Shut Out Page 8

  “Am I weird?” she whispered as she glanced over her shoulder toward the living room, where Mrs. Port was watching a Lifetime movie. “I mean… is it weird that Finn and I have never…?”

  “No,” I said, then hesitated. “I mean, I’m sure you’re not the only one. I don’t think you’re weird.”

  Mary shrugged, still twisting her hair. “I just hear all these stories, and sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who’s never done it. I feel like I’m behind or something. Like it makes me a prude.”

  “You’re not weird, or a prude, or a tease, or any of that,” I assured her. “Actually, I think it’s great that you’re waiting. It’s sort of refreshing. And sex is a big deal, so you shouldn’t rush it just because everyone else is doing it. I think it’s a major decision. Honestly, I—”

  “Lissa! Mary!”

  I jumped, almost spilling my Diet Coke as Chloe’s voice rang down the stairs. I’d been so caught up in my conversation with Mary that I’d completely forgotten about the girls in Susan’s room.

  “What the hell is taking you two so long? I want some popcorn, damn it!”

  “I guess she finished all the brownies,” I said with a small laugh.

  “Can you girls keep it down a little?” Mrs. Port called, without anger, over the back of the living room couch.

  “Come on,” I said to Mary. “Let’s get up there before poor Chloe starves to death.”

  Mary giggled and I smiled at her. It had taken a few hours, but after hearing everyone’s stories and eating way too much junk food, I had loosened up a little.

  “Finally.” Chloe grabbed the popcorn bowl from me as soon as we reached the top step, and she ran into Susan’s bedroom. Mary and I glanced at each other. I took a deep breath and smiled at her one last time, and then we walked back into the crowded room.

  chapter eleven

  Apparently the girls weren’t the only ones swapping gossip about their love lives. The boys had been talking, too. I guess when a bunch of high school jocks don’t get laid, word starts to spread that something is seriously wrong, because by Monday, the guys were worried.

  “What’s up with all the girls?” Randy asked me during the drive to my house that afternoon. For once, he didn’t have football practice, and he’d decided to take my father up on his ever-present dinner invitation and make up for the date we’d missed on Friday.

  “What do you mean?”

  I knew exactly what he meant, though.

  “Like… I don’t know. I’ve heard stuff.”

  “Such as?”

  “Like, you’re all distant,” he said. “Finn’s girlfriend won’t even kiss him, and ever since last weekend, you’ve been acting weird. Shane says even Chloe’s not putting out, and she’s a slut, so we know something’s wrong.”

  “Don’t call my best friend a slut,” I told him. “Just because people think so doesn’t make it true.”

  “But it is true.”

  “It’s relative,” I said. “I’d bet money Shane has slept with more people than Chloe. Correct?”

  “Probably. Shane’s the man.”

  “You don’t call him a slut, so please don’t call Chloe one.”

  “Okay, okay.” Randy shrugged and turned the Buick onto my street. “Sorry. Whatever… But you never answered my question.”

  “What question?”

  “What’s up with all the girls?”

  Crap, I thought. Changing the subject usually worked with Randy. He got so distracted that he didn’t even notice I’d nudged him away from the original topic. That was part of the beauty of dating him; I never had to worry about him cornering me into a conversation I didn’t want to have.

  Except now.

  Naturally, when sex was involved, Randy managed to stay focused.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” I said as his car slid into my driveway. Before he could argue, I climbed out of the passenger’s seat and started walking toward the front door.

  I could have slapped myself. There was a huge hole in my strike plan; we’d never discussed when or how to tell the boys. Eventually we’d have to, obviously, because the whole point was to get them to hear us out, to listen to our demand that they end the rivalry. But now, with Randy asking questions, I was nervous about answering him.

  “Hey, honey,” Dad called from the kitchen when I stepped into the house. “I just got in from work and decided to make a sandwich. You want one?”

  “No, thanks,” I said, walking across the carpet toward the kitchen. Behind me, Randy shut the front door and began to follow. “I brought company. I figured I’d make a real dinner tonight.”

