“I can explain,” I whisper back so the parents don’t overhear. No need to cause a scene.
“That you made it your job to ruin my senior year?” she says with a smile and laugh, masking the ire in her voice, pretending to be part of the discussion at the table.
“I had nothing to do with the saucident.”
She makes a littlechupseof surprise through her clenched teeth. “It has an official name?”
“That’s what Freddie called it.” As ever, I followed his lead.
“Then you claim the sponge cake prank?” she asks, picking up on my guilt by omission.
My mother taps my hand and laughs. “Isn’t that so, dear?” She must’ve made a joke, so I nod, going along with it.
When I’m in the clear, to Pippa, I hiss, “The sponge cake wasn’t meant to ruin your senior year. Quite the?—”
But I don’t get to finish because Mr. Thompson asks me about the upcoming season, which skirts dangerously close to the subject I’d like to avoid—the possibility I might not be playing.
Because the scowly side eye Pippa gives after our hushed conversation kicks this Bruiser’s butt.
10
CHASE
They say time heals all wounds, but apparently, that only applies to physical injuries and not blows to the ego or damaged pride.
Still seated side by side at the dining room table, Pippa erects an invisible wall between us, much like the fortress of cereal boxes I’d construct so my sisters wouldn’t bother me during breakfast when growing up.
She completely ignores me as the meal continues.
When I request the basket of dinner rolls? I remain bunless, though the looks I occasionally receive from other dinner guests suggest they got an eyeful.
When I ask Pippa to pass the salt and pepper? My food remains bland and unseasoned.
When I drop my fork between us? She kicks it out of reach.
She remains the picture of poise but angles slightly away from me.
It’s not like I expected a warm reunion, but I’m little more than a ghost haunting her past.
I become painfully aware of my every move. Should I scratch the itch on my temple or ignore it? I need to pop my shoulder,but then I’d risk crossing into her territory. I have the froggy feeling that tells me that if I’m going to speak anytime soon, I need to clear my throat. But that will put Pizza’s attention on me and I’m not sure where we stand, er, sit, which is next to each other.
For the first time in memory, gone is smooth-talking, easy-going, charming Chase Collins. In his place, I’ve become an awkward teenager. Fortunately, I skipped that phase, or I’m experiencing an extremely belated case of being a late bloomer.
Pippa merely picks at her plate until her mother says, “Pippa, darling, are you feeling quite well? Why aren’t you eating?”
“No, Mum. I’m fine. I—” Instead of finishing the sentence, with her elbows locked tightly to her body, she takes a dainty bite of her braised asparagus.
“Aren’t you excited about Freddie’s upcoming nuptials? Just think, we’ll be adding to the family,” Mrs. Thompson says.
Pippa sets her fork down, politely wipes her mouth, and pushes her plate away as if that statement alone caused her to lose whatever remained of her appetite.
She’s so dismissive of my very presence, my confusion and dismay shift into a desire to get a reaction out of her. Yes, it’s immature, but I may as well try to thaw the ice a little.
“Maybe she’d rather have a slice of pizza.”
Before Pippa says a word, my mother comments, “Our Chase loves pizza. I dare say if he weren’t on the team, he’d have opened up his own pizza shop. He loves thin crust, thick crust, like the Chicago style, and the wood-fired kind. Remember, for your eighteenth birthday party, you asked for the wood-fired pizza truck to come to the house, then you started building one?” Mom leans toward Mrs. Thompson. “That was the summer after he left Hinnifin and I think some adjusting was going on.”
“I do recall Freddie mentioning that Chase loves pizza,” Mr. Thompson says.
