“I was about to text you back. Sorry!” I tell her quickly. I wasn’t talking to Owen but he was rather distracting. She was partially right. She always is. Melody takes her eyes off the field to look over at me for a moment but they go right back when she sees I’m on the phone. I have a feeling that Melody is going to be more than my assignment partner. I seem to have found a bench-warming partner also.
“What-cha doing?” My mom tries to play it chill. She wants me to cough up information without her asking. I skirt around the topic of Owen for as long as I possibly can.
“I’m sitting here.” Not a lie, I am sitting here. “Waiting for sewing club to start.”
“Sewing club?” I can see her face now, her eyebrows furrowed as she wonders why there is a sewing club. “If you were any other kid I’d probably call you a liar. I would most likely surmise that you really have plans to sneak off and do something you’re not supposed to.”
“Nope, sewing club starts at seven.”
“Seven!” she half shouts. “What will you eat for dinner? What will you do until it starts? That’s hours away.” She fires off the questions, her chill long gone.
“How does Dad know Owen?” I fire off one of my own. I almost kick myself because now my mom will know that I’m interested. I’ve opened the door really wide, practically inviting her to ask me questions about him now.
“You answer my questions and I’ll answer yours,” she says smugly.
“I’m going to read while I wait for sewing club to start and I had a big lunch,” I rattle off. Then the freaking coach blows a whistle loud enough for everyone to hear. Including my mom.
“Where are you reading?” she hedges.
“Hey. I answered your questions.”
“Your dad is hoping he gets recruited to Notre Dame. Said he’ll likely be asked but who knows who Owen will commit to.” My ears perk up at that. That’s where I wanted to go. It’s where Dad went. It was my first choice. My eyes go back to Owen, who is catching another ball. He plucks it right out of the air. One-handed this time. He’s so graceful on the field that it’s hard to take my eyes off of him. I wonder what else he knows how to do with those hands.
“He makes that look like an art,” Melody says next to me.
“Who’s that?” Mom asks in my ear.
“Melody. My science partner.”
“Oh.” My mom sounds a little disappointed. “Where are you girls?” She tries again.
“You’re not tracking me?” I tease. My mom and I both have tracking on each other. I turned it on a while back because I enjoyed tracking her when she was on her way home with food. It was the food I was tracking really. She is tracking me because she’s nosy. Even if she tries to pretend she’s not.
“Says you’re at the school but doesn’t show me much else.” She sighs.
“I’m outside by the football field,” I finally give her.
“Oh,” she says again. This time she’s a little more perky about it.
“Can I text you later?” I ask, feeling rude being on the phone while Melody is sitting here but she’s more interested in the football field than anything.
“Okay. But if you need something to eat text me and I’ll bring something up.”
“Love you, Mom.”
“Love you too, sweetheart,” she says before hanging up.
Melody looks way more into the football practice then I would have guessed her to be. Not with the way she talked about them earlier. I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit there was something sexy about watching how good Owen is on the field. I am suddenly more into football than ever before.
“Why anatomy and physiology if you’re not good at it?” I ask Melody, trying to come up with something to think about other than Owen’s sexy skills on the field. My eyes go to the drawing pad that I’ve noticed is always in her hand. She’s put her other books into her backpack but the pad has stayed with her. I saw her drawing in it when I was doodling in class. I knew she was likely here for art.
“My mom says the art probably won’t feed me. Have to do something smart so I can take care of myself.” She has on a pair of three hundred dollar jeans and some white sneakers which look like she’s drawn on them herself. I know those aren’t cheap either. My face must show the question dancing in my head. She looks taken aback now. “She doesn’t want me to be like her.” She gives a small shrug. This one isn’t as nonchalant as the other ones she’s given.
“Like her?” I raise an eyebrow in question.