  Dad looked over his shoulder and smiled when he saw Randy standing next to me in the kitchen doorway. “Hey there,” he said. “No football practice?”

  “No, sir,” Randy said. “Coach gave us the day off—said he couldn’t look at our faces after the loss on Friday. But I’m sure he’s going to kick our asses tomorrow.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Dad grabbed his sandwich from the counter and put it in his lap so he could turn his wheelchair toward us. “I heard the game was pretty brutal. I couldn’t make it—I needed to return some e-mails and get a situation with a student straightened out—but Logan said Oak Hill has really shaped up this year.”

  “Yeah, none of us was expecting it,” Randy agreed. “So weird. They sucked last year.”

  Dad wheeled over to the table and Randy sat down next to him. I let them talk sports for a bit while I sorted through the fridge, trying to decide what to make for dinner. When I realized we didn’t have much of anything (living with two adult men meant food never lasted long), I decided to call and leave Logan a voice mail, asking him to stop by the grocery on his way home and pick up the stuff I’d need to make pasta.

  When I hung up the phone, I heard Randy ask, “So how’s work going, Mr. Daniels?”

  I smiled as I walked over to the round wooden table and sat down beside my boyfriend. He reached over and put an arm around my shoulders. I glanced self-consciously at my dad, and stiffened a bit at the contact. But Randy didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he was just used to it by now.

  “Work’s good,” Dad said. “Been a bit crazy this week. There’s a student having some pretty sudden behavioral issues. I think she’s having a difficult time at home, but she won’t say. Poor kid. She’s never had problems before.”

  When I was little, he’d worked construction, building houses in the newer part of town. After the accident, he decided to go in a different direction. That’s how he ended up as the guidance counselor at Hamilton Elementary.

  “You’re so patient,” Randy said. “I can’t stand kids. I’d get so frustrated. I never want to be a parent.”

  “You’ll change your mind,” Dad told him. “Especially if you and Lissa end up getting married. You two would have to give me some grandkids.”

  “Logan can do that.” Randy laughed. “Lissa and I aren’t going to have kids. Maybe a few dogs, though.”

  I cleared my throat, reminding them that I was sitting right there. I hated when Randy planned my future for me.

  “Logan’s going to pick up a few things at the store on his way back from work,” I said. “It’ll be an hour or so if you two want to go watch TV.”

  In an instant, Randy was on his feet, pushing Dad’s wheelchair into the living room as they bickered over which of our six ESPN networks to watch.

  When they were gone, I pulled out my cell phone to text Chloe.

  Randys asking questions. I think he knows

  Within seconds, she replied.

  What r u gonna tell him???

  I glanced into the living room. Some sports talk show was on the TV, and I could hear Dad and Randy laughing as they disagreed with the commentators. I smiled to myself. Randy was already a part of my family. Part of me. I shouldn’t be afraid to be honest with him.

  Without even looking at the screen, I moved my thumbs across the keypad and texted Chloe back.

  The trut
h.

  By the time dinner was on the table, I was on the verge of pulling my hair out. Logan came home almost an hour late and refused to tell me where he’d been. Dad had to make me stop asking him. And, of course, my brother had picked up the wrong kind of noodles. I mean, I guess the noodles didn’t really matter—they all taste the same—but it was the principle of the thing.

  I’d been able to relax a little at the dinner table, though. Logan gave Randy a hard time about Friday’s game, everyone complimented my cooking (not that pasta was difficult, but it was still nice to hear), and no one mentioned the soccer team or hazing.

  After we left the table, still smiling from a joke Dad had told us, Randy offered to help me wash dishes.

  “Why don’t you use the dishwasher?” he asked.

  “Pipes are messed up,” I said. “Have been for weeks. The plumber hasn’t come by to fix it yet.”

  “That sucks.” He set a stack of plates on the counter as I filled the sink with water. “I might be able to fix them. I’ve helped my uncle fix the ones in his house before. I can give them a look when I come over this weekend, if you want. Then you don’t have to pay a plumber.”

