Pivot Point (9 page)

“We’ll pass on the message.”

The man gets into a low-riding car complete with red-and-orange flames. Duke shuts the front door.

“He’s gone.”

Laila leans against it. “That didn’t solve the problem, Duke. It only postponed it. Poison will be back.”

“His name is Poison? Seriously? Remember
Flash
Davis,” I say, trying to lighten the mood, even though deep down I know Poison is no Flash. Poison looks like he actually earned his nickname.

Laila grabs two fistfuls of her hair by the roots, grunts, and then marches off to the kitchen.

Duke and I stare at each other, then I nod my head toward the front door. “Does it always work?”

“What?”

“Flashing your smile.”

“It tends to. You’ll have to let me know.”

I shake my head with a smirk. He is good.

NORM•date
:
n.
an outing with a Normal guy
I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t be here.…

My mind says these words over and over, and yet instead of turning around and walking back down the long, deserted hallway, my body seems to think pressing my ear against the door marked Athletic Trainer is a good idea.

In Government, I had left my stupid kindergarten-style note on Trevor’s desk. I knew he got it because he picked it up and looked around when he came in. But after class, Mr. Buford had stopped me to tell me about a study group that meets on Thursdays. Sure, I had failed to answer one of his questions, more because I was distracted about my note than because I didn’t know the answer.… Well, I didn’t know the answer either, but still, Mr. Buford didn’t have to act like I was an academic failure based on one unanswered question. More importantly, his keeping me after had made me miss my opportunity to talk to Trevor. So when I rushed out the door and saw him round the corner, I followed him. Here. To the kinesiology department. And pressed my ear against the door marked Athletic Trainer. Now my mind screams at me that I’m exhibiting stalkerlike behavior.

“Did you get approval from your physical therapist?” an unfamiliar voice asks.

“Not yet, sir.” That’s Trevor. “But I was hoping you could clear me.”

“That’s not how it works. How is it feeling?”

“It feels much better.”

“Really? Because last time I saw you, it seemed you were in a lot of pain.” There’s a long pause. “I know you want to play, but you have pins in your shoulder. It takes awhile to get used to something like that. Your body needs time to recover.”

“It’s been almost a year.”

“Why don’t you do some windmills for me?”

I slowly raise my head to peer through the window. Trevor’s back is to me as he sits on a table. His shirt is off, and two purple scars run down his right shoulder. I can’t look away. I haven’t seen many scars. There was this kid my freshman year who didn’t want to see a Healer because he thought the cut across his knuckles would make him look tough, but a month later he changed his mind and got his skin regenerated.

My eyes wander from Trevor’s scars to his back. Despite his claim otherwise, the boy doesn’t appear to have an ounce of fat on him, let alone a layer. Considering Trevor is my future best friend, I let my gaze linger a little too long on his back.

He lifts his arm to do a rotation and lets out a grunt of pain.

“I thought you said it was feeling better.”

“When I do that, it feels slightly less better.”

“Trevor, I know how much you were hoping to avoid it, but I think another surgery might be in your future.”

Trevor hangs his head, and his shoulders rise and fall.

“I’m sorry.”

He straightens up. “Not your fault, sir.” Then he stands and grabs his shirt. I duck back down and make a run for the exit. Back in the bustling hallway, I slow down and move with the flow of the crowd for a moment, my mind too preoccupied to remember the direction of my next class.

Lunch comes, and I haven’t stopped thinking about Trevor and his injury. I wonder what happened to him. I stand by the commons again, looking around. I’m starting to recognize a few faces here and there, but nobody I feel close enough with to invade their group. I have no idea where Trevor and his friends hang out for lunch (maybe they go off-campus), and since he hadn’t stuck around for even one minute after Government to say anything about my note, I’m beginning to wonder if he’s trying to avoid me. He probably senses the you-are-being-stalked vibes I’m giving off. Maybe I should go to that study group Mr. Buford recommended after all and meet some people.

I suck at making friends.

