Mark My Words

11 | Ball-Kicking Extravaganza

"Sami started a group chat of forty people just to discuss what happened today at practice," Rosalie said, and Sami slapped his chopsticks down and cried, "Don't make me seem like a fiend!"

Rosalie stuck her tongue out at him, chewed up chow mien and all. Sami fake-gagged.

"Forty people? Wow, I didn't know you had that many friends, Samuel," her mother said.

Rosalie's jaw dropped, and she laughed so hard she didn't make a sound. Sami was out of his seat, throwing his arms up, and preparing to dig his own grave.

"What does this Lennie Pittmen look like anyways?" her mother asked. "I hear so much about him, yet I still don't have a face to put to the name."

"Just picture Hollister model on a black and white clothing bag," Rosalie said with a sweep of her hands.

"Oh, like the one you cut out and pinned to your door when you were twelve?" she said, and immediately Sami was back at the table jabbing his chopsticks in Rosalie's direction. He slammed his fist on the table, and Rosalie crossed her arms, pouting.

"We don't talk about that," Rosalie declared. "And anyways, Lennie is officially on my no-go list so we can stop talking about him now."

"I can't believe I never knew he was doing that—" Sami started, only to stop when Rosalie glared at him hard enough. "Right. Sorry. Not talking about it."

"Thank you," she said, and went back to stabbing sesame chicken with her chopsticks.

Rosalie's phone buzzed, and she turned it over to find a chat from—

"Speak of the devil and he shall appear," Rosalie hummed, holding her phone up for Sami to see. "It's Lennie."

Sami's eyes widened, and her mother put a hand to her hair. "Why are we just now having boy issues? I wasn't equipped to deal with boy issues," she said, exasperated.

"What's it say?" Sami demanded, and then pointed a chopstick at her mother. "Hey, this is my entertainment of the year. I am living."

"That's because you live for drama, smart ass," Rosalie said, and her mom shrugged in agreement. Rosalie cleared her throat and read the message aloud. "'I'd like to talk to you if that's alright. Maybe tomorrow before school?' As if I'm getting up early for that dick."

"But- but- I wanna know what he has to say!" Sami whined.

"Then go in my stead," Rosalie said. "By all means."

"Can I?" he asked, and Rosalie shared a look with her mother, who raised her hands off the table in a show of I'm-not-getting-involved-whatsoever.

The next morning Rosalie kicked her feet up onto the dash of Sami's car and reclined her seat back as far as it would go without obstructing her view of the front steps of Bradshaw. Pittmen's familiar blue Maserati sat on the opposite side of the school parking lot, but just as obvious as all the other expensive vehicles from affluent, over-enthusiastic parents. Rosalie had on a Knights baseball cap and tipped the visor forward, only to lift it to meet Sami's eye as he headed for the school, and the statue where Pittmen stood.

She was hardly there for five minutes watching Sami and Pittmen when a knock on her window startled her soul to the Heaven and back. She had to do a double-take to realize that none other than Ray was standing there, gesturing for her to roll down her window. The instant she had it open a crack, Ray was leaning in, looking petrified.

"So I heard you and Pittmen are facing off," she said.

"You- I- What? Where did you hear that?"