Authors: Lynda Sandoval
“Well, at least you didn’t get caught.”
“Good point!” I was instantly cheered.
Meryl pulled out of the picnic area and headed toward Caressa’s at a much safer clip, while I picked twigs and dirt out of my hair and clothing. By the time we arrived in Caressa’s portico, I was just about back to normal.
Caressa was waiting for us, and she pulled open the passenger door and grinned. “How did it go?”
I sniffed. “Piece of cake.”
“What?” Meryl groaned. “Sometimes, Lila, I just want to kill you.”
I stepped from the car exuding exaggerated Übercoolness. “Well, kill me later. We have a dumb supper to attend.”
It didn’t take us very long to get all the food ready and lined up on the counter. When we’d finished, Meryl did the whole sage-stick purification routine, then gathered us in Caressa’s bedroom to go over last-minute details. We still had to write out our prayer/wishes. I sprawled on Caressa’s bed, sort of tuning out Meryl, and started thinking about my mom. A part of me felt guilty because, to be honest, I don’t think about her that much these days. She died eons ago, when I was a preschooler, from breast cancer.
I hate to admit it, but I barely remember her anymore. I used to be able to close my eyes and smell her perfume or hear her voice, but not for the past few years. Sometimes I have to work really hard just to envision her face without referring to a photograph as a reminder.
The whole dead-relative-coming-to-supper aspect of
this thing kinda gave me the yeeks at first, but after I thought about it, I liked the idea that my mom’s spirit would be in on the whole who-should-Lila-date deal.
“Lila, did you hear me?”
I jumped, blinking up at Meryl. “Huh?”
She sighed. “I swear, if you screw this up—”
“I won’t, I won’t. Promise.” I didn’t tell her I’d been thinking about Mom, because I know Meryl and she would’ve felt guilty for threatening me while I’d been reminiscing. Meryl is supersensitive about hurting people, which is one of her nicest qualities. “What were you saying?”
“I was reminding you guys that no one can speak after midnight, especially in the feast room.”
We nodded.
“Okay, then. We’re almost set.” Meryl held out her palm. “Do you have gel pens?”
I leaned to the side and pulled three white pens from the back pocket of my Lucky Brand jeans. “And I got some black notecards, too. Somewhere.” I patted my pockets again, coming up empty, and my heart dropped. “Uh-oh.”
“You gave them to me, remember? They’re right
here.” Caressa snatched them up off her nightstand and passed one to each of us. She clutched hers to her chest and sort of shivered. “This is the exciting part.”
“Excellent,” Meryl said. “Let’s write them out. And don’t forget to—”
“Set them where our plates will go. We remember, Mom.”
Meryl smirked at me, then bent over her notecard and started scribbling away, but I stared up at the ceiling for a moment, the end of the pen in my mouth. I didn’t understand how Meryl could be so confident about this while I felt so intimidated. My future could very well depend on how I worded this little note to the cosmos. The pressure to get it exactly right was tremendous.
I mean, what if I asked for abundance, and the cosmos thought I was talking about my butt size? Or if I asked for a really
nice
guy and some Poindexter showed up, professing his undying geek love for me? Don’t get me wrong, some of the guys in the computer crew at school are smokin’ hot, and everybody knows they’ll go way farther in life than most of the jocks. And then there was the whole Clay Aiken argument, if he was, in fact, straight, as I chose to believe. But still. Pocket protectors
might be an indicator of future success, but in high school, they just aren’t sexy.
After a moment, Meryl glanced up. “Having trouble?”
I cringed and nodded at the same time. “I’m afraid to screw it up. What’d you write?”
She glanced down at her card. “I pray/wish for a smart, cute guy who sees me for who I am and likes me because of it.”
“Nice.” I looked at Caressa. “Yours?”
“I pray/wish for a guy who doesn’t think music is everything, and who likes me for ME and not for who my dad is.”
“Okay, I see what you’re both getting at.” I took hold of my black notecard and sucked in a deep breath. After releasing it slowly through my nostrils, I wrote:
I pray/wish for a hottie rebel of a guy. One who breaks the typical guy mold and isn’t anything like my train wreck of a brother, Luke. And make sure he likes ME rather than seeing me as a shortcut onto the police force
. I grinned up at my friends. “Done.”
“Read it !” Meryl said.
I did.
Caressa laughed. “I’m SURE your dad would approve of a hottie rebel, Lila,” she said sarcastically.
“Why do you think I prayed for that? What fun would a guy be if my dad DID approve of him?”
