Excerpt Monday! Secret Girlfriend – Chapter 1 March 23, 2009

It’s officially Excerpt Monday!

After letting everyone play along with Karin Tabke’s Line by Line contest and only getting to the last round (BUT check out my friend Ginny Glass who finaled HERE) I decided to post the rest of the opening chapter.  Feel free to shout out better titles than Secret Girlfriend

 

Mel Berthier is HERE. Louisa Edwards HERE.  Lauren Murphy HERE. Kaige (Quinlan) HERE.  Cynthia Justlin HERE. Sorry if I’ve missed anyone who has decided to join us. Jump in and link back. Next time I’ll confuse everyone and post Ch 1 of the fantasy  

 

CHAPTER 1

 

Seven lockers down, my boyfriend was making out with Cheryl, the way-too-perky head cheerleader.

I tried not to stare, but when his hand slid past her waist and over her hip, I slammed my locker shut and stormed off in the opposite direction. Not that anyone noticed. The problem? Not only was I that gorgeous jock’s secret girlfriend, I also had a secret power.

I’m invisible.

OK, not invisible invisible. But, in the not-so-mythical land of Highschoolia where blending in equals obscurity, I rated a negative seven JD on the Jane Doe to Lindsay Lohan Visibility Scale. I’d be the first to tell you I didn’t mind – well, typically. I’d made a deal with the devil … I mean the boy… and stomping away was the only thing I could do.

“The Plan” just might have killed me where Advanced Trig had failed. But, with Chris Kent as the self-proclaimed prize, I’d been only too happy to sign-on, quit cross-country and become the soccer team’s stats girl. And, since sessions were closed, little Miss Wave-my-butt-around-in-my-too-short-cheer-skirt couldn’t just show up to practice no matter how much she fluttered her eyelashes.

You see, I’ve been in love with Chris Kent since fifth grade, and now, senior year, he was all mine – well, sort of.

All I had to do was follow The Plan, track the team’s stats with the same dedication my Aunt Susan counted Weight Watcher’s points, and not kill Cheryl. Easy, right?

But, as I stalked down to the field and fought the picture of my boyfriend’s mouth being confiscated by that social-climbing cheer captain, I questioned my own newfound violent tendencies. Unfortunately, killing his public-image girlfriend fell way outside the stupid plan. I mean, The Plan (note the capitals).

The practice fields were empty except for the coaches. The older boys were too smart to show up early and the younger ones too scared. What did that say about me?

Coach Sarche was already practicing his scowl while he flipped pages of a huge, beat-up binder on an old card table. The JV captain scanned a list, making little marks next to names. The assistant stood by looking a bit lost. It was clear who the Captain Kirk of this group was.

I knew I’d stand there all day before anyone noticed me, you know, the whole invisibility thing, so I cleared my throat and hoped for the best.

Coach Sarche glanced up and looked at me as if I were interrupting a Presidential speech to ask if he starched his gym shorts.

“You the new stats girl?” He kind of growled the question.

Wow. No wonder the team ran so fast and played so hard. I was scared to death of him already. He was a legend at the school. On the field and off. His team and the student body understood his word was law. Even the parents felt it. If he ran for school council, they’d probably just skip right to electing him mayor.

“Yes, sir.”

The look he gave me held equal parts disgust and annoyance with a smidge of hopefulness thrown in.

“You know you’re here because Kent spoke for you. If you can’t count, or spend all your time doing your nails or flirting with my guys, you’re out. Do you understand?”

I nodded and then held up my hands nails forward for him to see the gnawed mess they were. “I also don’t flirt.”

Yeah. As if I really looked the type.

His mouth quirked before tightening back into its normal flat line. “Good girl. These binders are your responsibility. Keep them up-to-date, accurate and confidential. Anything less and you’re out.”

I nodded again.

“Other than that, you’ll be fine.”

And with that, I was dismissed. He turned his back and barked orders at the assistant as boys began drifting down from the school.

One of the things that made our soccer team so great was the coaches placed squads by ability, not grade. So, if you’re a freshman and could dribble circles around a junior, you got his spot. It made for a seven-year state champion dynasty. It also made for some nasty feuds often passed down from one brother to the next.

The guys circled up, eyeing each other as Coach Sarche handed me the roster sheet and started calling names.

Name. Here. Name. Here.

The litany went on for three times as many boys as spots. Guys bounced and juggled balls, showing off skills and keeping themselves busy.