The library is the only option that makes me feel halfway decent, so I head there. I pull
A Tale of Two Cities
from its place and sit down. When I turn back the cover, it automatically opens to where an index card is stuck between two pages. I furrow my brow and read,
Wanted: good zombie hunter. Call 555–3681. Be prepared to provide references and past experience.
On the back Trevor had drawn a stick-figure zombie wearing a powdered wig and chasing a man. A smile creeps onto my face. He has a sense of humor
and
creativity. I wonder when he put this in the book. I search the aisles for a while but can’t find him anywhere. I program his number into my phone for later and slip the card into my bag.
And we’re back on track to best-friend-land.

After school I pull out my phone and call Trevor.

“Hello?” he answers.

I sit on the end of my bed. “I’m answering the ad for a zombie hunter.”

“Would you be able to start immediately? Apparently my life is in danger.”

“Can you describe the zombie that’s after you?”

He hums a little. “He’s a really old guy with an English accent, he might have a goatee, and he’ll definitely be carrying around a really thick, boring book. You might be able to pry it from his decaying hands and beat him back to death with it. Or maybe just reading it to him would work.”

He had to go there. “Boring? I could get a really thick book of my own and join his cause.”

“Oh no, did I just lose my zombie hunter?”

“Are you offering me the job?”

“Well, there’s one more step. Friday night a group of us are going to watch a movie at the Cineplex. Coincidentally enough, it’s the newest zombie one. It will be your official study guide.”

I notice he made a point of saying a group would be there; it wouldn’t be just the two of us or anything. He’s definitely not interested in me. So this confirms the fact that he is perfect best-friend material.

“Are you up for it?” he asks.

I have a very sensitive gag reflex and watching maggot-eaten skin for two hours probably isn’t the smartest idea. “Yeah, sure. What time?”

“The movie starts at eight.”

“Okay.” It’s silent for a few moments.

“Addison? Can you hold on a minute?”

“Sure.”

“What’s up, little man?” I hear him ask. I’m not trying to listen in on his conversation, but he’s not attempting to hide it.

“Will you play catch with me?” the voice of a young boy says.

“I can’t today. Sorry.”

“But the doctor said this week, right?”

“Two more weeks.” Trevor’s voice sounds tight. The little boy lets out a disappointed groan, and Trevor says, “You’re tellin’ me.”

My eyes wander to my bare walls. They’re an empty canvas, waiting for me to decorate.

The boy continues, “Oh, Ma called and said to tell you to put dinner in the oven because she’s going to be late.”

“Okay, I’ll be right there.” To me Trevor says, “Sorry about that.”

“What happened to you?” I ask.

“Excuse me?”

“Why can’t you throw?” I think about the two purple scars down his right shoulder. “How did you get hurt?”

“Playing football.”

I keep a groan from voicing its opinion. “You’re a football player?”

“I was last year, before I got hurt.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah, pretty much. So, anyway, I have to go, but did you need a ride to the movie or did you just want to meet us over there?”

“I don’t have a car yet.” Another casualty lost to the move. Even though my car is ancient, it’s still more advanced than anything they have here, so I had to leave it behind. My dad promised to get me a Norm-friendly car soon.

“Okay, I’ll come get you then.”

“Thanks. I’ll just text you my address.”

I hang up and pocket my phone with a smile. I have a friend. I’m proud of myself. I spin around and nearly trip over the basket full of clean and folded laundry near the foot of my bed. The phone in my pocket vibrates, and I answer before the number has time to register on the screen. “Calling to cancel already?”

“Cancel what?” Laila asks.

“Oh! Hey!”

“You sound happy. Why are you happy?”

I start to put away my laundry. “Because I’m going out with Trevor and his friends on Friday.”

“Aw, I’m like a proud mother bird watching my daughter fly from the nest. Fly, little bird, fly. Oh no! Don’t fall. No, that’s the ground. Addie, watch out for the ground. Man, tough luck. You’d better come back home.”

I stick out my bottom lip. “Was that supposed to be encouraging?”

“No, but it amused me. And I’m ready for you to come home.”

“Why?” One of the cuffs on a pair of folded jeans is sticking out farther than the other, so I refold them.

“Because you’re my best friend.” She sounds down.

“There’s another reason. What is it?”

“It’s just … it’s just nothing. I miss you. So tell me about Trevor.”

