Wild Cards

Chapter 11



Derek



At the mention of Ashtyn’s chest, I look away and pretend I’m interested in the rest of the purple Skittles. I don’t want to notice Ashtyn’s chest, or any of her other body parts, for that matter. I’m already too aware of the girl as it is. Paying attention to her female parts is not an option, for more reasons than the obvious.



I close my laptop when the big Latino guy calls out, “Derek, wait. How about helping us out?”



Ashtyn says, “We don’t need any help, Vic. Besides, you heard what my sister said. Derek is forbidden to help us.”



Yeah, but that just makes me want to break the rules even more. “What kind of help?”



“Retaliation for messing up Ashtyn’s yard.”



Jet, the self-declared best-looking dude with a big mouth, says, “We gotta come up with a plan so they know not to screw with us. We could use any ideas you’ve got.”



Ashtyn steps between me and the guys. “He doesn’t have any ideas. Right, Derek?”



“Right.” I burst her short-lived moment of triumph. “But I’ll work on it.”



“No, you won’t,” she orders as her teammates say, “Great” and “Let us know if you come up with anything.”



Ashtyn shoots me a glare, then pats each of her friends on the shoulder. “We’ll talk about this later. It’s team business. You guys go do drills. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”



After they file out, Ashtyn leans on the table, her face close to mine. I wish to hell Jet hadn’t mentioned her breasts, because the way she’s leanin’ I have a good view of her lacy pink bra.



“You seem to think I need a savior.” I have a hard time concentrating on her words and not her bra. “I don’t. And while I appreciate you helping me clean the mess in my yard, I was more than capable of doing it myself.”



I pick up my laptop. “I’m no savior.”



“Then what’s your agenda, Cowboy?” she continues. “Besides annoying me.”



“Don’t got one,” I say. “Annoying you has taken up so much of my time since I got here, I reckon I don’t have much time for any-thin’ else.”



I walk out, hoping I’ll forget about that lacy pink bra and the girl who’s wearing it. Lying on my blow-up bed, I open my laptop again. I intend to watch random videos, but instead I search online for the pictures of Ashtyn’s front lawn. It doesn’t take long to find them. They’re on some bogus profile created this morning, someone claiming to be a Fremont student named Booger McGee. Pictures of the tampons and pads strewn on the lawn were uploaded today. Ashtyn is tagged in the picture marked FREMONT’S BITCH.



One picture is taken from the street to showcase the entire mess. A few others are closer up, showing their artful distribution of the pads and tampons. The pranksters were careful not to out themselves, probably afraid of the consequences of being recognized. Smart, but not that smart. I squint closely at a picture including Ashtyn’s car. There’s a reflection of the front end of another car in her side window. I easily identify the distinctive shape of a Jeep Wrangler with a custom light bar on top. Wranglers can never be mistaken for any other car.



I tell myself I don’t want to be Ashtyn’s protector. The girl is more than capable of fighting her own battles, and for the ones she’s not capable of fighting . . . well, she’s got a boyfriend and teammates for that. I need to remind myself to stay out of her life even when instinct tells me otherwise.



Falkor jumps on my lap and paws me. His breath smells like he’s been eating something other than dog food.



Spending the summer at Regents would’ve been awesome, with parties that would last all night. Now I’m in the suburbs of Chicago living with a stepmother who suddenly wants to make sure I stay out of trouble and a girl with a pink lacy bra who plays football and would like nothing better than for me to fall off the face of the earth.



Because I have nothing better to do and need an adventure, I decide to drive to Fairfield to see if I can spot the Jeep. It’s easy to infiltrate enemy territory when nobody recognizes you as the enemy. I wear jeans, boots, and a plaid button-down with my beanie to emphasize that I’m not from around here. When I first met Jack at Regents, he asked me if I lived on a ranch because of the way I talked. I might have talked like a cowboy, but I looked like a California dude who surfs and wears beanies. I’ve lived so many places, I don’t fit into any mold.



Fairfield is the town next to Fremont. I set my GPS for Fairfield High and find their football field empty. It’s Saturday, but hard-core players practice on weekends. As I cruise the streets on the alert for a Jeep, it doesn’t take long to realize there’s a rich side of town and a not-so-rich side. I turn down one block, then another, where buildings are tagged with gang symbols. The guys hanging out on the street corners look more than ready to sell me drugs.



I’m about to give up when I spot a red Jeep with a custom light bar parked in front of a sandwich shop called Rick’s Subs. A dude who looks like Ashtyn’s boyfriend, accompanied by some chick, pulls out of a spot and drives off. I take it. Once inside, I sit at the end of the long counter and pretend to look at the chalkboard menu above. This is obviously the Fairfield High hangout of choice.



A bunch of guys who look about my age are in a booth, laughing and acting like they’re the shit.



“Bonk, upload another close-up,” one of the guys says a bit too loudly. Bonk has a shaved head and piercings in his ears and eyebrows. He tells the guys to keep it down and looks around to make sure nobody is eavesdropping.