“Kent.”

Most of the team’s eyes lowered.

“Kent?”

Nervous glances shot toward the gym door faster than Beckham acclimated to the LA lifestyle.

“Friedman,” Coach bellowed. “Where the hell is Kent?”

Chris’s best friend eyed the lower fields where cheerleading tryouts were just getting rah-rah-rambunctious. Ambling up the hill, Chris glanced at the cheerleaders again before raising his hand and jogging the rest of the incline.

“Hey Coach.” Chris slid past him to file in with the other guys.

Even in the throng of baggy soccer shorts and school t-shirts Chris stood out. It was like watching a movie star try to blend in with a group of math teachers. He had a body to rival an MLS player, taller than most boys with a lean cut, strong legs, and slightly broadened shoulders. Not to mention, sun streaked blond hair and emerald green eyes.

“Kent, do you know what time tryouts start?”             

“Seven, Coach.”

Coach Sarche threw his clipboard down in my general direction.

“That’s right. Seven. Can you explain to me why it’s –” He glowered at his watch then swept the guys with that red-hazed glare before meeting Chris’s eye again. “Seven-oh-seven and you’re just joining us?”

“Sorry, Coach. Mrs. Carr asked me to carry their tumble mats to the lower fields. I didn’t think you’d mind me helping out the cheer squad.”

Coach Sarche ran his hand through his thinning hair and glared at his watch again.

“Any more helping the ladies happens on your time. Run laps while I finish roll call.”

Without a word, or even a quick look in my direction, Chris took off around the field, his hand sweeping along the edge of the netting as he passed around the back of the goal.

“Where the hell is my clipboard?”

I snatched it off the ground and handed it to him before easing into the background again.

“Klein!”

And on it went. Coach shouting names. Boys shouting here. Chris running laps.

Very distracting. Laps that is.

The list came to an end and Coach jerked his head toward me in what could only be considered a command for attention.

“Head count?”

Thank goodness I’d counted the guys there out of curiosity before he’d started.

“There’s more guys than names on the list.”

He ran his hand though his hair again, giving it a sharp yank before dropping his arm and studying the boys. “Whose name did I not call?”

Six hands tentatively rose.

“You better have a darn good reason why you didn’t sign up ahead of time like everyone else.” The crowd surged back, guys shifting away from un-signed-up friends.

“You.” Coach pointed at an unfamiliar boy. “Name and excuse.”

I glanced at the new guy, pegging him for a goalie because of his height. He towered over everyone except Dan McKenna, the guy trying out for goalie. He probably had two inches on Chris, although just as lean but with dark hair that almost flopped into his eyes.

I expected the new kid to stutter a reply and hope Coach moved onto the next tardy applicant. Instead, he answered as if there wouldn’t be any shouting coach-wise.

“Luke Parker. We moved here two days ago. The school said to just show up.”

The small circle surrounding him shifted farther away from New Kid Luke Parker. Some in awe. Most in horror.

Coach slammed the clipboard against his leg and practically snarled, “Did they?”

“Yes, sir.”

I think it was the ‘sir’ that stopped him. “What position do you play, Parker?”

“Left forward.”

The team – using that well-honed collective instinct – all glanced at Chris as he passed the corner cone on the far side of the field.

“Well, Parker, that slot is all but filled.”

“I’m sorry sir.” Luke’s lips twitched into a lopsided grin, the right side pulling his lips just a tad bit higher. “I thought this was tryouts.”

I didn’t think boys did things like gasp, but the whole group sucked their breath in as one and then, under the stillness, a voice whispered, “Damn.”

“Parker, do you want to join Kent in laps, son?” Coach sounded angry. But something about the way he rubbed his hand across his jaw, hiding his mouth, made me think he was more than a little amused.

“I’m not afraid of work, sir. But I do play left forward.”

“I’ll decide if, when and where you play. Hand your waiver form into the stats girl and make yourself scarce until it’s time to show me what you’ve got.” Coach waved me forward without looking my way. “Which reminds me. We have a new stats girl. Paperwork, sick calls, all your numbers go through her. You have an issue with grades, she needs to know. If you think you might be sick three weeks from now, she needs to know. Any questions?”

I held my breath. Eyes flickered over me and back to Coach. One set rested on me longer than the blink of a moment and I knew who they belonged to before I raised my own to meet his. The new kid.

Luke Parker obviously had his own super-power. He could see invisible objects.