She can’t get off that easy. “Laila, talk to me.”

“You just keep me grounded, that’s all. Now, please do your job. So this Trevor guy is my supposed replacement?”

I sigh. “Yes.”

“You know that will never work. Boys and girls can’t be best friends. It’s impossible.”

I shake my head as if she can see me. “No, that’s not true. He fits all the criteria of a male best friend.”

“Okay, I’ll play. What are the criteria of a male best friend?”

“One: I feel completely comfortable around him, no nervousness or anxiety. Two: He’s really nice. And three: He doesn’t annoy me.”

“Wait, are you saying a love interest has to annoy you?”

“At first. And then eventually it’s realized that all that annoyance and mistrust is actually romantic tension.”

“Addie, you’re seriously screwed up.”

I add the folded jeans to a stack in the closet and then sit on my desk chair. My other line beeps, and I pull the phone away from my ear to see who’s calling. “Ugh, my mom.”

“Answer it,” Laila says.

“I don’t want to.”

“She nearly attacked me the other day at the grocery store asking how you were doing and if you were adjusting. It was pathetic.”

“If she wanted to know how I was doing, maybe she shouldn’t have left my dad.”

“You have to talk to her sooner or later.”

I bite my lip. I know she’s right. I know my dad’s right—I should call my mom. But just the thought of talking to her makes my throat close up. “I choose later.”

I hear a knock on Laila’s door. “Hey, hold on.” In the background her dad asks her if he can borrow some money. “I don’t have any, used the last of it on lunch today,” she tells him. I can’t hear his exact response, but I can tell he’s not happy. She finally gets back on the phone. I can practically hear the eye roll in her voice when she says, “My dad is killing me.”

“What did he say?”

“He owes some guy money. What’s new?”

“I’m sorry.”

“No feeling sorry for me.” She lets out a long sigh and then yells, “Dad! Doorbell.” To me she mumbles, “It’s probably Mr. Debt Collector.” There’s a pause and another grunt from Laila. “Hey, I gotta go get the stupid door. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Okay. Be careful and don’t do anything stupid,” I say, but she’s already gone.

PAR•A•li•a•tion
:
n.
beyond the average humiliation I stare in the mirror, trying to ignore the nervous pattering of my heart. The strip turned out more electric blue than I thought it would. Plus it covers a larger section than I had intended. I could tell it was bad when even Laila’s eyes got wide after we dried and straightened my hair.

Laila fluffs it. “Maybe you should wear it curly after all. Straightened probably brings it out more.”

“No,” I insist. “Rebellion requires commitment.”

“I think it looks hot,” Duke says. “But that’s just coming from the guy who hopes to play another role in your rebellion.”

Laila looks between us. “What?”

“Nothing,” I say. “I’d better get home.”

“Hey, Duke, can you take her? I need to check on my dad.”

I throw Laila a look, but she sings, “Thanks” as she runs out of the bathroom and disappears down the hall.

Duke laughs. “I should be the one thanking her.”

“I’m kicking her butt tomorrow. Come on, let’s go.” We walk out the door and Duke says, “I’d put my money on her in a fight.”

I gasp and backhand him across the stomach. Then I blush when I realize that counts as flirting in Laila’s Flirting 101 crash course she’s tried to give me many times over the years. “Sorry,” I say, shoving my hand in my pocket.

“It didn’t hurt.”

When we get in the car, Duke turns up the radio to just short of unbearable and proceeds to talk above it the entire ride, about football and how small his meditation cubicle is and how his mom makes the best peach pie that I should try and on and on. I’m glad I don’t have to try to fill the silence.

“This is me.” I point out my house that seems so small and plain with Duke looking at it. He lives on the edge of town with all the other large houses. He pulls over. “Thanks.” I start to get out.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come in with you? Your mom probably wouldn’t yell quite as loud with a witness.”

I do not want him to come inside. “We can’t lay it on her all at once. The hair is first. The boy is second.” I have no clue why I said that.

He nods. “All right. Well, good luck. I’ll see you tomorrow.” His stare is so intense, I feel like he can see right through me.

I put my hand on the center console, inches from where his rests. “Do you like to read?”