Paula Stokes - The Art of Lainey

“Two brothers,” she hollers back.

“No fair. My brother never played soccer.” I put my game face back on and manage to score twice more. When we finally decide we’ve had enough, I’m still ahead, three goals to one, but both Bianca and I are smiling. I realize our “game” is the first time in days that I’ve thought about something other than Jason.

After a break, Bee practices throw-ins and then plays goalie so I can take a few penalty shots.

I’m feeling giddy, so good I could probably practice all day, when I notice my arms are looking a little pink. The sun seems to be centered exactly over the field where we’re practicing and I only put sunscreen on my face.

“I’m turning into a lobster,” I say, passing the ball to Bianca and heading for the nearest shade. We both collapse onto the ground beneath an ancient oak tree. I feel my stomach rise and fall with each breath.

“So.” Bee blots her forehead on the sleeve of her T-shirt. “You’re sure you’re ready to see him?”

“Ready,” I confirm. “And thanks for the workout. It felt good.”

“Maybe we can still get on a rec team somewhere.” She tosses the ball up into the sky and then catches it on her fingertips.

Bianca wanted to sign us up to play soccer for her church on Saturday nights. I told her no because I figured I’d be playing on Jason’s team and hanging out with him on the weekends.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “Like you said, we can work out together. Besides, August practices for the Archers will be here before I know it.” The St. Louis Archers is the select team I play for during the off-season. “You should try out too.”

“Nah. I get enough soccer in the spring,” Bee says. “My fall schedule is full of AP classes. I’m going to need my free time for studying.”

“Sounds boring.” I nudge her in the ribs. “Think about it. I bet you would totally make it.”

“All right. I’ll think about it.” She hops to her feet and lifts one of her legs behind her, pressing the heel of her shoe against her butt. She does the same thing with the other side, and then pulls the foot almost all the way up to her head. I watch with envy. I’m not even close to that flexible. “So what’s the plan for Jason?” she asks.

“I’m thinking maybe I should wait until Monday,” I say. “That’ll be a whole week since we’ve talked, and I know he has a ride-along shift so I can catch him if I go by his dad’s place in the morning.”

Bee leans against a tree and starts stretching her hamstrings. “You don’t think that’s a little stalkerish?”

“I think he shouldn’t have given me his schedule for all of June if he was going to break up with me at the beginning of the month,” I say. “Besides, if I call him, he’ll just ignore me. I need to swoop in like a falcon or something, right? Be unexpected. Be bold. Whatever.”

“Good point. You want me to spend the night Sunday so I can help you get ready?”

“That would be all kinds of epic.” I look up at her. “You can keep me from chickening out.”

“I’ve known you for what, ten years? I’ve never seen you chicken out,” Bee says. “If anyone can make this work, it’s you.” She reaches down and pulls me to my feet.

“With your help,” I remind her.

“With my help.” She smiles. “All right. I need to take off. My mom wants me to watch my brothers so she can sleep.” Bee’s mom is a nurse who works night shifts, and her dad travels a lot for work. Her little brothers, Elias and Miguelito, are cute, but rowdy.

“Doesn’t your grandma ever watch them?”

“Ha,” Bee says. “I think someone needs to watch her too. I caught her making flan at three o’clock in the morning once. When I asked her what she was doing, she said she was hungry.”

I smile. “I’m good. Go give your mom a much-deserved break.” Working out calmed my mind, and thinking strategically makes me feel like I’ve regained some control over my life. Maybe Bianca’s right. Maybe The Art of War can fix things.

It’s time to put my plan into action.

Monday takes forever to get here. I set the alarm for five o’clock so I have plenty of time to get ready. Jason has to be at work by seven, so he should be up by six.

In the morning, I can’t eat anything. My hands are shaking, but I’m pretty sure it’s not from lack of food. “This is a bad idea,” I say. “Maybe I should at least text him and let him know I’m coming.”

“That would not be unexpected,” Bee says. “Don’t give him a chance to weasel out of seeing you.”

She’s repeating back what I said last night, when an unannounced visit seemed like the best plan. I mean, it’s word for word from The Art of War: The spot where we intend to fight must not be made known. But now that little voice in my head is back and it’s whispering things like danger and bad idea. I rub at a bump on my left cheekbone that wasn’t there last night. Crap. Am I getting a zit? “I feel like I’m going to puke.”

“You can’t. You haven’t eaten anything,” Bianca says. “You need to relax. And you look amazing, by the way.”

She’s right. About the relaxing. Well, also about the amazing part, I hope. I put a lot of thought into my outfit, a pair of cutoff jean shorts and a teal-blue tank top that accentuates my spray-on tan and bright green eyes. Of course he won’t be looking much at my eyes because thanks to the miracle of engineering known as the “Stick-’em-up Stunner Bra,” my B-cup breasts appear to be defying the law of gravity. I give myself a once-over in the mirror. I’m all arms, legs, and cleavage. “Too much skin,” I say. “I look like Hooker Barbie.”

Bee hands me a lacy black cardigan from my closet. “Try this.”

I slip it around my shoulders. “Better. Thanks.” My strawberry blonde hair is straight and shining thanks to a half hour of flat ironing and I’ve done my makeup as daytime flirty—light lips, brown eyeliner, a touch of mascara. Most of my freckles are hidden under a thin layer of foundation. I rub at the bump on my cheek again.

“Don’t mess with it,” Bee says. “You’ll make it worse.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re one of those people with invisible pores. I’m pretty sure it’s medically impossible for you to break out.” I dot some concealer over the bump and turn to let Bianca look me over. “What do you think?”

