“Tanning’s so bad for you,” Kaylee says matter-of-factly.
“Not with sunscreen.”
“Still . . .”
“Whatever, Kay. You know you’ll be at my house every day asking to go for a swim.”
“Nope. I’ll be running.” Kaylee looks over at me. “You too, right, Quinn?”
“Definitely running. I need to cut my times before tryouts next year.”
Kaylee high-fives me across the table. “Yes! We can train together.”
Lex and Zoe exchange looks. “You two are the worst summer vacationers ever.”
I toss a slice of soggy pickle at Lex, and she squeals and flicks it on the floor. We both burst out laughing.
Suddenly, Zoe throws herself across the table toward me, her colorful stacked bracelets clicking and chiming against each other. “Mike’s staring at you again. I told you he’s in love with you.” Zoe makes eyes in the direction of the boys’ table to the right of us. Kaylee, Lex, and I huddle in, settle back, and attempt to discreetly follow her gaze.
“She’s right,” Lex whispers, giggling. “He’s looking right at you.”
I drop my sandwich and tug on my ponytail. My neck and my cheeks are hot. This entire cafeteria has gotten too loud. “Stop, you guys,” I mutter. “He’s not looking at me. We’re not even friends.”
“That doesn’t mean he can’t like you,” Zoe says.
“He doesn’t.”
Lex smirks. “Then why does he stare at you every day at lunch?”
I chance a peek over: Mike is looking at me, but not in any kind of lovey-dovey way. It’s more like a We share a secret kind of gaze. But seriously, he doesn’t have to make it so obvious. I’ll have to yell at him later. We can’t let people know what we’re up to. They’d never in a billion years understand, and their interference could throw off the whole investigation.
Luckily Mrs. Hurd approaches Mike’s table, saving us both from the stares and the giggles. “Mr. Warren,” she booms, “it’s hot enough in the building today, don’t you think? Please remove your hat.”
“But Mrs. Hurd—”
“Hat.”
We all jump when the lunch bell rings, and I catch Mike let out a sigh of relief as he escapes Mrs. Hurd’s clutches.
“Quinn, wait for me by the bike racks after practice,” Zoe says. “I’m staying after school for art, so we can skate home together when you’re done. I have your board in my locker from when you let me borrow it the other day.”
“OK, cool. See you later.”
We break off in different directions for our lockers. As I turn, I accidentally slam face-first into Mike. “Ow! Watch where you’re going,” I cry, feeling myself redden.
He laughs. “You walked into me.”
“Why are you following me?” I hiss. “You’re making it too obvious. We can’t be seen together, remember?”
“Relax, Parker. No one knows what we’re talking about. And if anyone asks, we can just tell them I was asking you something about track practice.”
I glance nervously from side to side, relaxing only after confirming that my friends are nowhere in sight. “OK, what’s up?”
Mike props himself against my locker, his face close to mine. “I saw Mr. Brown.”
I lean in closer. “And?”
“He was running sprints up and down the street. Seriously, he’s fast. It’s like he just appeared out of nowhere.”
“But how can that be possible?” I ask. “Yesterday he was limping. He could barely hobble down the front steps to his garden.” As I speak, I picture Mr. Brown and his pale, bony legs covered with age spots, legs so skinny that it looks as though you could snap them in two without much effort.
“Define sprinting,” I tell him.
Mike frowns at me. “Sprinting, sprinting. Like what you and I do after school. Parker, I’m telling you, he was fast.”
“But how?” I press, louder than I intend. I feel the weight of other students starting to stare, and instantly I shrink back against the lockers. Mike holds a finger to his lips as if to shush me.
“We’ll talk later. Let’s walk home together after practice.”
I shake my head. “Can’t. Zoe’s coming home with me.”
“Fine. Tomorrow morning then. Six thirty.” He flashes a cheeky smile. “I promise I won’t be late this time.”
Before I can answer, the second bell rings. Mike gives a last wave and takes off down the hall, ignoring the threats for detention being thrown after him by Mrs. Pugliese.
I don’t see him again until after school down at the track. Practice is cut short because of the heat. Coach has us focus on strength and endurance drills instead of running, and he separates the girls from the boys on opposite sides of the field, so there’s no time to even try to talk to Mike.
After practice, I grab my backpack from my locker and meet Zoe by the bike racks as planned. She’s covered in sparkly gold paint right down to her mismatched Converse. Her dark blond hair is disheveled, her face exhausted, and she’s holding her board and mine, as promised.
“What happened to you?” I cry.
“I had a little fight with the paint, but I think I won. I’m going to get an A in that class if it kills me.” With that, she hands me my skateboard and we begin the skate home. “How was practice?”
“Same old. I just want to fall on the couch.”
“I’m in! Will your mom be home?”
“I don’t think so. She said she was working a twelve-hour.”
“Does she have ice cream?”
I make a face. “When was the last time my mom had ice cream in the house? She barely remembers to buy me the right cereal.”
“You should sleep over this weekend. I’ll make my dad cook us pancakes. With sprinkles or chocolate chips or something.”
“Maybe,” I tell her. Dad used to make me pancakes with sprinkles. When I was little, he called them Fancy Cakes. If Mom had to work a weekend shift at the hospital, he’d make them for me in the morning and then he’d take me over to drop the extras off to Mom.
“Check it out, she’s here,” Zoe says, nodding to Mom’s car in the driveway.
I shrug, and together we make our way inside.
“Hi, girls,” Mom greets us from the kitchen. She’s still in her scrubs, and Billy is rubbing his head against her shins.
“You coming or going?” I ask, kicking off my sneakers.
“That’s a nice hello.” Mom frowns. “I’m staying. Maria took my extra shift so that I could get home for dinner. And Grandma Jane called me. She has a very important bridge game tonight and isn’t going to make it over here until tomorrow. So we’ll have to reschedule our Cucina Della Nonna plans.”
“That’s fine.”
She stretches, her eyes tired and dark. “Do you want to shower first or should I?”
I ruffle Billy’s fur. “I will.” I always feel disgusting after summer practices and I hate sitting in my own sweat. I run upstairs and shower quickly.
By the time I trot back down, Zoe and Mom have the TV tuned to our favorite dance competition show, with a salad and reheated Chinese takeout spread out like a mini-buffet on the coffee table. Mom’s a terrible cook, but she at least used to attempt organized meals when Dad was alive: soggy lasagna, overcooked steak—it didn’t matter. I used to love dinnertime in our house. Dad would come home all amped up from work, telling us stories about his day and his theories about the Oldies. Now dinner usually consists of Mom, Billy, and me, and a couple of sandwiches between us on the couch.