So Not Happening (11 page)

“Today. Now.”

I force a smile. “Can't wait to get out there. My journalistic fingers are just itching to . . . to . . . “ My forced enthusiasm falters. “Look, I'll go sit in trash. That's all I can give you right now.”

“I want a full report. Dig around in that Dumpster for at least two hours. Got it?”

“And you promise this isn't some way to make me disappear? Some big truck isn't going to show up and scoop me up, right?”

For a millisecond I think I see a flicker of humor in his eyes. But if it was there, it's gone now. Just his cold, assessing stare. Any trouble you get into will be of your own making.”

Oh, I would love to rake that prim and proper smirk off his face. “Yes, sir, Mr. Editor. And maybe if you're nice to me, I'll bring you back a souvenir. Like a petrified burrito or a decomposed hot dog.” Because that's all I'm going to find on this pointless errand.

His eyes flicker over me again before he turns around and walks away.
That pompous, arrogant little—

Outside I find my mom in the parking lot. I slide into the passenger seat but leave the door open.

“I've got news,” I say.

“Me too. I got a job!” She pulls me into a fierce hug. I close my eyes and drag in her comforting smell. I remember when I was little I would count her hugs like prizes. They were few and far between, unlike Luisa's open arms. Mom was rarely home. And when she was, her ear would be connected to her phone or she'd be taking care of someone else in one of her charity organizations. I always wanted to start a charity for myself. The Where in the World Is My Mom Foundation.

“I'm going to be working at Sugar's Diner downtown.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I start tomorrow. I'm going to wait tables.”

“Mom, you don't even know your way around a kitchen.” I stop myself from rolling my eyes. I don't want to hurt her feelings, but this is a disaster in the making. “Wouldn't you like to find something more suited to your skills?”

And then her lower lip trembles. She drops her head to the steering wheel. “I don't have any skills.” She sniffs and wipes away a falling tear. “It's so hard.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Okay.” She blows her nose and holds me with a watery gaze. “I married your dad when I was so young. I was in love.” She shakes her blonde head. “I dropped out of college to marry him and support him through med school.”

“See, you've got work experience. What did you do back then?”

“I mean I supported him emotionally. I kept the apartment pretty—myself pretty. Then your dad's career took off and you came along.” She smiles and pats my knee. “And I just forgot about my own dreams. Your dad became this giant personality . . . and I seemed to have lost mine. Bella, I don't even know who I am anymore.”

Aha!
“Mom, it's okay. We can go back to New York and figure it out. You were confused when you married Jake. I understand.”

“Oh no.” She closes her eyes, further smearing her mascara. “Marrying Jake was a turning point for me. He encourages me to be . . . me. And now I've got to figure out who that is.”

Yes,
please hurry. Because I think the real you will want your
Manhattan address back.

“I need to figure out what I'm good at. What my interests are.” Mom smiles slowly. “I need to get to know my daughter. I've missed out on a lot. But no more, Bella.” She swipes at her smudged under-eye area. “You want to know what I decided today?”

“Mom, I don't know if I can take any more of your life changes.”

“I'm going back to school!” She giggles. “Isn't it great? Just a few classes next semester, but I'm on the right track. I know it.”

I glance at my watch and feel the dread coat my stomach. “I'm really glad for you.” Aren't I? “But I've got to go. You're looking at the newest staff member of the
Truman High Tribune,
and my first assignment starts right now. I couldn't get out of it.” Or avoid getting
in
it.

My mother straightens and turns the key. “Oh. Well, I was hoping you could help me with dinner tonight. It's my turn to cook, and”—she shrugs—“you know what a disaster that is. Plus I thought it would give us a chance to talk more. But I'm glad to see you making connections already! I told you all that would blow right over.”

Yeah, like a dead tree.

I stick a leg out the door and force the rest of my body to follow. “I'll call you when I'm done. Shouldn't be but a few hours.” And then a couple
more
hours of showering. My hand hesitates as I shut the door. “Mom... I really am proud of you. But promise me you'll keep your eyes and ears open. I really think Jake might be—”

Her cell phone erupts in an obnoxious chime. “Oops, got to take this. Call me when you're done, sweetie.”

