Stay Gold - Tobly McSmith Page 0,30

football players’ emotional and physical well-being. “Yes, sir. I heard they purchased a magical potion from Amazon that has made them superhuman.”

Officer Dan laughs. “I’ll take some of that! And you, get those plates updated today. Next time you won’t be so lucky.”

He shakes his head at Pony’s ID before handing it back. “Nice to meet you, Sa—”

“YOU TOO, SIR,” Pony almost yells.

A clue! His real name starts with Sa.

Sam? Sal? Santa?

I’ll get to the bottom of this. I love a good mystery.

Pony takes a deep breath and pulls back onto the road. He turns up the volume as Perfume Genius scrolls across the radio console—never heard of them. I take the hint that he wants some quiet time. I need to focus on my iced latte anyway.

By the time we pull into the Hillcrest parking lot, he has calmed down. We pull into a spot in the back. No one has told Pony the hierarchy of the Hillcrest parking lot (tradition number 897). Seniors park in the front. I won’t bore him with it now.

He kills the engine and turns toward me.

“Georgia, there’s something you should know about me.”

And then, silence.

He must be messing with me, but his face is so serious.

“Pony, you can tell me anything,” I say.

He clears his throat. “I’m different from the other guys you know.”

Didn’t see that coming.

“Pony, of course you’re different. And I bet you’ll never hurt me, too?”

His face is blank, hard to read.

I continue, “Are my legs tired? From running through your mind all night?”

“Georgia, actually, that’s not what I meant . . .”

“Pony, lame pickup lines? I think you’re better than that.”

“What I was trying to say was . . .” He stops himself and smiles. He looks relieved. “OK, deal.”

“Good.” I say.

6:57 P.M.

I wave from the porch as Mia honks and drives off. I head inside—Dad isn’t home yet—while finishing off my Strawberry Limeade from Sonic (no vodka this time).

I catch my reflection in the mirror as I close the door. My cheeks and forehead are bright pink. Dammit, Mia. She demanded that practice happen outside today. Prep for the game on Friday, Mia said. We’re playing Plano, one of our biggest rivals. Hillcrest is rich. Plano is richer.

After washing the vegetables for dinner, I check my phone. A text from Pony awaits.

PONY: Is your middle name Google?

I play along and type back: NO. WHY?

PONY: Because you’re everything I’m searching for . . .

Dumb. I text LOL back. I have received a steady stream of cheesy pickup lines from Pony throughout the day. It’s been entertaining. I start chopping red peppers and turn on NPR. Dad will be home soon.

In calculus today, I got super bored and passed Pony a note. It said: Tell me your REAL name or we are DONE. The curiosity is killing me. I can’t help myself. A few minutes later, a note landed on my desk that said: PONY is my REAL name.

Touché. I might have to turn to the internet for the answer.

Right on time for dinner, Dad comes through the front door, whistling. He loosens his tie. “Hello, Georgie. What’s on the menu tonight?”

“This evening, the chef has prepared a kitchen-sink salad!”

He sits down at the table. “You made a salad in the sink?”

“Needed a big bowl. It was the sink or the toilet . . .”

“Turns out, I’m still pretty full from lunch,” he says, patting his stomach.

“Dad, it’s everything BUT the kitchen sink.” I place the bowl of beautiful greens and reds and yellows on the table. “I used all the veggies from the fridge and topped it off with some leftover chicken.”

“Thank you, my favorite daughter.” I’m his only daughter. “So,” he says, “who is the new fellow who took you to school today?”

“Daaaaaaad,” I say, hoping that answer will suffice.

He throws his hands in the air. “What, Dad can’t ask questions? I have a right to know!”

“OK, well, he’s president . . . of a notorious bike gang. He picked me up on his Harley-Davidson and does not believe in helmets. Don’t ask about his face tattoos.”

He plays along with my story. “Sounds like every dad’s dream!”

“Ugh, fine. I got a ride with a new kid. He just moved here. His name is Pony.”

He chokes on his food. “Oh, yeah? Is his dad’s name Horse?”

“Very funny, Dad. His name is Pony, for real. I’m dead serious,” I say.

He lifts an eyebrow at me, full of doubt. “What happened to the year of no dating?” He loads up another