Bad idea. “Put down your brush,” I said. “We can’t have a paint fight. If we mess up the sidewalk, Mrs. Tsuru will kill us.”
“She told us no more pranks. This isn’t a prank. It’s us working out our differences in a physical way. I think it will be more effective than talking.” He loosened his shoulders with a stretch, the kind of move that made it clear he was built to win things. “I can see by the logo on your shirt that it’s one of those expensive designer brands.” He shook his head in mock pity. “That’s too bad.”
I grabbed the blue paint can and stood up, the paintbrush gripped like a weapon in my hand. “Don’t you dare.”
He dipped his brush into the white paint can a second time. “I dare.”
I noticed, once again, how tall and broad-shouldered Cooper was. I stepped back from him and tried to reason with him. “Your scholarship. Think of football.”
“Oh, I am thinking of it. I know how to take down a guy twice your size. You won’t be any trouble at all.”
This was so not happening. I kept stepping backward. “Dousing me in paint isn’t worth getting kicked off the team.”
“I don’t think they’ll really kick me off.” He followed after me with slow, casual steps. Villain steps. “Maybe just suspend me from a game. But if Mrs. Tsuru suspends you fromHello, Dolly!, well, this could be my sister’s big break. Maybe this is the moment I decide to be a self-sacrificing older brother.”
Was he serious? I’d taken so many steps backward I was nearly to the end of the sidewalk.
He gestured behind me where a grassy area led to the practice field. “You should probably go onto the grass so we don’t have to scrub paint off the sidewalk.”
My feet stopped moving. “I won’t get in trouble if you’re the only one who throws paint and I’m just the victim.”
He held up his hand to display the blue streak. “I’ve got proof you were involved. If this is the only paint you get on me, well, it will just look like you’ve got bad aim. That’s what happens when you never play sports: poor motor skills.” He smiled condescendingly. “But maybe you’ll be able to think of some cutting dialogue to say while I drench you. Oh wait, you don’t write the dialogue. You just repeat it loudly onstage. Must be so hard.”
That was too much. I marched onto the grass, turned, and waited for him to join me. I needed a strategy. Otherwise, this wouldn’t go well for me. “Okay, we’ll do this as long as you agree to four ground rules. First, you can’t push, tackle, or in any way hurt me. That would be using your strength for an unfair advantage and also would legally be considered assault.”
He strode out onto the grass without a trace of worry. There was an easy power in the way he moved, like he could bulldoze through a defensive line without breaking stride. “Fine, agreed.”
“Second, we have to have enough paint to finish the paw prints.”
He eyed the white paint can. It was nearly full. “Fine. We need a lot less white than blue. Guess I picked the right color.”
“Third, the fight stops when one of us admits defeat.”
“I’m not familiar with that word, but sure.”
“And fourth ...” While he was waiting for my next stipulation, I swung my can, flinging the contents at him. Blue paint sloshed onto his chest and stomach, covering him.
For a second, he stood there in shock, dripping blue, an inward gasp his only sound. Then he lunged for me. I dropped my can and dodged away. He missed me, and some of the white paint sloshed from his can onto his leg.
“Full-can problems,” I called, heading in the opposite direction. “Looks like you chose the wrong color after all.”
Despite what Cooper thought about people who didn’t play sports, I was pretty fast. I went running with my dad every morning. And carrying a can slowed Cooper down.
I would sprint to the parking lot and put a car between us. Cooper wouldn’t throw paint on someone’s car. Eventually, a teacher would come out and put a stop to this. “Now you really can live the school motto,” I yelled. “You’re painted white and blue, through and through.”
I heard the thunk of Cooper setting his can down and the quick succession of his footsteps coming after me full speed. I wasn’t even off the grass before he caught up. He grabbed my arm to slow me and spun me around.
He was going to drag me back to his paint can. I couldn’t let him. I dug my heels into the ground. “No physical contact,” I chirped. “That’s the fourth rule.”
Instead of dragging me anywhere, he pulled me into a wet, slimy embrace. Paint oozed onto my chest, shoulders, and even managed to get onto my cheek. The smell stung my nose.
“That rule doesn’t count,” he said far too calmly. “Because you didn’t give it before you threw your paint.”
He picked me up and jostled me around to smear even more paint onto me. The guy had cement for abs, and I could hardly breathe.
“It’s still valid,” I insisted, fruitlessly attempting to break his grip. “You agreed to four rules. Put me down.”
He lifted me higher, as though I weighed nothing.
