Page 45 of Taking It To Overtime
“Hey,” he says, climbing over the rocks and slipping his way down the muddy embankment. “Your mom said you were down here. Everything okay?”
“Of course.” The stone by her left foot looks perfect, and she bends down to trail her fingers across the smooth surface.
It’s still warm enough that she’s already shed her shoes and socks, piling them on the bank as she picks her ways around the creek bed. The mud feels weird between her toes, but good weird. It’s cool and smooth and don’t women pay tons of money for this? To be slathered in mud? It’s down by the creek for free.
Her collection of stones is growing too.
“You weren’t at practice.”
Someday she might be ready to admit the little thrill that shimmies through her veins at his words. It’s like the pop of a firework on the fourth of July, or the first rush of sugar when she bites into a slice of triple chocolate peanut butter birthday cake. The proof that he notices her presence, or its lack. That he thinks about her, even while at the rink.
“Did I make you mad?” He slips off his shoes too, leaving them scattered next to hers.
One battered sneaker is on its side, facing away from the water, the other is upside down. An absolutely jumbled mess of footwear compared to her shoes sitting perfectly side by side. She tries not to read into the fact that he still put his bluenew balances right next to her pink vans. That has to mean something. Right?
“No.” She drops her rock on top of her collection and keeps her eyes down to search for more.
“You’re doing that thing where your words say one thing, but the rest of you says the exact opposite.” That makes her laugh. Her dad says the same thing to her mom almost once a week.
“Sorry,” she shakes her head, wiping her hands on her shorts as she smiles at him. “Tryouts for the musical are next week and I want to get a jumpstart on my audition.”
She’s only been planning on her eighth grade musical debut since she was in kindergarten. Okay, maybe not kindergarten, but at least since they moved, and she learned the musical was a thing.
“What is it this year?” Robbie tips his head to the side. “I could help you prep.”
“Robbie,” she plants her hands on her hips, narrowing her eyes because the sunlight is practically blinding her the way it shines off the ends of his dark hair.
This is the first year he hasn’t cut it for the start of school, leaving the edges long enough to curl under the bottom of his Buffalo hat. It flops into his eyes too, pin straight, but thick and wild and softer than the silk pillowcases her mom uses.
The last time she touched it was after he got that concussion at the end of last season. He’d nestled his head against her thigh while an animated kids’ movie played in the background, and closed his eye as she ran shaky fingers through the strands. She’d seen him take the nasty hit—too hard, too close to the boards—watched him crumple onto the ice and take his time standing up. Watching him get hurt had been the single worst experience of her life.
“Your singing voice makes Mrs. Jensen’s French bulldog sound like a Broadway star.”
Sheriff Neil had responded to the Jensen’s house on more than one occasion, expecting to find someone grievously injured. Only to be greeted by Angela, the beige colored bulldog, who couldn’t weigh over twenty-five pounds. The dog hadn’t even been upset. She was just spending the afternoon singing for all to hear. Literally, for all.
“Ice cold, Vera.” He shakes his head, but he’s smiling at her, and the warmth inside her tummy grows, stretching out into every nook and cranny. “I’ll have you know I was a real asset last year.”
“Yeah.” She smirks. “The best tree KMS has ever seen.”
“Thank you,” he bows. “So what’s the show?”
“Honk.” When he laughs, she adds, “It’s the story of the ugly duckling. I’m hoping for the lead.”
Robbie drops himself down onto the large boulder. His legs are so long he has a foot on either side of her body and the boulder looks more like a small stone. She remembers when they used to bake mud pies on the flat top.
“That’s unfortunate.” He wiggles his toes, and she looks down at them even though feet gross her out. Have his legs always been this hairy? She glances down at her own bare shins, then up at his face. He doesn’t have the mustache that Vic is trying to grow, but does he still have to shave? His jaw looks darker than she remembers, like someone took the side of a pencil and shaded it in.
“No, it’s cute.” The eighth grade never did any of the well-known shows. They were too close to the city and to Broadway, and recognizable names were saved for the high school. She couldn’t wait to audition for one of those roles. This year, Schuyler Regional was doing The Wiz and Vera already knew what song she’d use to audition. If she were a freshman.
Robbie shakes his head. “That’s unfortunate. You’re too pretty to play an ugly duckling.”
It takes two hands to shove him off the rock.
“What the—” he hits the water with a splash. “V, it was a damn compliment. Jeez.” He gets to his feet, his shorts dripping creek water down his pale calves. Vera grabs his hat before it can float away.
In hindsight, she knew it was. Even his teasing is good natured. The twins would have told her she wasperfectfor the role. Because she was ugly. But in the present, she’d panicked and pushing him into the creek was the perfect way to shut him up.
You could have kissed him, her brain unhelpfully supplies, but she couldn’t have. Not really. That’s the kind of move that the main characters in romance books and rom com movies make, not eighth graders with a teensy tiny little crush. The fear of rejection, of ruining everything, is too great. This isn’t the Lizzie McGuire movie. She isn’t going to kiss her best friend and ride off into the sunset, avoiding any sort of consequences for an unsupervised trip through a foreign country.
