Dare You to Date the Point Guard (Rock Valley High 2)

Nervous energy seemed to leak out of all of my pores as I let out a pathetic laugh and stepped aside. Mason pulled a book from the shelf and plopped it in my hands.

Right. A book. Of course he needed a book. What else did a guy need in a library? Not me, that was for sure. Me and my crazy thoughts.

“First assignment is to read Chapter One and the notes in the appendix,” he said, turning on his heels. It wasn’t until he reached the end of the row did he pause and turn his head slightly toward me. “That is...unless you manage to trap your very own white knight before our next class.”

With that, he exited the row, completely oblivious to my near mental breakdown. I gripped my book tightly in my hands and collapsed against the bookcase. N

ever could I remember a first day back from winter break with so much drama.

The universe was definitely determined to go all mean-girl on me. The only thing I could do was find a way to fix this mess.

No white knight required.

Chapter Four

Candlelight and a hot meal were probably not the first weapons of choice for a typical teenager, but they’d never failed me yet. As I popped my head in the oven to check on the cooking lasagna, I took a deep breath of the tomatoey and spicy goodness and allowed the scent to calm my nerves.

Mom and Dad were due back home any minute. The table was already set, the candles lit. A pan of double fudge brownies cooled on the counter, with vanilla ice cream waiting in the freezer.

I’d used this same tactic back in freshman year to convince my parents to let me sign up for the class trip to Worlds of Fun over the summer. Dad wasn’t a big fan of theme parks. Something about the rate of failure of the machines and high probability for loss of limb. But I’d won that argument, so I was very much prepared to win this one.

If my parents were to blame for my schedule fiasco, then that meant they could also fix it. I just needed to get them on my side. Mason would have to survive Research Methods 101 on his own — and I’d have to find a different way to get through to him.

“Dude, that’s so desperate.” My little sister, Beth, came trouncing down the stairs and into the kitchen, her blonde curls mostly hidden beneath a black beanie hat.

She’d probably been up there since school let out, playing who-knows-what on her computer. When it came to opposites, Beth and I were about as different as two sisters could be. She was two years younger than me and a self-proclaimed gamer. Snarky and too smart for her own good — that was how her Freshman Lit teacher had described her. The only thing we had in common was our matching green eyes. Where I was tall, she was petite. Where I was stick thin, she was cute and curvy.

“What’s desperate?” My eyes scanned over the massive white and gray kitchen my parents had just remodeled last year, even though neither of them cooked unless it came pre-prepped or frozen ready. Everything looked in place.

“You, making dinner.” Beth snatched a corner brownie and juggled the hot square between her hands. She puffed out her cheeks and blew on it for a second before stuffing the entire thing in her mouth.

I placed my hands on my hips, giving her a disapproving glance. “That’s not desperate. We need to eat. And it’s not like I made this lasagna from scratch. It was in the freezer.”

“Whatever you say...” She adjusted the Bose gaming headset that still hung around her neck. “But I could smell the stink of desperation all the way up in my room, if that counts for anything.”

Beth wasn’t helping the situation. In fact, my palms had actually begun to sweat. And the sound of the front door opening was all it took to send my pulse skyrocketing.

“Trina? Beth?” Mom’s voice called. “We’re home!”

“Mom! Dad!” I ran to them, throwing my arms around their shoulders. Mom still had on her bright blue surgical scrubs. Dad had left his white lab coat back at work and wore dressy khakis and a button up shirt. My sister followed, offering fist bumps all around in typical Beth fashion.

“Hmm, do I smell supper?” Dad ruffled my curls and hung his coat up in the closet. “And chocolate? Did you girls order in?”

“I made dinner,” I said, stuffing my hands into my pockets and rocking on my heels. A massive grin stretched across my face. Beth wasn’t going to rain on my parade. I had this in the bag. “Lasagna and then brownies for dessert. I figured you guys could use a little break from kitchen duty tonight.”

My parents exchanged glances, a knowing look entering their eyes. Mom set her purse on the entryway table and walked ahead of me toward the dining room. She was the one who’d passed on her almond-shaped green eyes to Beth and me. I also had her dark curly hair. She was a general surgeon at Woodrow Memorial Hospital and on track to becoming chief of her division. Pretty much the perfect example of a powerful working mother.

“So, I guess the question remains, are you making the presentation now or later?” she asked, looking at me over her shoulder.

I shot her a confused look and went to grab the lasagna from the oven. “What presentation? Did I miss something?”

I wouldn’t put it above my parents to assign me something to do outside of school. A project or paper that would increase my chances of getting into the right med school. Never mind the fact that I’d already gotten into Northwestern for the fall semester. They were constantly thinking ahead.

“Honey, we’re not completely inept,” Dad said as he sat himself down at the lavish dark wood dining table that I’d set with our best plates. “Your mom and I know what’s going on.”

While I resembled Mom in a lot of ways, Dad had given me my long legs and slender build. His face was currently half-hidden behind a neatly trimmed beard and he had wavy, dark hair that fell across his forehead. He definitely didn’t seem like the kind of guy who spent all day in the lab. If anything, he looked more like a retired athlete or a really fit lawyer. And when I gave him another clueless look, he sighed.

“You’ve used this trick on us before, Katrina,” he said, spreading his hands on the table top. “You only make dinner when you have something important to ask. So, what your mother wants to know is: do we wait until dessert or should we get down to brass tacks?”