Secrets, Lies and Dragonflies

Chapter 7

On the other side of the courtyard, everyone's gathered for Lindsey's mandatory meeting. Like a team captain, she's at the head of the table commanding the group's attention.

Our spot is in the corner near the mathematics wing on the outskirts of the senior patio. Lindsey's our self-appointed leader in high school survival protocols and quickly snatched this prime piece of real estate in the first week of school. The other poor saps are all stuck at the far ends of the campus near the band room to the south and drafting shop to the north. For incoming freshmen, she says those places are pretty much social suicide.

Running late after a fifteen minute tutoring session with my geometry teacher—a truly loathsome way to spend half my lunch hour—I watch Vincent settle onto the bench with his usual vending machine lunch in hand. "Where's Mac?" he says loudly.

Suddenly a low booming sound reverberates down the hallway. "I think I'm having a Mac Attack!"

The entire courtyard spins in my direction.

Billy Buchanan, the eleventh grade class comedian responsible for my momentary popularity, looks misplaced among the acne-prone, super skinny boys that inhabit our school. He could have easily been on the football team between his height and broad shoulder, but he's basketball all the way.

Unable to locate the rock under which I could crawl, I instead, find cover next to Abigail.

"I would be mortified." Lindsey says, as I slide onto the bench.

"I have to admit, being compared to a cheeseburger wouldn't be my first choice of pet names, but when it's coming from Billy Buchanan...," Abigail sighs. "I might be a little jealy of you, Mac Attack."

Inseparable since grade school, Lindsey Rinehart, Abigail Stewart and I never went a day without talking to each other. It all started out of a shared fear of our sixth grade science teacher's relentless pursuit to refuse to smile. After devoting an entire week on the geological phenomenon, the Petrified Forest in Arizona, Abigail was convinced Ms. Fletcher was secretly Medusa in disguise. Lindsey and I agreed it was plausible—especially when Ms. Fletcher would lock eyes with an unsuspecting kid. Half-jokingly, we made a pact to remind each other to avoid looking too long into her cold, brown gaze since we were certain of her true identity. No one was going to be turned into shriveled up rock formations on our watch. And from there, we never looked back.

"Yep, Mac Attack coming my way!" Billy shouts. We watch him act as if he were eating a massive burger, and then rub his stomach after taking an imaginary bite. The side show is followed by him nodding his head up and down like a 1980s hair band rocker, "Way to go, girl! Slam dunk!" Then he throws his arm around the next walker-by, his best friend Sean Princeton. The two towering jocks head back to the sacred senior patio.

"Must be talking about your game last night, huh Mac?" asks Vincent.

Slightly embarrassed by all the attention, I stutter my way through explaining how I happened to catch the ball just right at the end of the game. It was no big deal.

When Rob, my incarcerated stepfather, gave me an ultimatum last year to do something after school or he'll find something for me to do, I didn't hesitate to quickly sign up for anything remotely interesting. Volleyball seemed the least complicated.  At least I understood the basics; get the ball over the net. Turns out I happened to not be horrible. I was just glad to not be stuck on the other end of his stipulation. My stepfather's idea of after school activities was conceivably less appealing than slapping a ball around for a few hours.

"Another Billy Buchanan Show. What an annoying freak," says Lindsey. "Seriously, there are more civilized ways to congratulate someone. He's so obnoxious."

"Doesn't get old for me. He's so cute," Abigail says, staring down the hallway after him.

Not sure if cute is accurate with his goofy gait and unruly curls. It's a little difficult to take him too seriously. Regardless, I'm secretly appreciative of such lighthearted interest in my world these days.

"One word-Christina Phillips," fake-coughs Vincent.

"Actually, that's two, Vince," I say.

"Yeah, yeah, Einstein," he says. "Anyway, I heard she's going with Billy. Just making sure you have full disclosure of your options, Abs."

Vincent's one of those skinny boys, but good complexion. Spencer is virtually his mini-me with their almost white, bone-straight hair and crystal blue eyes. In fact, since we moved so close to him, people often confuse the two of them for siblings.  And it doesn't hurt that my little brother adores him.

"Well, look at you, Vince. All caught up on the dating scene are we? Why there's more to our adrenaline junkie then meets the eye." Abigail says.

"And surprisingly, our adrenaline junkie would be right," I say. "Christina and a few of the other cheerleaders came to our game last night.  That's why Billy was there. Actually, she seems really nice. Now that I think about it, they make a cute couple. Don't you think they'd have really cute kids with their curly hair and bubbly personalities?"

"Hey! Thought you were my friend," Abigail says with a scowl, pushing against me.

I lock arms with her. "What are you talking about? I am. Honestly, I think Billy is totally beneath you. I know your type. Fred Clark. He was just talking about you the other day and I was thinking of maybe giving him your number." I smile playfully.

"Something is wrong with you, Mackenzie Temple. Fred Clark? Seriously?"

Last semester, we had a team sports class together with Fred and feared he might've been stuck at the third grade stage of emotional development. (For the record, pelting girls with a basketball stops being an acceptable form of flirting in middle school.) Finally the coach figured out what was going on and had a talk with Fred.

Lindsey impatiently interrupts. "Hey ya'll. Can you please be serious for one second? We need to get this figured out. Let's go over it one more time."

The moment I've been dreading all week has come. Blaming geometry for taking up my entire lunch period yesterday, I've put it off for as long as I could. The time has come for me to spill about the writing program I was offered, knowing it will crush Lindsey's whole plan.