any more trouble.

The Catholic mass is great. I learn a lot, I think. I couldn’t quite repeat it back to someone if they asked, but I’m sure I’ve absorbed it all like a sponge. Right, well, except for the bit near the end. It’s not that I meant to nod off; it’s that Logan kept us at his house so late last night that I didn’t get much sleep. It seems I must have missed the part about forgiving sins because before I know it, it’s over and we’re supposed to stand and leave.

“Where am I meant to confess?” I ask Kat and Yasmine. “You know ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.’ That whole spiel.”

I look around for the confession box but don’t see one. Maybe we should try that Buddhist temple around the block.

“What have you got to confess? What on earth have you done wrong?” Kat asks.

“She’s right. You teach snot-nosed toddlers all day, for Christ’s sake.”

“I don’t think you’re meant to say Christ like that in a church, you know.”

Only now I’ve said it louder than she has so I’m the one who gets a glare from the woman in front of us in the queue down the aisle.

“Honestly, you’re so good all the time,” Kat continues. “You never leave your dirty dishes in the sink like the rest of us, and you always empty the rubbish bin.”

“Yes, but I’ve broken the rules, haven’t I? Canoodling with Logan in the pool like that.”

“Oh, sod off. You can’t be serious. So the two of you sort of flirted a bit. Surely your headmistress can’t take issue with that?”

I suppose I’ll find out.

First thing tomorrow morning.

I have plans to go round to Mrs. Halliday’s office and give it to her straight as soon as I arrive. She’ll admire my bravery and tact. She’ll think I’m a wonderful representation of her staff. Maybe she’ll even use me as an example in front of the rest of the teachers. If only you lot were half as wonderful as Candace.

Except I don’t get the chance because of Yasmine and her insistence that we try out a new sushi place on the way back from church.

I should have known from its location that we were in for it. A dimly lit alley—really?

To me, the restaurant looked like it’d serve you something one step above food you’d find behind a dumpster soaking in street juice, but Yasmine insisted all the best haunts look like this. Real hole-in-the-wall is what she said. Now it’s Sunday night and we’re all sick. Worse, we’ve only got the one bathroom.

“This is the absolute pits!” Yasmine groans from her post on the floor in front of the fridge. She’s been relegated to the kitchen sink and trash can. I’ve got the toilet, and Kat’s in the shower with the curtain drawn, crying into a bucket.

My mobile rings and I answer it with my eyes closed, expecting it to be my mum. She likes to check in on me on Sunday nights, but instead of Mum’s chipper accent, I hear a familiar masculine voice that sends me into a panic.

“Candace? You there?”

LOGAN!

“Who is it?! The hospital?!” Yasmine shouts. “Tell them to send round an ambulance.”

“Three ambulances!” Kat adds.

“What are your roommates shouting about?”

“Oh! Err…”

I try to muster up enough energy to sit up and talk to him like a proper human being, but I can’t do it. After losing the contents of my stomach and probably 95% of my body weight down the toilet, I am bone-weary and weak. I close my eyes and drop back down to the floor. My mobile sits on my chest, on speakerphone, so I don’t have to use my arm muscles trying to hold it against my ear.

“Oh, it’s nothing. They think we’re dying.”

“And are you?”

“Maybe.”