Gotcha Page 5

  Katie

  Just when I think my day can’t get any worse, the doorbell rings again. Mom stands in the doorway to the living room, hand on hip, eyebrows raised.

  “Just let them in,” I tell her, defeated. “I don’t care anymore.” I flop back on the couch and reach for the TV controller, but I put it back down when I hear a male voice at the door. My heart sinks completely. This really must be it. The only guy who would come looking for me is someone who wants my bead.

  I sit up straight and mentally prepare myself. Okay, I’m ready to get it over with. They can have my bead, and my victim...I never wanted to play this stupid game in the first place...

  And then Joel Keister strides into the room. Suddenly I’m not so prepared. I’m in total shock. I never imagined it would be him.

  Our eyes lock, but just like last night, I have to look away. Screw him and those shining eyes. Screw him for drawing my name. Screw Paige for putting ideas in my head.

  “Oh, this is just perfect,” I say, hoping he can’t hear the tremble in my voice. I guess Paige was right after all. There was something happening between Joel and me: I am Joel’s victim, and he’s been figuring out how to get my bead. I should have known. What else would have been happening? I am such an idiot. I blink back tears.

  “What’s perfect?” Joel asks. He glances from my ankle to my crutches to my face, and he actually looks concerned. No laugh lines now. Thank goodness I changed out of my godawful nightie when I went to the clinic.

  “You’re about to tag me.” I hold out my arm. “Hurry up. Get it over with.”

  I should have just stayed in bed this morning. My entire life would be different.

  Joel’s laugh snaps me out of my snit.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You! I’m not here to tag you.”

  “You’re not?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” I drop my arm. Now he knows I’m an idiot too. Can the day get any worse? “Then why are you here?”

  “Well...” It’s his turn to blush and look away. Good. I’m not the only loser around this place. “I was wondering if you’d heard about the party.”

  “Tyson’s?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I heard. A Gotcha party. What’s next?”

  “I know, but the thing is, I need someone to link arms with, and I don’t feel like hanging on to one of my guy friends all night, so I was just wondering...” He looks down at my ankle again. “What did you do?”

  “It was a snowboarding accident.”

  “It was?” I can see him trying to puzzle that one out. It was just last night we were at Elijah’s house. “But...”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh at him. “No, loser,” I tease. “I tripped. On my schoolbag. Pathetic, huh?”

  He laughs. “I once broke my ankle while out walking the dog.”

  “Really? You tripped too?”

  “Sort of. Bailey somehow managed to wrap his leash around my ankles while I was standing there talking to a friend. Then he tore off after a squirrel.”

  “Oh no!”

  “Oh yes.” He clamps his ankles together and tilts sideways, reenacting the scene. “I even heard it snap.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Yep. But I considered myself lucky that I didn’t break both ankles, or that he didn’t drag me all the way down the street. Can you imagine the road rash?”

  I laugh, and it feels good. “Okay, you win the pathetic prize.”

  “Thank you.” He grins.

  “And my ankle is just sprained. I’m gonna live.”

  “Glad to hear that. Nice colors, by the way,” he adds, referring to the bruising on my ankle.

  “Thank you.”

  The silence that follows is awkward, even though we both pretend to be intent on studying my swollen ankle. I would have painted my toenails last night if I’d known how much attention my feet were going to get today.

  “So, about the party. Do you think...?”

  And then my mom is in the doorway again, same tray, same mugs of hot chocolate. I decide that it’s actually her who wins the pathetic prize, but she scores big points for perseverance.

  “Katie, why don’t you tell your friend to sit down, stay awhile?” she asks while leaning over and putting the tray on the coffee table. Joel’s eyes meet mine and they’re smiling, a nice smile.

  “Thanks, Mrs. MacLeod,” Joel says and sits in the chair. “And thanks for the cookies.” He picks one up. “Are these homemade?” he asks, impressed.