  “That’d be great,” I said. “Randy Vincent, pro-bono plumber.”

  “Pro what-o?”

  “Never mind. Just bring your wrench and your saggy plumber pants on Saturday.”

  Randy grinned. “Saggy plumber pants, huh? Lissa, are your pipes really messed up, or is this just your way of trying to see my ass?”

  “Hardly,” I said, flinging a little water at him. “Only if you hire a butt double.”

  Randy stuck his tongue out at me and flung some water in my direction.

  I had to admit, I was pretty impressed that he was helping me clean up. I figured he’d be running back to the TV the second his plate was clear, the way he usually did.

  “So back to what we were talking about earlier,” he said after a pause. “What’s up with the girls?”

  Of course he had an ulterior motive. I was on my guard again instantly. I shut off the tap just as the bubbles from the dish detergent began to ease over the rim of the sink.

  “Do you really want to know?” I asked quietly, gesturing for Randy to move the plates into the soapy water.

  “Yeah.”

  “All right. We’re on a sex strike.”

  Randy, God bless him, just sort of blinked at me, confused.

  I reached into the top drawer and pulled out a sponge and a dishrag. “Okay,” I said, handing the rag to him. “The girls are tired of the rivalry. It’s been going on for too long, and you guys don’t even have a reason to fight.”

  “Like hell,” Randy argued. “We have a ton of reasons to hate those—”

  “Randy, can you even tell me how the fight started in the first place?” I asked.

  He opened his mouth to answer, then paused, lips still gaping. “Uh…” He swallowed, and I passed him a plate I’d just cleaned so he could dry it while he thought. “It started… It started because…”

  “If it takes you this long to remember,” I said, dunking another marinara-covered plate into the foamy, bubbly water, “then the fight isn’t really worth it.”

  “Okay, so what does this have to do with all you girls being weird?”

  “I told you,” I said. “We want the rivalry to end. So we’ve decided that none of the boys on the teams are getting any action until the fighting ends. A sex strike.”

  Randy stopped drying the dish I’d just handed him. “You’re shitting me.”

  “No.”

  “Like… just no sex?”

  “Shhh.” I tensed and looked over my shoulder to make sure Dad and Logan were still safely in the living room, TV blasting. “Not just sex. It could be anything.”

  “Like fooling around, hand jobs, BJs. All of it?”

  I cringed and glanced over my shoulder again.

  “Yes,” I hissed through gritted teeth. “All of it. Keep your voice down. If Dad hears us…”

  “Right, sorry. So this will last until the teams stop fighting?”

  I nodded and handed him another clean plate. He took it, but he didn’t start to dry it immediately. Instead, he just shook his head back and forth, lips tight like he was holding back a laugh.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Sorry, but do you really expect something that stupid to work?”

  “It’s not stupid,” I said. “What’s stupid is your little rivalry with the soccer team. It happens every fall, and it’s getting worse. People are getting hurt—you got hurt. My plan to end it is genius. If there’s one thing we can withhold that’ll make you do anything, it’s sexual favors.”

  “It’ll never work,” Randy said, finally drying the plate he’d been holding for the past thirteen seconds and placing it on top of the growing stack of clean dishes. “The girls will never last.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because we’re not going to stop fighting with the soccer team, and I know you girls can’t last forever. Hell, I bet if I tried hard enough, you wouldn’t be able to resist me right now.” He gave me an exaggerated version of a seductive smile, batting his eyes and everything, as he leaned over to kiss me.

  I shrugged him off, annoyed. “Don’t you want the rivalry to end?”

  “Not really.”

  “You know, Randy…” I hesitated, then said, “When we got back together, you promised you’d grow up and behave like an adult.”

  He stiffened. “Well, Lissa, we both made some promises we didn’t keep, huh?”

  One second.

  Two seconds.

