Gimme Everything You Got - Iva-Marie Palmer Page 0,42

to one side, and I was sure she could see through my lame excuse. “Are you sure, sweetie? Do you want me to wrap you a plate to take?”

I shook my head, even though my mouth was watering. “No, thank you, I really don’t feel well.” Carrying a foil-wrapped plate out the door and walking the mile home with it seemed more pathetic than listening to my stomach grumble. Besides, then I’d have to explain to my mom why I wasn’t eating it at Candace’s.

I snuck out the front door and started walking as quickly as possible. I could smell the hot fries at McDonald’s and my stomach rumbled doubly, but I had no money.

Twenty minutes later, I slipped into my house to find my mom still at the table, the crusts of a peanut butter sandwich on a plate next to her. She looked up. “You’re back early. Isn’t The Sting on?”

I shrugged. “Yeah, but I remembered I have an English test tomorrow and I have to finish the book.” That was comical, as I was so far behind reading the Faulkner novel Ms. Halliday had assigned that I would have to ditch school for a week to read it all.

I thought Candace might call me to ask why I’d left, but she didn’t. I fell asleep with my stomach empty and no idea what William Faulkner was talking about.

Eleven

When I got to school on Monday, I worried about what Candace had thought of me bailing the night before, and I was trying to decide whether to play up how “sick” I’d felt. But if Candace had been angry, she didn’t show it. When she stopped by my locker before first period, there was a hickey the size of a half dollar on her neck. She’d put enough cover-up on the mottled purple circle to make it clear she was trying to hide it while not actually hiding it.

“What’s with your neck? Did George not get enough lasagna?” I asked.

Candace ignored my joke. “Do you feel better?” I could tell she knew I’d lied but was letting it slide thanks to her good mood.

“Yeah, thanks,” I said.

“You should have stayed,” she said. “Mom made a carrot cake.”

Mrs. Trillo’s carrot cake was my favorite. Candace definitely wanted me to feel bad for leaving.

Practice that afternoon was hard, not to mention frustrating. I was trying the tricks Joe had taught me, but I felt like I was always out of position. At one point, I was making good progress toward the goal when Marie crashed into me to get the ball and sent me sprawling to the ground. To make up for my missed shots and clumsiness, I turned on my speed during our suicides, doing more of them than anyone else before Bobby called time.

I hobbled over to Tina afterward, since she’d been driving me home after practice most days. She gave me an apologetic look as I bent to scrape a chunk of mud off my kneecap left from when Marie took me out.

“My mom and stepdad are doing the family dinner thing, and I’m already running late,” she said. I knew what this meant. Every so often, Tina’s mom would invite another family that they knew from church or from her stepdad’s office to dinner. The families almost always had a son around Tina’s age. Every time, it was apparently two excruciating hours of making polite conversation with a perfectly nice guy and then coming up with some excuse not to make any further plans with him.

“That sucks,” I said. She was still changing her shoes, so I asked, “What does Todd think of these dinners?”

Tina smiled. “You know, that’s like the first time you’ve ever asked me about Todd.”

“I’ve asked you about him,” I protested.

She shook her head. “Maybe if I bring him up, but otherwise, no.”

I knew she was right. As much as Candace and I talked about boys, it had always been hard to ask Tina about this guy we’d never met, and a relationship that seemed like such a pain to maintain.

Or maybe that was just what I’d told myself, and I was a selfish friend.

“Well, I’m sorry, but maybe I’ll get to meet him someday,” I said. He had to be better than George.

Tina’s smile widened. “You might, Suzie Q,” she said. She got into the car and checked her face in the rearview mirror, swiping beneath her eye to clear away the mascara she’d sweated off. “I’m sorry about the ride, but