And my mom drives away. Still oblivious to Jake's deception.

And the fact that her daughter is about to get totally violated by a Dumpster.

chapter fifteen

Assignment Rules: Garbage Expos
é

1. Investigation is confidential and will not be discussed with
anyone not on
Tribune
staff.

2. Reporter is to secure the area and make sure no one sees
entry into Dumpster.

3.
Reporter is to stay concealed within Dumpster for a minimum
of two hours.

4. Reporter is not to do anything but observe and take pictures
during this time.

5.
Anything confiscated during the investigation is the sole
property of Truman High School; should anything be kept
by reporter, it will be considered stolen property.

I
refold my assignment description from Luke and grab a few necessary items from my backpack. Can you believe those rules? I'm so sure—like I'd
want
to keep anything from the trash. That boy needs to get over himself. Mr. Power Trip.

“Okay, here goes nothing.” Throwing my bag on the ground, I “secure the area” and find the coast is clear. Unfortunately. I walk to the back of the rusted brown Dumpster. And stop. If I get hepatitis or some sort of rash out of this, I will have Luke Sullivan's head on a platter.

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath.
Ew!
Too deep. Breathe through the mouth.

I grab a milk crate from a nearby stack and set it beside the Dumpster. Right now I think I would rather pluck out my own fingernails than do this.

I plant one foot on the crate.

This is so unfair. The nerve of that guy. You
know
he created this assignment just to smoke me out of the class.

Both feet on the crate.

I'm through being a disappointment to Truman High. If Luke tells me to swim across the Mississippi River in my winter coat with my arms tied behind my back and weighted fins, I will do it.

My hands clutch the top of the metal wall and I peer in.

Truman High is going to see that no matter what they throw at me, I can handle it. I can do anything. I am Bella Kirkwood. I am made of tough stuff—strong resolve, tons of courage, heaps of strength—sick! Is that a dead mouse?

With a final look behind me, I stick my heel into a foothold, heave myself up, and hurl my body over the side.

“Yuck!”

And face-plant into a puddle of old spaghetti. My breath coming in gasps, my hands fly to my face and swipe the red stuff off. I think I'm going to be sick. I lift the tail of my top and bury my head in it. There's one shirt ruined. Along with my dignity.

God,
I don't know why I've got a front-row seat on this little journey into humiliation, hut whatever You're trying to teach me, I'm
here.

And if we could hurry the lesson along, that would he great too.

My feet find the floor, and I find a spot and sit on a trash bag. Time to start opening some of these bags, I guess, because I sure don't see anything suspicious here. Five giant trash bags. A batch of old spaghetti that was stronger than the bag and worked its way to freedom. A few plastic bottles that should've been recycled. And a paint can.

I grab my notebook and jot the items down. Oh yes, I can see the story already.
Cafeteria has perfectly normal, smelly garbage.
Frontpage news. Can't wait to have my name attached to that.

Reaching for a bag, I breathe through my mouth and untie it. On second thought, I am
not
digging through that. I don't have gloves. I don't know if my tetanus shot is up to date. And I could get cut on something like glass or metal. Or the cafeteria's rock-hard cookies.

I pry the bag open further and take a few pictures. Maybe I'll get the photos blown up into eight-by-tens and frame them for Luke. Since he's so into trash.

After snapping a few more pics with the digital camera and nothing else to do, I settle onto a bag.

And wait.

Only one hour and forty-seven more minutes.

I pull out my phone and text Mia in New York.

Hunter sez ur going to party 2nite. Make sure he's not slow dancing
w/some hot girl. Ha!:) Sorry I haven't called. Fallout from blog has been
nuts. U would not believe where I—

“We've got trouble.”

My head snaps up at the voice.

Who is that?

Male. Young.

What if he finds me? How will I explain this? Um, just hungry for a little spaghetti and look where I found some!

Another guy answers. “I know who you mean. I'm on it.”

“He's on the verge of talking.”

“I said I'll take care of it.”

“He could blow the cover on ten years of the Brotherhood. We can't risk that. Do you still want to go ahead with the new recruit? Are you sure he's ready?”

Recruit? Ready for what?