  “Of course!” my mom says, clearly delighted that he’s noticed. “Take as many as you like. I know all about growing boys. I grew up with three brothers.”

  I roll my eyes, but Joel just smiles again and reaches for another cookie. “These are awesome,” he says, devouring the cookie in two bites. “Thank you so much!”

  He’s either really hungry or he’s doing a great job of sucking up. Either way, my mom beams as she watches him reach for a third one. “Please, call me Miriam,” she says.

  “And I’m Joel. And these are the best cookies I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Don’t be silly, Joel.” Her hand flaps the air once, and I’m surprised to see the blush in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes before she lumbers back out of the room.

  “So, the party,” Joel reminds me. He washes the cookies down with a big gulp of hot chocolate.

  “Oh. Right.”

  I consider my options. Do I really want to go with Joel and face Paige? Will people talk about us, speculating on what our being together means? Do I care?

  Joel must think my hesitation is a lack of interest. “It’s no big deal,” he says, standing up. “It was just a thought.”

  “No, no!” I tell him. “I’d really like to go. I would. But I had a...a bit of a disagreement with Paige this morning, and if she sees me there with you, she may completely misunderstand.”

  “What is there to misunderstand?”

  “Well...” At first I don’t know how much to share with him, but I decide to go with the whole truth. “She wanted me to go with her, you know, linked, but when I pointed out that I’d have to stay seated all evening, she decided that maybe I wouldn’t be such a fun person to hang with. So I...I wasn’t very nice. I accused her of always wanting to be the center of attention...”

  “And that’s news?”

  “I know! But she didn’t like me pointing that out. I really hurt her, and Tanysha and Mariah have taken her side, and, well, the whole thing has been blown totally out of proportion.”

  Joel thinks about that. “You’re going to have to face her sooner or later,” he reminds me. “Like at school on Monday.”

  “I know.”

  “And at least if you’re with me, you won’t be facing her alone.”

  “Facing them, you mean.”

  “Right.”

  “You sure you don’t mind just sitting the whole evening?” I ask. “I’m supposed to keep my foot elevated.”

  He regards my swollen ankle. “Hmm. Paige may have had a valid point,” he says. “That really would be boring. Forget I ever brought it up.” He gets up, grabs a cookie for the road and starts toward the door again.

  All I can do is gawk. What is with this guy? Then he turns back. He takes one look at my face and bursts out laughing again. “I’d be happy to sit all evening.”

  “You’re bad!”

  “No, I’m good. I really had you going for a minute there.”

  “Bad.” I chuck the TV controller at him.

  He grabs it out of the air and places it on the table. “So? We’ll go together?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?”

  “Yeah, maybe. Like, what happens if you have to go to the bathroom?”

  “Same thing as when you have to go to the bathroom.”

  “Which is?”

  “I have to hold it.”

  “Forget that!”

  “Okay then.” He smiles. “We temporarily find someone else to
link with.”

  “That could be dangerous.”

  “It’s either that or we go to the bathroom together and one person covers their eyes. We could pretend like we’re Siamese twins.”

  “I think not.”

  “That would be weird, wouldn’t it,” Joel muses. “Doing everything together. Not being able to get away from your twin for even one minute. What if you had a fight?”

  We regard each other for a moment, considering the situation. “Anyway, forget it,” I say, moving on. “I’ll take my chances and link with someone else if you go to the bathroom.”

  “Good plan,” he says. “I’ll pick you up at eight o’clock.”

  “You have a car?”

  “I’ll borrow my mom’s.” He gets up to leave but then pauses and leans over my ankle. He squeezes the big toe on my injured foot. “And you take it easy.”

  “I will.”

  As he heads out of the room I find myself not wanting him to leave. “Joel!” I call.

  He turns back. “Yeah?”

  I scramble to think of something to say. “Thanks.”

  “Thanks?”

  “Yeah, thanks.” But what for? For inviting me to the party? No. “Thanks for not stealing my bead.”