“What’ll ya have?” the waitress asks.



I glance at the menu again. “I’ll have a meatball sub to go.”



“You got it.” She calls out my order to the chef, then pours me a glass of water. “You go to Fairfield? I haven’t seen you in here before.”



“Nah, I’m visiting from California.” I nod toward Bonk and his posse, who now have a crowd around them. “So, um . . . do those guys go to Fairfield?”



“Sure do. Football players. The one with the shaved head is Matthew Bonk,” she adds. “He’s our star receiver,” she says proudly as if he’s someone famous. “We won State again this past year. Matthew’s our local celebrity.”



She goes to take someone else’s order.



Bonk walks up to the counter. He notices me sizing him up. “What’re you lookin’ at?” he asks as if he’s some deity unworthy of my gaze. He’s obviously taking the local celebrity thing seriously.



Time to have some fun . . .



“I just . . . wow! Matthew Bonk in the flesh.” I take his hand and shake it with an overabundance of enthusiasm. “It’s a pleasure finally meetin’ the famous receiver from Fairfield High.”



“Thanks, man.” He pulls his hand away. “Who’d you say you were?”



“Payton Walters,” I tell him, reversing the name of one of the greatest running backs of all time. The dude is clueless. “I was wonderin’ if I could get your autograph for my girlfriend. She’s a huge fan o’ yours, man. You’d earn me some serious brownie points if she knew I met you.” I grab my napkin and hold it out as the doting waitress eagerly appears and provides a pen. “Make it out to Sugar Pie.” I peer over his arm as he straightens out the napkin. “It’s what I call her.”



“Whatever floats your boat, dude.” Bonk makes the napkin out to Sugar Pie and signs it: Matthew Bonk, #7.



“Can I take a picture of you?” I lay on my thickest southern accent. “Sugar Pie’ll shit a massive cow pie if I show her a picture of you holdin’ up the napkin with her name on it.”



Yankees often assume people with southern accents are stupid. What they don’t know is that we use our accents to our advantage when we find it useful. Like now, because Bonk is posing with the napkin as I take a picture with my cell.



“Listen, buddy, I got to get back to my friends,” he says as he hands back the napkin and asks the waitress for a drink refill.



“No problem.” I grab his hand once again and shake it hard. “Thanks, man!”



He walks back to his friends and I hear him tell them what a dork I was. After I pay for my sub, I follow Bonk and his buddies outside. They’re standing by the Jeep. One of the guys mentions Ashtyn and suggests they break into the Fremont locker room and hang the leftover tampons on the lockers.



When they realize I’ve followed them, they look at me like I’m an alien from another planet.



“That picture I took was blurry,” I say apologetically. “Can I trouble you for just one more? I swear my girlfriend will pee in her Daisy Dukes when she sees I got a picture of you holdin’ your signature.”



Bonk rolls his eyes and laughs, but doesn’t protest as I hand him back the napkin with his signature. He leans on the back of his car as if he’s a stud and holds up the napkin. It couldn’t be more perfect, except . . . “Can y’all get in the picture with him?”



The guys are all too willing to pose for the camera.



Mission accomplished.



Chapter 12



Ashtyn



Monika comes over Sunday morning with Bree, the two cocaptains of the cheer squad. They want my opinion of a new cheer and a dance routine they’ve made up, as if I possess some insider knowledge of whether my teammates will like it.



On my front lawn, Bree and Monika start clapping and moving their bodies like they’re made of some secret flexible material. I have no clue how they’re able to move like that. I’m jealous, although neither of them can catch, throw, or kick a football like I can.



Derek walks outside and heads for the shed. He looks masculine, wearing jeans with cowboy boots and a white tank. Falkor follows closely on Derek’s heels.



Bree stops her routine. “Who is that?” she asks a bit too loudly.



“Derek.”



“He’s Brandi’s stepson,” Monika tells her. “He’s—”



“Super hot,” Bree interrupts almost breathlessly. “Oh, my God. You have definitely been holding out on me, Ash. I love his boots, and that knit hat he’s wearing is so cute.”



“It’s a beanie,” I correct her. “I don’t know anyone who wears one in the summer. It looks stupid.”



“I disagree one bazillion percent.” Bree is practically drooling over Derek like he’s a hunk of meat to be devoured in one sitting. I’m tempted to ask if she needs a bib. “If a guy looks like that, he can wear whatever he wants. Introduce me to him, Ash.”



“Trust me, you don’t want to meet him.”



“Oh, yes, I do.” She nods so fast it’s a wonder her head doesn’t just fly right off. Monika and I give each other a knowing look. We’ve been friends long enough to know that when Bree’s on the prowl, there’s no stopping her.



When Derek reappears, I make a weak attempt to wave him over, hoping he’ll ignore me. Unfortunately, he doesn’t.