“We'll talk to Sparks at the Thursday night party, then decide. Hopefully he'll show. I see no reason to stop now.”

Sparks? As in Matt Sparks? That's Lindy's friend.

“Anything to make the coach happy, right?” Silence stretches, and I risk a shallow, quiet breath. Are you sure you don't want me to handle Reggie?”

A breeze blows and I flinch as something flies up my nose.

I rub my eyes and check out the box next to me. Pepper!

My sinuses constrict.
Oh no.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Must. Not. Sneeze.

“No. He's all mine. He needs to learn that we come first. None of us will be talking about last year's mishaps.”

I bury my face in my armpit. My eyes water.

Here it comes! Can't. Hold. On. Any. Longer.

“Later, dude.”

“Achooo!”

My hands fly to my mouth and I freeze. Who throws away an industrial-sized box of pepper? That is so going in my report.

“Did you hear that?”

Silence.

Then feet shuffling. Getting closer to the Dumpster.

My nose burns again. I pinch it and hold my breath. A sneeze is seconds away.

“Hey, somebody's coming. Let's get out of here.”

Great idea! Go!

“I'll talk to you tomorrow—with a plan.”

Their feet pound the pavement in a hard run.

“Achoo! Achoo!”

“Bella?”

“Achoo!”

“Is that you, Bella?”

I know that voice. The Evil Editor.

I step on my trash bag and hang over the edge of the Dumpster. “Who else would be neck-deep in day-old marinara and used forks?” I glare down at the boy who sets my blood to boiling.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”
Like you care.
“Why?”

“You seem to have a little . . . uh, something here.” He steps forward and brushes my cheek with his knuckles. A featherlight touch. Our eyes lock.

And I fall backward, my trash bag imploding beneath me. “Ugh! I hear you laughing out there, Luke Sullivan!” I brush clinging tea grinds and banana peels off my skirt.

“I'm not laughing.”

I peek over again. “Did you get a good look at those two guys?”

He looks behind him. “Who?”

I roll my eyes.
Boys! So unobservant!
“They were just here. You had to have run into them.”

“Nope. Didn't see anyone. But I was jotting down some notes on my BlackBerry too.”

“Great. So I sit in a giant box of trash and see nothing but an improperly disposed of paint can, yet when a
real
story shows up, you totally miss it.”

Luke frowns. “What do you mean?” He holds up a hand for me to grab. “Jump out.”

I barely resist a second eye roll. “I'm in a skirt.” I motion for him to face the other direction, then with very unladylike grunts and probably a flash of my undies, I crawl out of the dump and back onto terra firma. “Okay, you can turn around now.”

His nose wrinkles. “You smell.”

“And you're obnoxious. But, Luke, I have a real story. At least a piece of one. These two guys were here and—”

“Save it, Kirkwood.”

“What?”

“You are assigned to this investigation.” He points to the trash. “That's all I want you to cover.” He wrinkles his nose. “Maybe not so literally next time.”

“But I overheard this conversation and—”

“What was it about?” He grabs the camera out of my hand and slips it in his front pocket.

“Well . . . I don't know. But they were being all secretive. Somebody's got a plan for this hush-hush meeting, and something about the first football game.”
Wow. I really do smell.

“Bella-”

“And they would've talked more but then I snorted a bunch of pepper, which I definitely don't recommend.”

“Bella-”

“And I couldn't sneeze, so I was holding it in, and I thought my eyeballs were going to pop out of their sockets, and—”

“Would you be quiet?”

“Oh.” I blink. “Were you saying something?”

“You have been assigned a story—”

“An exposé on
trash?”
How can you even call that a story?

“—and you will focus only on your assigned story. So I don't care if someone comes up to you with details of an Orlando Bloom sighting—you will ignore it. You have a long way to go to prove yourself. And this is not a good start.”

I open my mouth in helpless outrage. My brain whirs with insults, blistering words, and slurs against his mama. “I am telling you, something is going on at this school. Something related to the game and Matt Sparks—and maybe he's ready, maybe he's not—and they want to stop Reggie from talking about last year.” I catch a breath. “What happened last year? Anything? Any sports fiascos?”