Meryl and Caressa and I shared a group hug for good luck, then we all headed confidently down the stairs, all jittery and giggly with excitement.
The feast room had been prepared. Our prayer/wish cards were in their designated spots. The time had come.
We huddled in the archway to the kitchen staring at the clock. Nobody drew a breath or uttered a word as the final fifteen seconds ticked away to midnight, but when the big hand and the little hand met up at the twelve, Meryl nodded to us, and the dumb supper commenced.
Meryl and Caressa worked like synchronized swimmers carrying the tablecloth, settings, and everything else into the candlelit feast room. I returned to the kitchen and lined up the food in proper order. I passed Meryl and Caressa each dish as it came time for them to carry it in to the table.
Everything was going so well. TOO well. I should’ve
known, the way my life had been swirling down the toilet lately, that it was too good to be true, but I was blinded by the ceremony and our reverent silence.
The nightmare happened between delivering the Cup-a-Soup course and the appetizer course. That’s right, I didn’t even get a chance to eat the feast laid out for us before it all got screwed up. Here’s what happened: I had nuked the soup and placed the Styrofoam containers safely on a tray so Meryl and Caressa wouldn’t spill them. They’d just trooped off with them, and I was taking the taquitos out of the oven when all of a sudden—
BAM, BAM, BAM!
It sounded like someone wanted to knock the freakin’ door down. I jumped out of my skin and barely refrained from screaming. The no-talking rule had been hammered into my brain so solidly, though, I managed to stifle the noise against my fist. I set the cookie sheet of taquitos on the stove top with a clatter, sort of looking around frantically for Caressa. What should I do? It was her house, after all.
I couldn’t answer it, could I?
That would mean talking, and—
The pounding sounded again, so I hurried toward the door to open it. I didn’t want the supper to be ruined for Caressa and Meryl, too. With any luck, I could get rid of whoever it was before either of them noticed.
My hands shook as I worked the deadbolts, but I managed to unlock the door and yank it open before a new bout of knocking further destroyed our carefully cultivated silence. I just never expected to see Dylan Sebring on the other side.
Dylan Sebring?!?!?
Let me tell you a few things about Dylan. The first thing any human female with eyes would notice about the guy is his utter droolworthiness. No denying, Dylan had IT. The looks (vaguely Brad Pitt-esque), the bod (tight), the charm (dimples and all). All the girls in school wanted Dylan, as evidenced by the high-pitched titters that abounded whenever he walked through the halls. All the girls except MOI, of course, because Dylan Sebring, hottieness notwithstanding, had several strikes against him in the Lila book:
Strike One—Dylan is the lieutenant of the junior narc squad, aka the Police Explorers. GAG. Way too Lukelike.
Strike Two—He’s also the captain of the WPHS ski team. Ho-hum, jocks. I mean, they look sexy and all in their tight uniforms, but jocks are total Cheerleader Food, and I refuse to eat from a communal trough, so to speak.
Strike Three—Dylan is mondo POPULAR; in other words, wayyyyyyyyyy out of my league.
Strike Four—(even though you only need three for an OUT)—Dylan knows all this.
He is SO not my kind of guy. Give me a rocker with long hair, frequent visits to detention, and a pierced lip any day. I mean, my dad totally APPROVES of Dylan. No thanks.
Still, his drool factor momentarily tripped me up.
“Uh … hi,” I sort of rasped, casting a quick peek over my shoulder. I didn’t want the entire dumb supper to be ruined by his intrusion, nor did I really want him to know what we were up to. When Dylan’s little cop radio crackled with voices, I pushed him out into the portico and pulled the door shut behind us. “Turn that thing down!”
“Gee, sorry.” He twisted a little knob on the contraption, lowering the volume.
“Why were you knocking so hard?” I asked, breaking the no-talking rule fully and no doubt destroying my chances at true love forever—big surprise. “Do you know what time it is?”
“I do.” He smiled. “Apparently you don’t, though.”
My stomach tightened. “What are you talking about?”
Dylan crossed his arms and a muscle in his jaw jumped in a way that was both sexy and annoyingly coplike. Those two things should NOT go together! “I’m talking about the fact that you’re apparently grounded, and yet you aren’t home.”
I jutted out my chin, embarrassed and defensive both. “What’s it to you?”
“It’s nothing to me, but your dad is pretty pissed off.”
GLUG. My heart dropped into my stomach. I don’t know why, but I hadn’t expected that. “M-my dad?”