  He throws his head back and lets out a belly laugh. “Not yet, anyway,” he says and winks.

  That stumps me. He’s gone before I can respond, and I’m left wondering why I hardly ever noticed him between grade one and grade twelve.

  I spend the entire afternoon with my trigonometry book open, attempting to tackle this week’s assignment, but my mind keeps returning to thoughts of the party. I’ll be spending the entire evening linked with Joel. Ahh! What should I wear? I wish I could call Paige. She would know what was appropriate, or, better yet, she would lend me something nice. Yesterday my wardrobe seemed perfectly okay. Today it looks dismal. Eventually I give up on trig and go back to my English Lit novel, The Handmaid’s Tale.

  After dinner I finally decide on my snuggest jeans and the fluttery turquoise blouse that my dad gave me for my last birthday. I look in the mirror and tug at the neckline. Is it too low? Too high? Do I look like some kind of weird butterfly? I use the straightener on my hair and put gold hoops in my ears. I tell myself that I’m just going off to party with the same old gang that I see every day at school, but for the first time in a long time the gang doesn’t seem quite as “same old.”

  The doorbell rings at exactly eight o’clock. Mom hollers up the stairs to tell me Joel is waiting. I squirt my neck with a blast of perfume. Oh no. That was way too much. I scrub my skin with a washcloth. Then I add another coat of lip-gloss. Inspecting myself in the mirror, I see that I’m wearing way too much eye shadow! I take a Q-tip and rub at my eyelids. Then I take the tweezers, and pluck away some more at my eyebrows.

  “Katie?” Mom calls again.

  “Coming!”

  I pull a sock over my good foot but decide to leave the sprained one bare. Any twisting or pressure on it sends lightning bolts of pain up my leg. Did I remember deodorant? I don’t think so! Holding my crutches in front of me for balance, I struggle out of my blouse and dab at my armpits with the deodorant stick. Ouch! My armpits are sore from having the crutches grind into them all day. I pull my blouse back on and take a last look in the mirror.

  Mom and Joel are both standing at the bottom of the stairs, waiting. Joel is wearing a white shirt, black leather jacket and faded blue jeans. He smiles up at me. Once again I get that surreal feeling that I’m just an actress in a corny movie. Right now I’m supposed to swoon, and I really think I’m going to.

  Okay, Katie, get a grip.

  I now have to tackle the stairs, and I have to do it with dignity. I try to remember, crutches or foot first? I go to lower my foot first. No, it’s crutches first, obviously. I manage the first step. Then the second. The stairs are looking particularly steep this evening. I managed them earlier, but no one was watching me then, especially not Joel. I take the third step, but I suddenly have a vision of what would happen if I swung my weight down the wrong way on the crutches. I’d go head over heels, crashing all the way to the bottom. Then I’d have a fractured neck, and not just a sprained ankle.

  I feel my cheeks burn. I have no idea how to proceed. Who is this nervous stranger that has invaded my body?

  “You can do it, Katie,” Joel encourages.

  His gentle voice relaxes me, and I become aware of how ridiculously I’m behaving. Who am I trying to impress? “Forget this,” I tell them. I send one crutch sliding down the stairs, and then the other. Extending my injured ankle out in front of me, I sit on the third step and bounce my bum the rest of the way down.

  “Katie, you’ll wear a hole in your jeans,” my mom scolds.

  Joel just laughs and passes my crutches back to me. “I like your style,” he says.

  He holds the front door open while I clomp outside. I try to ignore Mom’s goofy grin. For a woman who has always warned me about making hasty first impressions, she’s decided Joel is a good guy awfully damn fast, and all because he liked her cookies.

  “Have fun you two,” she calls as we’re getting into the car.

  “We will, Miriam,” Joel assures her. “And we won’t be too late.” He waves as we pull out of the driveway. Mom waves back.

