The Starter Boyfriend (7 page)

“Maybe it’s a good time to see each other, Courtney. It’s been a while.”

My hand fisting around the cordless receiver, I felt a low hum of fury course through my body. A while. Uh-huh. Like, since the day she took off on us? Over three years ago?

As I gathered the wind to respond, an oddly calm voice resonated in my brain. Offering up choice words:
not now
. Not before the wedding. Because while I had zero reason to believe my dad still had feelings for my long-lost mother,
she
was the one who left him. I’d learned enough about relationships to know sometimes the dumpee longs for the satisfaction of an “I’m sorry and I still love you” from the dumper, even if it’s just an ego thing. I was betting my dad wouldn’t know how uncoordinatedly uncool taking my mom back would be. I mean,
what if
?

The last—the
last
—thing I wanted was Myra Walsh returning to L.A. and somehow ruining what I planned to be the first day of the rest of my dad’s life. And mine.

“How about Christmas,” I choked out, doing a variation of the compromise thing that Adam had talked about. Meeting halfway, even it was a little bit of a lie.

“I was hoping for sooner.”

“Thanksgiving, then. I—I could come see you. In Detroit.”

She went quiet. For so long I felt like another three years had passed. “I was thinking of making the trip out there.”

My throat thickened. “Oh, no reason for that. Besides, I’m dying to travel.”

She paused, then let out a little laugh. “Why, of course. I keep thinking of you as a little girl, but you’re seventeen now. Practically grown up.”

Practically? I had been for quite some time. Her absence had assured that.

“Why don’t we talk again in a few weeks?” I said instead. After the wedding. “We can make plans then.”

“Okay,” she said, brightening up. “You have my number, right?”

I’d kept myself completely in check so far, if for no other reason than to make her go away. But that last question? Them’s was fightin’ words. “
Oh, yeah, I’ve got your number, all right
.” I skipped a beat then let out a laugh, as if this was all fun and games, as if there were no hard feelings, as if this mother-daughter reunion stood a chance of happening.

She laughed, too, and did a quick goodbye thing and hung up. Then I walked away. Calmly. Until I hit the stairs, which I took at a thunderous two at a time, my body on the verge of a total implode.

A million miles away, in a low, tinny voice, I heard my dad ask Jennifer if I was okay.

“Let her go for now,” Jennifer’s voice floated toward me. “She needs to be alone.”

I wanted to scream to my dad that no, I was not okay, then scream at Jennifer for thinking she—or anyone—could understand what I was going through. Mostly, I just wanted to scream.

That’s what pillows were for.

* * *

I slept like a baby that night. No, not waking up every hour, crying, but a long, hard, solid sleep. I woke before my usual alarm clock explosion, feeling oddly okay, like the phone call had never happened. I decided to take extra time to work my hair, my outfit, my mood. Why not have a good day?

In the car, when KROQ assaulted my sensibilities with an oldie about it being a Manic Monday,
and
I had to resort to street parking because I couldn’t find a spot in the student lot,
and
a glance at the ensuing crowd told me it was a School Spirit Day (should have worn a softball shirt), I kept my cool. I was simply getting the crap out of the way early.

That philosophy held all the way into the building and up the stairs to my locker. Where in addition to the people doing their usual grab-and-slams, I spotted Flea, Saffron and Madison. Standing in a half-circle—like a broken Krispy Kreme—in front of my locker. Except there was nothing sweet in their eyes.

“O.M.G., Courtney,” Saffron burst out.

“Have you
seen
it?” Madison asked.

My voice and any semblance of reason were pretty much flattened by a tsunami of adrenaline. “Huh?” I managed.

Flea flicked her head toward a flyer on a nearby wall. A neon pink page screamed out: “LOST DOG!” above a black-and-white photo. A head shot of Randy. I stepped closer to read the small print.

Answers to Randy.

Last seen holding his mommy’s paw

while wagging his short, stubby tail.

Someone had crossed out “tail,” changing it to “thing” before photocopying.

Whoa. A guttural choke sounded from my throat. I turned back to my friends. “Cold, much?”

“Of course,” Flea spoke immediately, “Jacy’s denying it.”

“Of course she’s denying it!” Saffron snorted with a loud inhale. “Wouldn’t you? It’s probably not only tacky, it’s illegal.”