“Yup. He couldn’t break away, so he sent me over to pick you up and take you home.” He grimaced, and for a moment I could almost believe that he felt sorry for me. Then I remembered … oh, yeah, this is DYLAN SEBRING. Mr. Play-by-the-Rules, suck up to my dad, big-brother
clone. Riiiiiight. “I think you’re way busted,” he added unnecessarily.
I stepped back, partially because I couldn’t believe my dad had found me out, and partially because I was so mortified by this blatant display of parental disregard for my reputation. HOW HUMILIATING for Dylan to know just exactly how short a leash my father kept me on. “I don’t have to go with you.”
“He thought you’d say that.” Dylan fished in the front pocket of his ugly blue Explorer uniform shirt. He came up with a folded piece of paper and extended it toward me. “This is from your dad.”
I unfolded it and recognized the handwriting right off. Judging by how hard he had pressed the pen into the paper—not to mention the message itself—I was in deep doo-doo:
Lila Jane Moreno, get your butt home and don’t you move a muscle until I get there. If you give Lt. Sebring
—Lt. Sebring … SCOFF!—
any trouble, I’ll hear about it This is the last straw
.
Gulp. Double gulp.
Just then, Caressa and Meryl cracked open the front door and peered out. Neither of them spoke. I turned toward them, trying to keep the fear out of my expression.
“I’m sorry, guys. My dad busted me. I have to go with
him
”—I jerked my thumb over my shoulder at Dylan—“but just go on and finish without me.”
“What are you guys doing?” Dylan asked.
“Studying,” I snapped, as I took my coat from Meryl, who’d quickly retrieved it from where I’d hung it over the banister inside, “as if it’s any of your business.”
“Yeesh, don’t shoot the messenger. I just asked a simple question,” Dylan said, just as Meryl exclaimed, “Lila!”
“What?” I spread my arms and glared at her. Granted, I wouldn’t usually be this snarky, not even to Dylan, but I had to save face! I was embarrassed, not to mention angry that our dumb supper plans were ruined. “It doesn’t matter. He’s just an extension of my dad’s posse anyway.”
Meryl balked, then gave a strained smile to Dylan. “Don’t mind Lila. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. She hit her head earlier on my windshield.”
“Stop talking,” I told her, with some sense of urgency. “You’re not supposed to talk!”
“Forget it.” Meryl shrugged, looking flustered and defeated all at once. “We can’t finish without you anyway. It wouldn’t be the same.”
“Wow.” Dylan sort of jostled me in the shoulder with his elbow. “I didn’t know you were such a brainiac. You make them study in silence, and they won’t even finish without you?”
ARGH!!!!!
“Just… let’s go.” I flounced past him, calling back over my shoulder to my friends, “I’ll email you guys!”
He followed me, completely oblivious to my evil mood. “So, do you tutor people other than your friends?”
“I don’t tutor anyone, Sebring!”
He just laughed, which torqued me off. “Oh, sure. So I don’t fit your profile of a potential student. I see the writing on the wall.”
I spun back toward him, poking my finger toward his chest for emphasis. “Let’s get one thing straight. You don’t know me, you aren’t a part of my universe, and I’m not going to discuss my life with you. Do my father’s bidding, like the narc you are, but STOP TALKING TO ME BECAUSE I’M NOT INTERESTED IN CONVERSATION.”
Okay, harsh. But, it truly was my humiliation talking.
Dylan’s eyes narrowed briefly, then he held up his
palms as if to say, “have it your way,” and headed past me to the car. I beat him there and yanked my door open before he tried to be gentlemanly and do it for me. I was already feeling a bit ashamed that I’d taken my annoyance out on him. Then again, HE ruined my night!
I yanked the seatbelt across my body, then pretended not to watch Dylan walk as he rounded the hood of his car and angled himself into the driver’s seat, but I will admit, it was hard. He made my heart pound, which sorta pissed me off because I didn’t WANT him to make my heart pound. I wanted him to go away. Far, far away.
For a few, blissful moments, he drove in silence, but the guy just couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
“Nice night, isn’t it?”
Fuming silence.
“So, why didn’t you go to homecoming?”
Low blow. Was the question as innocent as it sounded, or was he trying to point out that I was dateless? Girls quite regularly said one thing and meant another, but whoever knew with guys? Either way, it just wasn’t an appropriate question. It’s like asking a girl how much she weighs or what size her jeans are! “Bite me, Sebring,” I said, in this singsongy tone.