Paula Stokes - The Art of Lainey

“You’re not lame,” Bee says. “With or without Jason, your life is still amazing, you know?”

“I guess.” But ever since the day Jason dumped me, I’ve felt less and less sure about that. Almost anyone can be successful at sports if they work hard. Even popularity is more about who you know than who you are. Being Jason’s girlfriend was different. A guy who could date almost anyone picked me. With him, I felt part of something bigger. Just like with Kendall, he made me feel invincible, like things would work out for me no matter what. Once you’ve experienced that, it’s kind of hard to give it up.

Bianca and I finish our run at the park across the street from my house. We guzzle water from a fountain shaped like a lion’s head, and then Bee jogs over to the curb and pulls a soccer ball out of her trunk. I groan.

“What? Are you tired?” she asks. “You were the one ready to beg to play on Jason’s coed team. How about you practice with me?”

“I don’t know. I’m kind of exhausted just from the drama of the past few days.”

“I get it,” Bee says. “But I know how much you want a scholarship. This thing with Jason is out of your control at the moment. But soccer—no one can take that from you unless you let them.”

“How’d you get so smart?” I snatch the ball out of her hands and twirl it between my fingers.

“I watch people. I see things.”

And that’s Bee. A watcher. A “think first and leap later” girl.

“I just figure instead of obsessing about what is out of your hands, why not control the things you can?” she adds.

“Okay.” I toss her the ball and mop the sweat from my forehead. “But prepare to be dominated.”

For the next thirty minutes, we play one-on-one, chasing each other up and down the full-length field. I score the first goal and impulsively turn cartwheels all the way back to midfield.

“That’s the Lainey I know,” Bee says as I collapse in a heap of giggles.

She fights back and ties the score, pulling a couple of nice moves to pass me on her way to the goal.

“Somebody’s been practicing without me.” I chase her down the field.

“Two brothers,” she hollers back.

“No fair. My brother never played soccer.” I put my game face back on and manage to score twice more. When we finally decide we’ve had enough, I’m still ahead, three goals to one, but both Bianca and I are smiling. I realize our “game” is the first time in days that I’ve thought about something other than Jason.

After a break, Bee practices throw-ins and then plays goalie so I can take a few penalty shots.

I’m feeling giddy, so good I could probably practice all day, when I notice my arms are looking a little pink. The sun seems to be centered exactly over the field where we’re practicing and I only put sunscreen on my face.

“I’m turning into a lobster,” I say, passing the ball to Bianca and heading for the nearest shade. We both collapse onto the ground beneath an ancient oak tree. I feel my stomach rise and fall with each breath.

“So.” Bee blots her forehead on the sleeve of her T-shirt. “You’re sure you’re ready to see him?”

“Ready,” I confirm. “And thanks for the workout. It felt good.”

“Maybe we can still get on a rec team somewhere.” She tosses the ball up into the sky and then catches it on her fingertips.

Bianca wanted to sign us up to play soccer for her church on Saturday nights. I told her no because I figured I’d be playing on Jason’s team and hanging out with him on the weekends.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “Like you said, we can work out together. Besides, August practices for the Archers will be here before I know it.” The St. Louis Archers is the select team I play for during the off-season. “You should try out too.”

“Nah. I get enough soccer in the spring,” Bee says. “My fall schedule is full of AP classes. I’m going to need my free time for studying.”

“Sounds boring.” I nudge her in the ribs. “Think about it. I bet you would totally make it.”

“All right. I’ll think about it.” She hops to her feet and lifts one of her legs behind her, pressing the heel of her shoe against her butt. She does the same thing with the other side, and then pulls the foot almost all the way up to her head. I watch with envy. I’m not even close to that flexible. “So what’s the plan for Jason?” she asks.

“I’m thinking maybe I should wait until Monday,” I say. “That’ll be a whole week since we’ve talked, and I know he has a ride-along shift so I can catch him if I go by his dad’s place in the morning.”

Bee leans against a tree and starts stretching her hamstrings. “You don’t think that’s a little stalkerish?”

“I think he shouldn’t have given me his schedule for all of June if he was going to break up with me at the beginning of the month,” I say. “Besides, if I call him, he’ll just ignore me. I need to swoop in like a falcon or something, right? Be unexpected. Be bold. Whatever.”

