Mats is still there, despite my prayers that he would be whisked away by a bus, a girlfriend, or, best of all, a snowplow.
We pull up to the bus stop. I lean back as Becks rolls down my window and yells over me, Hey, Mats, do you need a ride?
He comes over to the car and leans in. This is the closest I’ve ever been to him, and there are gold flecks in his thickly lashed brown eyes. I shudder and look away. This is not the kind of intel I need.
Hey, Becky, Cleo. Are you guys headed back to campus?
We sure are, Becks says. Hop in.
He climbs into the back seat. This is great, thanks so much. Let me just call Jack Sinclair, he was going to pick me up.
I watch in the rearview mirror as he fumbles to get his phone out with only one hand while keeping one arm wrapped across his chest. He’s usually irritatingly coordinated, so maybe he’s nursing an injury. Also, close-up, he’s far from perfect—there are streaks of dirt on his black wool dress coat and dark pants. What the hell has he been doing?
Hey, Sinc, I’m getting a ride with Becky Moore and Cleo Nelson. Yeah, from the women’s team. Okay, thanks anyway.
He disconnects and leans back with a sigh. He pulls off his beanie and shakes out his black, wavy hair, then gazes out the side window with his dark eyebrows knitted and his square jaw tensed. He looks… miserable.
But what could he be unhappy about? The guy is one of the top players on the men’s team. He’s dating perfect Lana. His family is loaded, and I’m sure he’s never worn used skates in his life.
He notices me watching and his expression slips back into a neutral mask. He gives me a friendly nod, and I turn away.
See, this is the thing about my hatred for Roy Matsumoto: I’ve carefully avoided being in the same personal space as him, so he has no idea of how I feel. I’m not really good at confrontations, so I prefer a passive-aggressive approach; one that’s apparently so passive the other person doesn’t even know.
Mew.
Both Becks and I turn our heads. Something is moving inside Mats’s wool coat.
Is that a cat? Becks asks.
Yeah, I have a kitten with me. Is that okay? I’ve got him wrapped in my scarf, so I don’t think there will be any accidents. His voice has a note of desperation I’ve never heard before, since he’s usually too cool for school.
Oh my god, cat tax! I want to see him, Becks cries. She loves cats. But who doesn’t? I also want to see the kitten, even if he’s in the clutches of the enemy.
Mats extends both hands, presenting a small black kitten atop a grey scarf. He’s skinny, with bald patches, and his eyes are crusty. But he looks like a fighter, and I’m already rooting for him.
Oh, the poor thing. My words pop out before I remember that I’m not talking to Mats.
Where did he come from? What were you doing in Minneapolis, anyway? Becks asks.
I found him in a parking garage. Poor guy was huddled beside a heating duct to keep warm. Then Mats sighs again. I’m supposed to be having dinner with my girlfriend’s parents, but then this happened.
Oh, that totally sucks, says Becks. Don’t you volunteer at a shelter in St. Viola?
Yes, that’s where this little guy will end up. But not tonight. I’ll take him home, give him a bath, and get him fed.
We can take you to the shelter if you like. No problem, Becks assures him. Awesome, then we can spend even more time with stupid Mats. My bestie needs to stop being so helpful.
It’s actually closed now, he explains. What were you guys doing in Minnie?
Picking up groceries and stuff. And Nellie’s new skates.
He leans forward to see the skates I’m still cuddling like a kid at Christmas.
Oh, Bauer Vapors. Nice, he says.
Thanks, I mumble and blush. I really need to practise my withering disdain.
So, how come your girlfriend didn’t drive you back? asks my gossipy friend.
