Adorkable(35)

The more time I spent with my new F.B.F., the harder it was for me to tell fact from fiction.

Like right now.

He was walking with me to German, my hand tucked in his as if we’d walked this way for years. Schmuck that I was, I couldn’t help thinking our hands fit just right.

Nowadays everyone, even Hooker, recognized us as a couple. I was still Spitz the dorky girl who cursed in German when she got really upset or angry. And he was still Becks the soccer phenom who pretended not to see girls throwing him inviting glances they thought I didn’t see (which I did). But even those skeezy skeezes thought Becks and I were the real thing. They just didn’t like it. It was like it was okay to flirt with him because, in their eyes, I was replaceable. Any day now Becks would realize his mistake and drop me. They thought they could break us up with a short skirt, a coy glance, a well-executed hair flip. It was frustrating.

First, could I get a little sisterly solidarity, please? And second, what the heck was wrong with everyone? The whole point of this plan had been to convince people, but I hadn’t expected it to go this well. Didn’t anyone get it? None of it was real. Becks was only going through the motions of being a boyfriend; it was all just a game.

More importantly: Didn’t I get it?

As he faced me, lifted my hand and delivered a heart-stopping kiss to my knuckles, the answer was as embarrassing as it was telling.

God, I was such an idiot.

“I’ll see you at assembly,” he said, eyes growing concerned. “Don’t worry, okay? He says anything offensive, cop or not, I’ll give him five across the face.”

The tingles shooting up my arm momentarily stole my hearing, so what he said didn’t sink in until I walked into class (early for once), took a seat and found Hooker, the same concern written on her face.

“It’ll be over before you know it,” she said. “You two might not even have to speak. He’ll be too busy getting his ass kissed by everyone else.”

Before I could ask what she meant, a voice sounded over the intercom.

“Seniors please report to the auditorium for today’s Crack Down on Crime assembly. We’ll be calling juniors in the next few minutes, and then sophomores and freshmen subsequently.”

I shut my eyes.

“What,” Hooker said, “don’t tell me you forgot? Spitz, you dread this day.”

She was right. I usually planned ahead, arranged to be “sick” on CDOC day. My untimely forgetfulness showed how distracting Becks and the F.B.F. plan truly were. I considered telling Ms. Vega I was ill—my rolling stomach was a recent development, but it was real enough. She’d probably let me duck out of assembly, go to the nurse.

But then I would have let him scare me off.

That was something I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let happen. Taking a mental health day was one thing, but hiding in the nurse’s station while he preened in front of my peers was plain out yellow-bellied.

There was only one thing to do.

“Scheisse,” I cursed.

“Scheisse,” Hooker agreed. “Your Dad’s a total scheisse head full of scheisse. He’s just one big piece of scheisse with a badge.”

I forced a smile but couldn’t make it stick.

Time to go watch Deputy Dad play the hero for a crowd of unsuspectings, I thought.

Dad was a good showman; I’d give him that. For the kids and most of the teachers, it was love at first sight. Him, the shiny black uniform, his stories of crime and capture, they bought it all. About thirty minutes in, a girl from my class leaned over and said, “Man, Spitz, your Dad is awesome.” That was when he was demonstrating the different ways to take down an assailant on the run. The tackle had been impressive, I supposed, but not unexpected. The guy was half his size, and Dad, a former linebacker, had attacked from behind. Hardly fair, if you ask me.

Hearing this, stats teacher Mr. Woodruff spun around in his chair a row in front of us, stars in his eyes.

“Are you telling me that’s your father up there?” Mr. Woodruff was obviously under Nick Spitz’s spell.

“That’s right,” I said, trying not to sound bitter.

“You’re one lucky girl,” he remarked then turned back around.

I grimaced.

Dad and the other officers had moved on to the PowerPoint portion. There were multiple slides, one displaying a pie chart of casualty rates for the city, another with definitions for the different types of crime and prison sentences for each, a promo for the department, including traits they looked for in potential candidates, and the last outlining the ways citizens could help by upholding the law and cracking down on crime in their own neighborhoods. It ended with my dad spouting off some nonsense about how the youth was our future and could change the world.