“Perfect,” she says without a touch of envy. “Irresistible.”

I nod and take a deep breath. Together we tiptoe down the hallway and into the kitchen. I poke through the refrigerator but it’s full of hummus and organic produce—nothing Jason would eat.

“Let’s stop by Denali,” I say. “If I bring breakfast, he’ll have to invite me in. I mean, it would just be rude not to, right?”

Bianca nods. “Good call. You can get some of Micah’s famous chocolate chip muffins. It’ll be baiting the enemy, just like Sun Tzu said to do.”

We hop into the Civic and arrive at Denali a few minutes later. Humming along to the weird indie rock music Ebony likes to put on before my dad gets there, I grab a couple of muffins out of the front case. Then I pluck a honey oolong tea bag from a box next to the register and fill my travel cup with hot water.

Ebony looks up from her usual booth. “Were you planning to pay for that stuff?”

“Take it out of my check.” I stroll back toward where Bee is still lingering just inside the door. A pair of elderly men look up from their chessboard to stare at my outfit for an inappropriately long amount of time.

I spend a moment reviewing my game plan. I decided to hang on to Jay’s jersey and letter jacket for now, but I’ve brought all of the DVDs he left at my house. That’s my “legitimate” reason for stopping by. The muffins are just extra, to remind him of how sweet I can be and to score a few extra minutes with him, to show him just how sweet I can be. I can’t help but feel like Dead Chinese Warlord would be proud.

Now all I have to do is not chicken out at the last second. There is no backing down once you have committed to a course of action. You have to rush forth like floodwater or strike like lightning or something. Besides, getting busted doing a stalker drive-by would be an epic-fail move. I’d have to transfer to a new school.

“Do you want me to go with you?” Bianca asks.

“Nah. What if he’s outside and sees you?” I say. “Or what if things go so well he skips his ride-along shift so we can have delicious makeup sex? I don’t want you to have to wait for me. That’d be awkward.” Really I’m thinking more like what if he laughs in my face or walks right past me like I’m invisible, but I can’t say that or I might start crying. And I’ve done more than enough crying at Denali already.

Bee pets both sides of my silky flat-ironed hair. “I’ll be here all morning, maybe behind the counter if it gets busy. Come by afterward and share the good news, okay?” She walks me up to the front door.

“I will. Thanks.” I throw my arms around her neck, give her a squeeze, and then turn to leave. I open the door halfway, but then hesitate. The coconut wind chimes dance above my head. “What if this doesn’t work?” I ask, my voice so quiet only Bee can hear me.

“It will,” she says. “And if for some reason it doesn’t, well, I always thought you could do better than Jason anyway.”

Better? Jason might be going through a thing right now, but he loves me—I know it. And he makes me stronger. Not to mention he’s hot, popular, and superathletic. We’re practically two halves of the same person. There is no one better, not for me. Bee’s just being a good friend, building me up.

It gives me the confidence to keep going.

On the drive over to Jay’s condo, the bad feeling returns. I try to shake it off as the blocks fly by. Maybe it’s just because Bianca’s not here to be my cheerleader. I envision her sitting next to me in a pep squad outfit, chanting, L-A-I-N-E-Y. Time-to-go-get-your-guy. It’s ridiculous, really. She would probably rather get nipple piercings and a sleeve of tattoos than be a cheerleader. She doesn’t like when people stare at her. Even in soccer, she’s the girl who passes instead of taking the shot.

I used to be that girl too, before I started hanging around with Kendall.

My stomach feels like it’s full of angry hummingbirds. I try to think of what Kendall would say if she were with me. Probably something about how Jason is just a guy, and I should grab him, flash my girly parts, and then lead him to the bedroom. The problem there is that I’ve been doing that since I turned sixteen, so if it quit working for some reason, why would it work today?

And why did it quit working in the first place?

The traffic signal in front of me turns red. I sit at the intersection for what feels like a million years. I cycle through my brother’s radio presets. Red. I check my reflection in the rearview mirror. Still red. Pretty sure the stoplight has broken. It’s like the universe is conspiring to keep me and Jason apart. Suddenly I need more than a pep talk. I need divine intervention. If only my mom were here to do one of her readings.

I glance at my black plastic travel mug. It’s worth a try, I guess. Grabbing the mug from the cup holder in the center console, I roll down the window and pour out most of my tea as the light finally turns green.

I pull over around the corner from Jason’s condo, where I can see the front of his building but hopefully he can’t see me. The soggy tea bag is stuck to the bottom of my travel mug. I rip the tea bag open and squeeze the wet pulpy leaves into the mug. I swish them around with the half ounce of liquid still hanging out in the cup. Then I invert the whole mess onto the lid, splattering my bare legs with droplets of tea in the process.

I swear under my breath. If form counts for anything, my cup is going to be full of skulls and tombstones. Laying the lid gingerly on the passenger seat so as not to make more of a mess, I pray for a symbol of happiness or good luck. A bell. A dove. Maybe a kite that means my wishes will be granted. As I look down at the tea leaves that stayed stuck in the cup, I see . . . wet leaves. I rotate the cup slowly, looking for anything familiar. Nada. Crap. The story of every teenage girl’s life—I should have paid more attention to my mother.

I hear a door open and I look up, forgetting all about my leaves as Jason appears from the entrance to his building. My chest feels like it’s being crushed in one of those blood pressure thingies the old people are always using at the Supermart. As he heads across the grass, my breath catches in the back of my throat. I pause just long enough to consider the likelihood that I may, in fact, be having a heart attack at age seventeen. Not. Likely.