“Or at the very least, littering,” added Madison. “And I hear Randy’s furious, ripping down every flyer he finds.”

“Well, duh,” echoed the others.

Saffron let out a short laugh. “You’re
so
in, Courtney.”

I must have looked as baffled as I felt because Madison cleared things up for me. “Randy. You should totally go to Homecoming with him.”

“It’s not like he’s asking me!”

“Puh-lease.” Saffron smiled and two dimples formed in her cheeks—Catherine Middleton perfect. If I hadn’t gone to school with her since seventh grade, I might have wondered if they’d come from her dad’s wallet, rather than his gene pool. “Everyone saw you at my party. You were all over each other.”

“We talked for like two minutes.”

She plucked a piece of imaginary lint from her sleeve. “Longer than that. A lot longer. But you know what they say about time flying when you’re having fun.”

Give me a break. Randy Schiff and me. Right.

Besides, in my heart-of-hearts, when I imagined myself bathed in the glow of the dance ball at Homecoming? The guy in my arms was wearing a certain thirty-eight long, thirty-two inch inseam style 02116 tuxedo, and had bluer-than-blue eyes and an expression that could be considered rather, well, wooden.

“We’re all going to the dance,” Madison spoke up. Which I had pretty much figured since both she and Flea had boyfriends, and Saffron now had—or at least, was going with—Adam. “And it’s not like Randy’s gonna say no if you ask him.”

Flea did an eye-drill into mine. “He
needs
a date.”

Saffron threw her hair and nodded at the same time. Sort of dizzy-making, still, effective. “I hear Jacy’s ripping people new ones over this, and threatening death and dismemberment to any girl in their crowd who goes to the dance with him.”

“In their crowd,” Flea repeated. “Which of course, applies to none of us, right?”

The girls gave me knowing looks and supportive shoulder pats before moving en masse down the hall.

“Make us proud!” Saffron called back over her shoulder.

Watching them disappear, their voices replayed in my head. I was sure they meant well. They wanted me to go to the dance, too, and it would only heighten the varsity softball team’s place in the S.B. statusphere if one of us went with a popular football player.

I got that. Still, no way I was asking Randy—or any guy—to the dance.

To be safe though, I made a mental note to avoid crossing paths with this Jacy girl. As soon as I figured out who she was.

* * *

I had a creepy feeling that morning that people were staring at me. And maybe they were. With astonishment that my hair was blown out and I was actually wearing mascara? With disapproval that I wasn’t wearing school spirit colors? Or maybe it was all the hot pink flyers sticking out of my backpack. I’d been tearing them down like apple pickers before a frost.

Out on the crowded courtyard at lunch, heading towards the varsity softball table, I nodded hello at ex-Marine security guard, Betty Anne, but otherwise kept my head down. What I didn’t see didn’t have to be my reality, right?

But no way I could miss the deep, husky voice calling out my name. Or ignore Randy suddenly dead in my path.

“Courtney, right?”

I nodded, tempted to remind him that we were
past
the stage where he pretended not to know my name. Then his face contorted like he was in some kind of pain, and I pitched those thoughts for some compassion. “You okay?”

“I guess you’ve seen those flyers?”

“Pretty crappy.”

“Can you imagine if my mother found out? She’d probably take out a restraining order against Jacy.” He gazed down. “On top of that, apparently Jacy is threatening to kill any girl we know who goes to Homecoming with me.”

“I heard.”

He seemed to study his sneakers. “And I guess you told my mother you didn’t have a date?”

I nodded, waiting for what I figured would be an invitation. Thinking that somewhere, in an alternate version of reality, his mother was grinning. Along with Flea, Saffron and Madison. Not to mention Jennifer.

Out of nowhere, Adam popped into my brain. He’d asked Saffron to the dance to ensure her dad’s surfing sponsorship—a
go big or go home
move if I’d ever heard of one. Could my going with Randy, to make others happy, fall into that same category?

It wasn’t like I had plans for the night, anyway. Still, I couldn’t exactly accept until he asked, and all he was doing was arching his brow and shuffling his feet.

When enough time had passed for me to have filed, buffed and painted my nails to match the dress I’d mentally shopped for, I decided to take matters into my own hands. “Randy—”

Only to have him finally speak up and over me. “So? What do you say?”

