Page 5 of Foolish Games

I did a fine fucking job of it, Dear Old Dad.

As if to spite him, I got wrapped up in football and friends and girls the minute we moved to Faulkner because Mom couldn’t afford our old house without Dad helping out. So wrapped up I didn’t think of anything to help when Melody started sinking beneath the surface of her musical obsession to the point where nothing else matters to her. I try to look at the positive, to tell myself it’s better than a lot of things she could be into.

And it’s not all my fault. We were both too busy looking at our own feet as we trudged through the next few years to notice the other wasn’t walking beside us anymore. That we’d reached some fork in the road without even knowing it, and we’d each veered down a different path.

Or maybe she’s just depressed, like Mom says. Since we can’t afford medication, I guess we’ll never know.

I tuck my hands into my pockets and scuff my tennis shoes against the cracked sidewalk.

That could happen to me too. Mom says it runs in families. That I could have it too. One day I might just stop caring about football and friends and grades, like she did. I’ll go from tutoring to pull-out classes in the basement. Maybe then we can be friends again.

Fuck all that.

I’m not going to let that happen. If I did, who would be there to eat macaroni and cheese in front of the TV with my sister? Who would mix in ground beef to gross her out? Who would watch the little kids while Mom’s at work?

My life is easy compared to the rest of my family. I have it good. Tutoring isn’t the end of the world. It’s only half a semester, just to get a couple grades up. I don’t even have to tell my friends.

Except Vivienne will probably tell Robert.

They’ll laugh about me, Rob’s dumb friend. And then my other friends will give me shit about being put in tutoring too.

But fuck them. I’ve learned to use my frustration, to aim it at my chosen targets. I have someone to take it out on every Friday night. This will give me more motivation to crush my opponents on the field. And if that little nerd tries to hold me back by not giving Coach a good report, she’ll learn what happens when someone stands in my way.

three

#1 at the Box Office: G.I. Jane

Vivienne Delacroix

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I stare across the table at the guy who just took a seat opposite me—the captain of the football team and the elite court of popular jocks and cheerleaders, the bully who calls my group the nerd herd and picks on us mercilessly, the player who thinks he’s god’s gift to women.

He sits back in his chair in that lazy way of his, cracking his knuckles and grinning at me. “No joke, Princess. I’m all yours. Tutor me, baby.”

I start to gather my things. “You’re right. This isn’t a joke. So if you’re going to treat it like one, like you do all your classes, there’s no point.”

“What are you doing?”

“Going to ask them to pair me with someone else,” I say, nodding to the five other small, rectangular tables in the back of the library, next to the AV room where they film student announcements every afternoon. Each table is occupied with another kid who needs help in various classes, my friends sitting across from them.

Chaz is watching us, his soft hands resting on the wood-grain surface, his orange brows drawn together in concern. Suddenly I want to cry for some ridiculous reason. Of all the people who need help, they thought it would be a good idea to pair me with the jerk who likes to shove my boyfriend into lockers and stuff his head in toilets. Why doesn’t he just buy a paper that’s already written like the other football players?

“You okay?” Chaz mouths.

I nod, pressing my lips together and standing to gather my books. Sebastian sits back, his bulging arms crossed over his bulging chest—where does he get all those muscles?—and an amused smirk on his lips.

Anyone would be better than a football player who thinks he’ll skate by because the school would never bench their precious Sebastian Swift, the boy with wings on his feet. Yes, an op-ed in the Democrat Gazette actually called him that. Talk about cheesy.

He probably expects me to do all the work for him so he can copy it into his own handwriting and turn it in. Hell, the school probably wouldn’t even require it to be in his handwriting. They just want to keep their star player on the field.

He watches me gather my binders like he’s waiting for something. But when I pick up my books without delivering, he lunges forward and grabs my hand. “Hey,” he says. “You can’t leave. You have to give Ms. Peterson a good report.”

I jerk my hand away, annoyed by the flutters that leap into my belly the second our skin makes contact. “Fine,” I say. “I’ll give her a good report every week. You can tell your coach you’re doing tutoring, and I’ll add it to my college applications. Everybody wins.”

“You mean, you win,” he says, scowling up at me. “Typical.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

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