  “You just want more of her cookies, Mr. Suck-up,” I tease.

  “Damn right,” he agrees, and we both laugh. I can feel myself descending back to that easy place we were at this afternoon. I sink into the seat and breathe deeply. Joel hums to the tune on the radio and lightly taps the steering wheel. Why had I gotten into such a tizzy over this? I find myself rubbing the bead that’s on the chain around my neck.

  “Still got yours?” I ask.

  He glances over to see what I’m talking about. “Of course.”

  “You never know.”

  “You’re right. Forty people have lost theirs.”

  “Really?” That’s a lot more than Paige told me about. “How do you know?”

  “Warren has set up a group page on Facebook with all our names on it.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah. It’s great. If you get tagged you leave the group. Then the rest of us know who is still in.”

  “Who else has lost their beads?”

  “Did you hear about Michelle?”

  “Yep.”

  “Kerry?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How about Taia?”

  “No. Who got her?”

  “Anthony. Marc told her that he knew for sure that Caitlin had her name, so when Anthony phoned her and asked if he could come over and borrow her English notes, she thought it was safe. Turns out Anthony actually paid Marc ten dollars to tell her that.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’ve only heard about girls who’ve lost their beads. Are there any boys?”

  “Yeah, a few. You’ll have to check for yourself.”

  “So, with this group page, what keeps people from saying they’re out when they’re really still in?”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “So that their victims would let their guard down when they’re around.”

  “Hmm.” He thinks about that. “I guess people could do that, but someone else would post a rebuttal. There’s a lot of people posting notes on the wall.”

  “But you wouldn’t know which one of them was lying.”

  Joel glances over at me. “You’re not a very trusting person, are you, Katie?”

  “Not when it comes to Gotcha,” I tell him.

  He nods. “Yeah, I guess the proof is in the beads. You can either show them or you can’t.”

  We drive along in comfortable silence for a minute or two. Then Joel asks, “So, do you have any strategies you’re willing to share?”

  “And why would I share them with you?”

  “Because when we were in grade two I always let you butt in front of me in line.”

>   “You did not!”

  “I did too! You don’t remember?”

  “No!” I laugh at the thought of it and then study his face to see if he’s serious. I can’t tell. His lips are turned up at the corners, but that’s their normal state. “What line?”

  “The one at lunchtime. I was usually waiting for a soccer ball. I think you always took a skipping rope.”

  “Probably,” I agree. I was useless at sports.

  “I’m devastated,” he says. “I was being my most gentlemanly self, and you didn’t even notice.”

  “So why did you let me butt in?” I ask. I’m sure he’s teasing me again, but I decide to play along.

  “Because you were the cutest girl in second grade.”

  “Oh shut up!”

  “You were! Your pigtails really were pigs’ tails. They were these two perfect coils on either side of your head. I always had to resist the urge to pull on them, just to see them spring back up.”

  It’s true, my mom did always tie my hair up that way. How did he remember that?

  “And you had the sweetest smile. I remember how hard I had to work to make you laugh, though. You were so shy.”

  “Seven-year-old boys don’t notice the girls.”

  “I did.”

  “Hmm.”

  He looks me over. “You’ve grown, Katie.”

  I laugh. “You too, Joel. Just a bit.”

  “So you owe me. What’s your strategy?”

  I still don’t know if he was making that all up, but I decide to humor him. “My strategy is not to get in the game until it pays big.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’ll wait until my victim has amassed enough beads that it’s worth the trouble.”

  “Interesting strategy,” Joel says. “And how is your victim doing?”

  “I’m not sure,” I tell him honestly. “If I don’t find out tonight, I guess I’ll have to check Facebook later.”

  “And assume everyone is telling the truth.”

  “Right.”

  “Not a bad strategy. But not much fun, either.”

  “What’s your strategy?”

  “I don’t really have one. I’m just trying to stay in the game as long as possible, but I don’t expect to win.”