That’s when I realized he thought he’d already asked. That somewhere, in his widened eyes, he’d popped the question. Making me wonder if he was completely full of himself, or so thoroughly whipped by the females in his life that he never had to really talk.

“Will I go to Homecoming with you on Saturday night?”

“Yeah.”

Be still my heart. “I guess, okay.”

An uneasy smile quivered at his mouth, then burst full-force. I was tempted to do a little finger wave to the gap between his front teeth. “Great. You’re helping me out here.”

“And your mom will be pleased.”

He pushed out a laugh. “Yeah.”

We exchanged cell numbers, then went our separate ways. I didn’t get more than a foot closer to my lunch table when he called back to me.

“Oh, and don’t worry about Jacy. She won’t go all postal on you. She doesn’t think you’re like,
competition
or anything.”

I blinked. Did this guy have a way with the English language or what?

Chapter 8

I had expected my friends and Jennifer to be all “Yay!” over me going to Homecoming with Randy—I’ll admit that. But I figured Phillip’s reaction would run somewhere between could-care-less and mild annoyance that I’d need a little time off.

Doing tux return inventories with him that afternoon (Jacket?
Check
. Vest?
Check
. Cuff links?
Check
.), I tried to make the date sound pretty no-big-deal.

“What do you know,” I told him, lifting a purple tie toward the overhead light to inspect for hidden stains. “Looks like I’ve got a date to the Homecoming Dance after all.”

When he didn’t respond, I snuck a look out of the corner of my eye. To see his face slowly lifting.

“Surfer boy?”

I felt a laugh rise inside me—Adam and me, right!—then lodge inside my throat. “No,” I managed. “Randy Schiff, that guy who came in with his mother.”

“Oh, him. You like him?”

I shrugged. Randy had a football player’s bod and that rapper smile. What got my blood racing was fitter, blonder looks. Not to mention a persona so chill you could almost forget he was in the room. Or in the window.

“Could be fun, Courtney. As long as that mother keeps her distance.”

“Amen to that.” I bit down on my lip. “You wouldn’t mind me taking Saturday afternoon off for—”

“Take the whole day.”

“Really?”

“I’m sure it takes forever to make a helmet out of hair, and with those hard, springy curls hanging down.”

I laughed. “Oh, a salon updo. Yeah, I’m not going that far. Really, I only need the afternoon.”

He put up his hand in a STOP sign. Making me feel rather silly. Obviously, he’d run his shop long before I’d come along. “Now, what about a dress? What are you wearing?”

Giving a bow tie the a-okay, I worked it back on its cardboard holder. “I’m not exactly
there
yet. Since Jennifer is taking time off right now to get ready for the wedding, I thought I’d tag along on a shopping adventure. Nothing too fancy, of course. Or expensive. It’s not like I’ll wear it again.”

When I glanced back up, Phillip’s stool was empty. Then he lumbered out of the backroom, a long, closed garment bag in his hand.

“Back in the old days, I rented formal wear to females, too.” He stopped to hang the bag on a display rack. “I got rid of the gowns because they weren’t serious money-makers, but my wife told me to save this. Then I think she forgot about it.” Stepping in front of the bag, he gave the zipper a tug. “I’m sure it needs a good dry cleaning, and we might have to alter it. If it works for you, you can have it for the night.”

Everything inside me tightened. I was the first to admit that I bought what my friends bought and wore whatever happened to be clean, but still, styles were personal. What were the odds I’d do a face-plant for a dress
his wife
liked? Still, the last thing I wanted to do was offend him. Help!

He moved away. When I saw the sparkles, I first thought my anxiety had gotten the best of me, that I was seeing stars. But soon my gaze fell upon the entire form: sky blue, strapless, gathered at the waist, with a tea-length swishy skirt. It was like Giselle from “Enchanted” meets Christina Aguilera.

“Wow,” I heard myself murmur.

He chuckled. “I take it that’s a I-need-to-try-this-on.”

I hightailed it inside the dressing room, and traded my jeans and stretchy tee for The Big Time.

The material felt silky and delicious, and fit like it was made for me. I floated out of the dressing room and up to the alteration pedestal. With Phillip closing the top back hook for me, and the sun streaming down through the skylight, I took in my reflection in the full-length mirror.