The bossy attitude, though, was why I called her Pisszilla—only in my head, of course.
As Pisszilla moved on to her next victim, I looked down at the list I’d started at the beginning of the period. Journalism was the sole writing class Chariot High offered, and I usually paid extra-close attention. But since our evil editor was the only one talking, I didn’t feel the need. She wouldn’t even notice if I left the room. Now that she was busy biting someone else’s head off (apparently each of the horoscopes last week had ended in gruesome death, a detail Pisszilla was none too happy about), I could turn my mind to more important matters.
It seemed so obvious. I didn’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before. Last night at 3:42 a.m., when I’d been half-asleep, half-delirious, I’d come up with the perfect solution to my matchmaking blues.
A fake boyfriend.
Hooker couldn’t set me up if I was already set up, so to speak. All I needed was someone to play my boyfriend for a while, and I’d be golden. The key to success was finding the right guy.
On the sheet of paper I had stealthily tucked beneath the crook of my arm—in case someone decided to be a real jerk and snatch it—I’d outlined my criteria under the heading:
THE IDEAL F.B.F.
1) Must be able to keep a secret.
2) Must not be afraid of Hooker.
3) Must be MALE (no more misunderstandings)
4) Must be willing to work cheap and agree to a month’s worth of service
5) Must be able to keep hands to themselves and separate F.B.F duties from reality
Numbers one, two, three and five were the most important, but four was nonnegotiable. The timeframe of a month would make it more believable, especially to Mom. Then when the guy called it quits, there’d be no question of me dating again. I’d be too heartbroken, too devastated at the loss of my so-called first love. The plan was so freaking perfect. I barely stopped myself from busting out the maniacal laughter as the bell rang. Hooker wasn’t the only scheming mastermind in this school.
Now, if I could just find someone who met all the requirements, I wouldn’t have to go on another blind date for the rest of my life.
The thought had me smiling so hard, my cheeks hurt.
“Spitz.”
I turned and found Ash Stryker, soccer star and fellow news staffer, staring at me, frowning.
“Something wrong with your face?”
Trust Ash to ruin my good mood. Dropping the manic grin, I deadpanned, “No. Something wrong with yours?”
He shook his head, still looking at me like I was the strangest thing. “Listen, I wanted to give you a message. The team doesn’t appreciate you focusing all your stories on one player. There are ten other guys out there besides your boyfriend. It wouldn’t kill you to quote one of them sometime.”
“Wait—” I couldn’t believe this. “—you can’t be saying what I think you’re saying. Have you actually read any of my pieces?”
An eyebrow raise was all I got from number forty-three.
“Ash, you do know I was the one who gave you your nickname?” I’d christened him The Whip last year, describing his quick dribbling and the sound his foot made as it connected with the ball. That was when he’d been an up-and-coming sophomore. Now, as a junior, The Whip was a starter on varsity, not quite as good as Becks but definitely talented—and arrogant. “I mean, seriously, The Whip? People didn’t just come up with that on their own.”
“My mom was calling me that way before you ever wrote your little article.”
And did I mention cocky as all get out? Sweeping blond hair, lean frame, easy smile. The guy had most girls falling at his feet—lucky for me, I wasn’t most girls.
“Yeah, whatever,” I said, walking past him and patting his shoulder. “Good talk.”
“You’re an odd one, Spitz.”
“That’s what they say.” Stopping in the hall, I turned back around. “And by the way, Becks and I are just friends.”
Ash grunted and slipped past me, the back of his shiny white and green jersey dissolving into the mass of students on their way to first period. Shrugging, I went to my locker.
I got about ten steps before some girl I didn’t know grabbed me.
“You and Becks?” She laughed, looking me up and down. “Most hilarious thing I’ve heard all day.”
“Huh?” I said, confused.
As she rejoined her giggling group of friends, another girl (Shelia, Shelly...something like that) came up to me as I reached my locker.
“Ignore her. She’s just jealous.” She rolled her eyes. “Personally, I knew it all along. Y’all are just the cutest couple I’ve ever seen in my life.”