  I couldn’t believe he’d just said that. Couldn’t believe he’d brought it up. We turned to face each other, my jaw dropped and his set firm. He’d been teasing before, but he was mad now, and so was I.

  Three seconds.

  Four seconds.

  My fists clenched at my sides as, with every second, the tension grew between us. The air thickened and I forced myself to steady my breathing. This was the closest we’d come to a fight in a long time—and less than a minute ago, it wasn’t even a fight.

  The worst part was that, logically, we should have been on the same side. He should have wanted this to end as much as I did. Or maybe he didn’t see himself as the victim at all. Maybe he enjoyed the chaos.

  The idea made my head spin.

  Five seconds.

  Six seconds.

  I was beginning to think we’d never move again when my brother’s voice penetrated the silence.

  “Yo, Lissa! Randy!”

  I turned my head, pulling my gaze away from Randy’s, just as Logan appeared in the doorway. For a second, his eyes darted between us, and I knew he could tell something was up. Logan wasn’t as dense as Randy. Or as compassionate as my father. Instead of asking about it, though, he just shook his head, as if shaking the knowledge of all tension out of his mind.

  “Dad wants ice cream,” he said, running his hand over his short black hair. “I’m heading out to get some. You want any?”

  I glanced at Randy. He was still watching me, but the look on his face was unreadable.

  “We do,” I told Logan. “Strawberry with sprinkles for me. And make sure Dad’s is low-fat, okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Logan said. “What about you, Randy?”

  “Um…” Slowly, he turned to look at my brother. “Chocolate. With chocolate syrup.”

  Logan laughed. “Now that’s my kind of ice cream. All right. I’ll be back.” He swiped the keys off the counter and walked out of the kitchen.

  “Look, Randy,” I whispered when Logan was gone, “the girls are on a sex strike. It’s going to be this way until the rivalry is over.”

  “It’ll never happen,” Randy told me.

  I didn’t reply. Instead, I turned and walked into the living room, where Randy wouldn’t dare return to this conversation in front of my father, and sat down to watch some crappy sports show and wait for my ice cream.

&
nbsp; chapter twelve

  “So you’ve been reading Aristophanes, huh?”

  I jumped, and the book I was trying to shelve slipped from my hand and thudded to the floor. My empty fingers groped for the stability of the wooden shelves as the ladder wobbled beneath me, my feet scurrying to regain their balance.

  “Whoa,” Cash said.

  His hands were on my hips then, steadying me. My T-shirt had ridden up slightly as I’d stretched my arms to the highest shelves, so his fingers made direct contact with the exposed skin just above the waistband of my jeans. A small burst of fire pulsed through me, starting at the places where he was touching me and spreading to the rest of my body.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. You okay?”

  “Fine.”

  His hands were still on me.

  I wondered why he didn’t let me go. I was fine now; he could have pulled his hands back. But he didn’t. And I wanted him to keep touching me. I knew I shouldn’t—if my own boyfriend’s touch made me stiffen, Cash’s should revolt me—but my body hummed in stark disagreement with my brain.

  His hands stayed on my hips as I climbed down the ladder, guiding me to safety on the floor in front of him. Once my sneakers hit the thin brown carpet, he let me go, his fists moving instantly into his pockets.

  “You okay?” he repeated, as if I hadn’t answered.

  “Fine,” I said again. “God, are you taking a class in sneaking up on people or what?”

  Cash shrugged a shoulder. “Natural talent, I guess.”

  “A natural talent that is going to get me killed one day. Can you please not do that? I could have fallen off the ladder and broken my neck. Or at the very least my leg or my ankle or something. Or my wrist, and then shelving books would have been hard, and Jenna would have yelled at me—and at you for making me fall, and…” I trailed off. I should have just shut up after “Fine.”

  “I’ll work on it,” Cash said with a sheepish smile.

  “Right. Good.”

  “So,” he said. “Aristophanes?”

  “What?”

  “I was trying to ask if you’d been reading Aristophanes,” he repeated. “You know, the Greek playwright? One of the forerunners of satire?”