I sigh. “Ry, time to go home.”
We walk in the front door to the sweet-and-sour aroma of chicken pad Thai and the sizzle of Heather’s wok. It’s been a favorite this summer—cheap enough to feed six mouths, tasty enough to keep everyone satisfied. My sister’s wife has plenty of ideas for feeding us, having been the oldest of seven, and she’s mega-cheerful about it all. I wouldn’t say cramming her in-laws into her starter home was a dream come true, but feeding us sure is.
Ryan takes a deep whiff of tamarind and lemongrass, smiles conspiratorially at me, and whisper-shouts, “Caaaaaaaaarbs” before literally running to the kitchen.
“Whoa there! Shoes!” Mom snaps as he rushes past her spot on the couch. Mom may be on the downside of recovering from a mastectomy, but she’s not about to let Ryan track turf dirt into our newly adopted house.
Ryan shuffles back, head hanging dramatically as I slip off Danielle’s hand-me-down Nike Frees. “It’s a compliment to Heather’s cooking that I forgot the rules.”
“No one believes that, Ry,” Danielle yells from the kitchen where she’s playing sous chef. “You’d eat those shoes of yours if we had enough barbecue sauce.”
We all laugh, but I’m shocked when Dad’s baritone joins us from the half flight of stairs that leads to our bedrooms. “Ryan, don’t listen to them. I got the same crap from my sisters and I turned out just fine.” Dad is never home from work this early. But now he jogs down the stairs, changed out of his detective gear and into ancient basketball shorts and a Royals T-shirt.
“Dad, you’re here!” I say as he plops on the couch next to Mom and grabs the remote. “Uh, why?”
“Nice to see you too, Livvie. No case tonight, but there is a Royals game. Plus, you know, I like hanging out with you people when work doesn’t get in the way.” He suddenly, dramatically, shrinks back from my sweaty self. “Man alive, did you run six miles through an onion field?”
“Hey! I don’t smell as bad as Ryan.”
“Do too!” Ryan shouts from the kitchen, mouth full.
“You both stink,” Danielle says, before adding, “Liv, come here.”
I pad to the kitchen. Ryan’s standing over the wok with a fork, testing noodles, while Heather’s chopping peanuts for the final touch. Danielle finishes setting out silverware and yanks me out the sliding glass door and onto the deck.
The sun out here is unrelenting, even in the evening, cutting a laser-beam path through the trees. “Did you talk to Coach Kitt?”
I swallow. Putting on my lady pants and apologizing to Kitt was Danielle’s idea, of course. She had some harebrained notion that it would do me some good. “I did. But she’s worried about my teammate compatibility.”
Danielle frowns. “She’s a coach. She’ll take talent over teamwork any day.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“Make her sure.”
“I’m trying,” I say, biting my lip.
Her eyes narrow. The woman is all about the execution. “How?”
“She wants me to prove I can be a teammate, so I’m doing that.” My sister’s eyes narrow further. Vagueness is not a favorite of hers. “By running cross-country,” I clarify.
“You are?”
I haven’t officially looked into it or anything, but I kind of make it seem like I have. “It’s not really a team sport, but it’s what I can do. I mean, you know I suck at volleyball. And I wanted to show her I could do something.”
Danielle’s lips press into a thin line as she mulls the options. “It’s not exactly going out on a limb, but at least you’re showing that you’re taking her request seriously.”
“I’m trying.”
She sighs. “You always do.”
The door slides open and Heather’s face pops out. “Dinner. Come and get it before Ryan eats it all.”
That’s enough of a warning. She doesn’t have to tell us twice.
5
THE NEXT DAY, I’M ON THE TRACK AGAIN, EYES PINNED to the pitted white lines, earbuds struggling to drown out the thought that school is less than a week away.
I’d hoped running on this track during Ryan’s practices would help acclimate me to the new environment, but I still don’t feel any more at home. I’m my own little island in a sea of activity, surrounded by soccer players, cheerleaders, cross-country waifs, and the football team.
Even without setting foot in a Northland classroom, it’s far too easy to imagine what it’ll be like to be the new girl, drifting through a sea of fifteen hundred other students who’ve known each other for the past eleven years.
Sure, I’ll recognize some faces (including the one I used to kiss, ughhhhh) but the chances of me eating my lunch in the bathroom still seem to be ridiculously high—the mythical 110 percent. I’m sure Mom’s famed turkey and Swiss will taste extra delicious when consumed within spitting distance of a pink toilet cake.
Something solid bumps into my shoulder and my head pops up.
“Crap, I’m sorry, I—” I glance over and see a tall white guy in a red football jersey, basketball shorts, and sunglasses going stride for stride with me.
“Olive Rodinsky, star infielder and sometime pitcher, I presume?”
“Liv,” I say slowly, tapping pause on my hand-me-down iPhone. “And you are?”
“Grey Worthington. Yes, it’s a family name—we’re not landed gentry but we sure sound like it.” Even with the half smile, he’s so deadpan that I stop moving for a second, stutter-stepping as he angles his giant body toward me, heels lapping at his hamstrings as he bounces in place. There, in his left hand, where I couldn’t see it before, is a football. “Starting quarterback.”
And so it begins. One of Jake’s buddies, here to make my life hell.
“Say no more.” I pointedly hit PLAY on my phone screen and take off.
Though I’m going at about 70 percent full speed—fast enough that it doesn’t look like I’m obviously sprinting the hell away from him—the dude’s right by me as if I didn’t move at all. In fact, in two long strides, he’s in front of me and stopping on a dime. Despite my supposed athletic prowess, I nearly smack into the white number sixteen on his chest.
“You have horrible manners, Grey Worthington.”
Instead of recoiling, he pushes his sunglasses into his hair and honest-to-God winks. Who the hell winks in real life, other than serial killers and George Clooney? Yet, somehow it appears to be a natural movement for Grey Worthington. “Yes, I know who you are,” he says. “But I’m not here for Stacey. Or Jake. I’m here for your arm.”
“My…?”
“Arm. You have an arm, and I need one.”
Still not buying it. “Both your arms look just fine.” And they do. Tan enough that the hair on his forearms has been rendered blond, almost completely mismatched with the light brown shag on his helmetless head. I glance over at the football team, still deep in practice, running suicides in a whir of orange and white. Only one other kid is wearing red, and everyone has a helmet. My mind searches for any tidbit Jake ever mentioned about football practice, but I can’t for the life of me reconcile the way this guy looks—no helmet, no pads, sunglasses—and the words “starting quarterback.”