Pivot Point (Pivot Point #1)

Pivot Point (Pivot Point #1) Page 19

Gladly. I head for the door. “Do you have it?”

“Yes.” At the same moment he utters the word, the horn sounds twice.

I drop back down, curling into a ball. “Tell me that was you accidentally bumping the horn.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Great.”

Rowan’s face appears at the window. “Uh. He just set the alarm. Sorry, guys. Operation ‘key retrieval’ in motion.” Rowan disappears.

I crane my head back to look at the silver door handle. “So we open the door and set off the alarm. He won’t know it was us.” I suddenly feel very trapped and have an overwhelming desire to get out of the car.

“If we didn’t have to borrow his bobblehead, I’d say, yeah, let’s bail. But we should give Rowan a few minutes and see if he comes through.”

I roll onto my side and realize I can see Trevor under the seat. I focus on him and only him and try to forget where we are and what kind of trouble we can get into because of it. “Is this guy a bobblehead collector or something? I don’t believe he’d notice it missing.”

He laughs. “Yeah, he’s a freak. You should see his office.”

“Considering where we are, I think that’s a huge possibility.”

Trevor’s jaw tightens. It’s interesting to watch someone when he doesn’t realize you can see him. Trevor’s unguarded expression looks more concerned than his normal one.

The fact that he might be as worried as I am eases my nerves. It’s like there’s a certain amount of stress appointed to every situation and I’m used to being responsible for holding it all by myself. It’s nice to share it with someone. “You okay?”

He looks over and smiles, the worried look immediately gone. “Oh, hey.”

“So let me see this toy that’s causing so much trouble.”

He rolls onto his side, facing me. I can tell he’s pretty cramped in the space when he brings his hand up and it’s smashed against his chest. The bobblehead jiggles slightly. It’s a football player, but I have no idea which team it’s supposed to represent. “Here’s the offender,” he says.

“A football player.”

“Yeah.”

“Is everyone in the world obsessed with football?”

“It’s pretty big around here.”

It seems to be the theme of my life lately, and I don’t even like the sport. “What’s up with Rowan always coming up with players and their injuries?”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m surprised he didn’t say it the other night. He has this theory that someone is purposefully injuring the competition.”

My throat feels dry, and I try to swallow down some moisture. “Why does he think that?”

“Well, because of the nature of my hit. It was after the whistle. I wasn’t expecting it, and neither was my line—which is odd, because I’m always on guard for a few seconds after each play. But that time I felt completely relaxed. And then I was hit. Hard. The ligaments in my shoulder were torn pretty bad. Which makes him think that someone tried to permanently injure me.”

“But you don’t think that?”

“No. Football is all about smashing into other people as hard as you can. Of course players are going to get hurt. And how could someone know how badly I would get hurt anyway?”

I clear my throat. “And these other players who have been hurt too … The ones Rowan’s been telling you about. Did they all get hurt while playing that same school as well?”

“I don’t know. I try not to take Rowan too seriously. It’s been my downfall many times.” He pauses. “But he’s a lot of fun. He lives off adrenaline. You’ll never be bored with him around.”

I’m not sure if that statement was made specifically for me or if he was speaking in generalities, but it’s time to make my feelings for Rowan clear. “Adrenaline is overrated.” Okay, so that isn’t the clear-cut ‘I hate Rowan’ statement I was looking for when I opened my mouth. But I feel bad; I don’t want to be rude about his best friend.

He readjusts his position on the floor, but it doesn’t seem to make him any more comfortable. “I never did give you that zombie quiz on Friday.”

“That’s because you were too busy driving strangers to my house.”

He groans. “I thought you might’ve been mad about that. Sorry.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve known me for such a long time. You should be able to read my looks by now. Glaring at you in the rearview mirror, like this, means: ‘You will die if you take people to my house. Come up with an alternate solution.’” I give him an example of the look.

“Good to know. I’ll start a list.”

My cell phone chimes, and I pull it out of my pocket. The text message from Laila reads, I just let the air out of the tires of one of my dad’s loser friends’ car at Fat Jacks. It felt so good.

I close my eyes, trying not to let this news affect me now, from hundreds of miles away. Because my immediate response is to ask her if she’s crazy. What’re you doing off-campus for lunch? Shouldn’t you be sitting on the stage tormenting people who walk by?

I felt like Fat Jacks. Snuck off. Apparently the entire football team hangs out here. You should see this place. Packed. What’re you up to?

I’m locked in a car with Trevor, I text back.

“Is that our rescue squad giving us an update?” Trevor asks.

Ooh, Sounds fun, Laila responds.