“Good point. You want me to spend the night Sunday so I can help you get ready?”

“That would be all kinds of epic.” I look up at her. “You can keep me from chickening out.”

“I’ve known you for what, ten years? I’ve never seen you chicken out,” Bee says. “If anyone can make this work, it’s you.” She reaches down and pulls me to my feet.

“With your help,” I remind her.

“With my help.” She smiles. “All right. I need to take off. My mom wants me to watch my brothers so she can sleep.” Bee’s mom is a nurse who works night shifts, and her dad travels a lot for work. Her little brothers, Elias and Miguelito, are cute, but rowdy.

“Doesn’t your grandma ever watch them?”

“Ha,” Bee says. “I think someone needs to watch her too. I caught her making flan at three o’clock in the morning once. When I asked her what she was doing, she said she was hungry.”

I smile. “I’m good. Go give your mom a much-deserved break.” Working out calmed my mind, and thinking strategically makes me feel like I’ve regained some control over my life. Maybe Bianca’s right. Maybe The Art of War can fix things.

It’s time to put my plan into action.

Monday takes forever to get here. I set the alarm for five o’clock so I have plenty of time to get ready. Jason has to be at work by seven, so he should be up by six.

In the morning, I can’t eat anything. My hands are shaking, but I’m pretty sure it’s not from lack of food. “This is a bad idea,” I say. “Maybe I should at least text him and let him know I’m coming.”

“That would not be unexpected,” Bee says. “Don’t give him a chance to weasel out of seeing you.”

She’s repeating back what I said last night, when an unannounced visit seemed like the best plan. I mean, it’s word for word from The Art of War: The spot where we intend to fight must not be made known. But now that little voice in my head is back and it’s whispering things like danger and bad idea. I rub at a bump on my left cheekbone that wasn’t there last night. Crap. Am I getting a zit? “I feel like I’m going to puke.”

“You can’t. You haven’t eaten anything,” Bianca says. “You need to relax. And you look amazing, by the way.”

She’s right. About the relaxing. Well, also about the amazing part, I hope. I put a lot of thought into my outfit, a pair of cutoff jean shorts and a teal-blue tank top that accentuates my spray-on tan and bright green eyes. Of course he won’t be looking much at my eyes because thanks to the miracle of engineering known as the “Stick-’em-up Stunner Bra,” my B-cup breasts appear to be defying the law of gravity. I give myself a once-over in the mirror. I’m all arms, legs, and cleavage. “Too much skin,” I say. “I look like Hooker Barbie.”

Bee hands me a lacy black cardigan from my closet. “Try this.”

I slip it around my shoulders. “Better. Thanks.” My strawberry blonde hair is straight and shining thanks to a half hour of flat ironing and I’ve done my makeup as daytime flirty—light lips, brown eyeliner, a touch of mascara. Most of my freckles are hidden under a thin layer of foundation. I rub at the bump on my cheek again.

“Don’t mess with it,” Bee says. “You’ll make it worse.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re one of those people with invisible pores. I’m pretty sure it’s medically impossible for you to break out.” I dot some concealer over the bump and turn to let Bianca look me over. “What do you think?”

“Perfect,” she says without a touch of envy. “Irresistible.”

I nod and take a deep breath. Together we tiptoe down the hallway and into the kitchen. I poke through the refrigerator but it’s full of hummus and organic produce—nothing Jason would eat.

“Let’s stop by Denali,” I say. “If I bring breakfast, he’ll have to invite me in. I mean, it would just be rude not to, right?”

Bianca nods. “Good call. You can get some of Micah’s famous chocolate chip muffins. It’ll be baiting the enemy, just like Sun Tzu said to do.”

We hop into the Civic and arrive at Denali a few minutes later. Humming along to the weird indie rock music Ebony likes to put on before my dad gets there, I grab a couple of muffins out of the front case. Then I pluck a honey oolong tea bag from a box next to the register and fill my travel cup with hot water.

Ebony looks up from her usual booth. “Were you planning to pay for that stuff?”

“Take it out of my check.” I stroll back toward where Bee is still lingering just inside the door. A pair of elderly men look up from their chessboard to stare at my outfit for an inappropriately long amount of time.