“Oh. No. It’s my friend Laila. Rowan doesn’t have my cell number, and I really don’t want him to, so please don’t give it to him.”

Trevor’s eyes dart to mine. “Wow, it was that obvious, huh?”

“Yeah, and I’m not really interested. No offense.”

“It doesn’t offend me. It was a best-friend favor. Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. Will you just let him know?”

“Yeah, sure.” He shifts his shoulders again, and I wonder if he’s in pain.

“Isn’t there a way to move the seat back or something? You look so uncomfortable.” My Compound car immediately adjusts to my settings. Was it the same here? I hadn’t paid enough attention. Maybe I just made the stupidest suggestion, because the car obviously doesn’t have Trevor’s fingerprint in its database. How is he supposed to move the seats in someone else’s car?

“Yes, the lever is probably on the side. Can you reach it?”

“Lever?” So it was a stupid suggestion for a different reason—I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“On the side of the seat. By the door.”

“Oh, right.” I reach to the side of the seat, hoping to find something sticking out. I do, but I still don’t know what to do.

“Did you find it?”

“Maybe?”

The next thing I know, his hand is on mine. His fingertips, slightly calloused, travel over mine in search of the lever. “You probably just push it back.”

Our eyes meet under the seat. The car is entirely too stuffy and hot. I take my hand out from under his. “Maybe we shouldn’t move the seats. The principal will probably be able to tell.”

“True.”

The horn beeps, and I jump.

“We’re free,” Trevor says. “Let’s take a team picture with this and then put it back.” He starts to get up.

“Trevor?”

His face reappears under the seat. “Yeah?”

“Sorry about your shoulder.”

He smiles. “No need to be sorry. Really. Rowan makes it into a much bigger deal than it is.”

I nod, wondering if Trevor really had let it go. And more than that, I wonder if Rowan has a reason to be suspicious of Lincoln High.

CHAPTER 17

PAR-A-pha-sia: n. to lose the power to speak correctly It’s my first time standing at Duke’s front door, and I’m nervous. I haven’t met his parents yet. It feels like a big deal. I ring the bell and gnaw on my lip. A beautiful woman answers, and her smile is contagious, immediately putting me at ease. “You must be Addie,” she says, grasping both my hands for a quick moment and then dropping them. “Come in.”

“Thank you.” I readjust the backpack on my shoulder and step in. The entryway is huge and ends in a wide staircase, straight ahead of me. Actually, every aspect of the house is huge: tall doors, large paintings, thick banisters.

“Upstairs, first door on your right,” she says.

I begin to walk upstairs. Maybe this study date was a bad idea, but it’s the only kind of date my mom would allow with my grounding still in force. The first door on the right is shut, and I knock quietly.

“Come in,” Duke says, and the door slides open.

I step inside. He sits at a desk, his back to me, writing. “Give me one sec.”

His room is bright, the drapes on both windows wide open. From where his house sits, on the very edge of town, the unobstructed view of the mountains is impressive. As I stare out the window, I wonder if the Perceptives change the image throughout the day. Do they elongate the shadows in the afternoon? The thought of a manufactured reality sits heavily on my shoulders from this close up, and I’m suddenly happy I don’t have Duke’s impressive view every day. I’m happy for my daily view of the neighbor’s water-stained fence.

I turn my attention away from the windows. I expect Duke’s walls to be covered with football posters or shelves full of trophies, but they’re a clean beige, like his mom’s pants. A single painting of an ocean view hangs on the wall opposite his king-size bed. As a whole, the room screams hotel—generic enough to house anyone, and yet nobody ever feels like they belong there. It is clean though, which is nice.

He finishes whatever he’s working on and then stands and turns. “Hey, girlfriend.”

“Hi.” My heart flutters. I raise one hand, and when I lower it my backpack slips down my arm, causing me to take a jerky step forward.

He laughs. “Aren’t we past the awkward stage yet? Where is my mouthy Addie who acted like I was nothing special when we first met?”

Sometimes I wonder the same thing. “Are you someone special?”

“There she is.”

He takes several steps forward and scoops me into a hug. When he puts me down, I say, “So this is your room, huh?”

“Yep, this is it. Have a seat.” He points to his bed, and I take the chair he just abandoned instead.

“I thought there’d be more … stuff. Trophies or whatever.”

“Yeah, well, my mom doesn’t like holes in the walls. Plus, my dad has an entire room filled with my … stuff. It’s embarrassing.”

“He’s proud.”

“He just loves football. Has his whole life.”

“So is that why you started playing?”

“Yeah, I was told my dad handed me a football when I was born.”

“Is he Telekinetic too?”

He nods slowly and looks around as if noticing how bare his room is for the first time.