ROOF
Monday, September 21st
4:46 P.M.
The rooftop of the Pinewood was paved with uneven bricks, cigarette butts, and flattened beer cans. But it had a tall concrete wall around its perimeter that overlooked the building’s grassy courtyard and could sustain the force of a stress-kicked soccer ball. It was Kristen’s go-to place when things got complicated, like Massie had Bean . . . Alicia had her dance studio . . . Claire had her fingernails . . . and Dylan had her fridge. And things were complicated.
Kick!
The ball slammed against the concrete wall and shot back to her. She kicked it again.
Slam!
She’d promised Layne she’d help her get Dempsey. They’d made a deal.
Slam!
If she reneged, she would destroy her good name and honor in the eyes of the Witty Committee.
Slam!
But how could she sabotage Massie’s new crush? She had made a pledge. She had taken a vow. This time we’ll do it right. . . . Our friendships come first. . . . PC support, day or night . . . Or that member will be cursed. CURSED!
Kick!
Slam!
Kick!
It was a lose-lose situation. And the only neutral person she could turn to for advice was surfing on a heart-shaped island with no cell service.
Kick!
Kick!
Kick!
Like a loyal dog, the ball landed at her turquoise and white Adidas cleats. Kristen stepped on it and lifted her gaze.
A sudden gust of wind broke a solid mass of gray clouds into a smiley face that seemed to say, Let the Big Guy help.
Swept up in a rush of divine inspiration, she began gathering beer cans. Once her hands were full she built two towers, paying little mind to the burp-scented liquid that dribbled down her wrist while she stacked.
“Okay.” She sighed aloud. “If I hit the one on the right, you want me to help Massie. If I hit the one on the left, you want me to help Layne.” Kristen glanced up at the smiley cloud, making sure it was still watching. “Ready?”
She spun three times, squeezed her lids shut, and kicked!
On the street below, the brakes on a passing truck wheezed to a stop. A dog barked. Two little boys giggle-ran through the courtyard. But no cans crashed to the ground. And no ball slammed against the concrete wall.
Kristen opened her eyes.
And then she blushed.
Dempsey Solomon appeared in front of her wearing mirrored aviators, spinning the soccer ball between his two index fingers, and grinning.
“What’re you doing here?” she asked, feeling slightly embarrassed. Like that time she had a lip-kiss dream about Danh and then saw him the next morning.
“I’ll tell you if you can go around the world.”
Demonstrating, he kicked the ball from his right foot to his thigh to his shoulder to his head to his left shoulder to his left thigh to his left foot to Kristen.
“Done.” She stopped the ball with her heel and then took it where it needed to go.
When she was done, Kristen giggled for a second longer than normal, while her mind recalibrated and reevaluated all previous notions of Dempsey. He was more than just a wannabe actor who’d lost weight over the summer, invested in contacts, tanned evenly, dressed like a rugged safari guide, and steeped himself in African culture, thereby enriching his soul and broadening his global perspective—he was soccerlicious!Kristen could now see why Massie and Layne had picked him as their C-plus.
“Where did you learn that?” Kristen blurted. “I always thought you were—” She paused, not wanting to insult him, but also not knowing what to say.
“A couch potato theater dork?” he finished for her.
Kristen blushed again.
“I was.” His confident smile told her that he was okay with that. “I mean, I’m still into theater. But I’m also super into football.”
Kristen twirled her shark-tooth necklace, oddly charmed by his use of the British term, something she usually found beyond pretentious. “Since when?”
“Since Africa.” He tugged the zipper on his olive green hoodie. “My family volunteered at an orphanage in Tanzania, and the older kids taught my brother and I how to play.”
My brother and me, Kristen thought with some relief. Her mom had warned her about boys who were too perfect: They were not to be trusted. And until this minor grammatical infraction, his picture had been on all twelve pages of the “too perfect” calendar.
“So what are you doing here, anyway?” She bounced the ball on her knee. Dempsey caught it with his foot, knocked it to his head, and shot it forward like a dolphin at SeaWorld.
Both beer towers crashed to the ground. “I’m your new neighbor.”
“Seriously?” she gasped.
“Yeah. After living in African mud huts, my parents walked into our house on Tuxedo Way and thought it was too much. So they sold it and bought something cozier.” He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his worn khaki cargos. “And sent the leftover money to them.” He pointed east.
Kristen grin-nodded like she was warmed by their generous decision, not offended that her home had been compared to an African mud hut.
“So we’ve been moving in all day, and everything was going fine until the red river–clay dishes broke,” Dempsey continued. “And my mom started freaking out. And the apartment started feeling really small and cramped. So I came up here.” He shrugged. “Africa is so big and open. And ever since I got back, I’ve felt trapped, you know? Like everything is closing in on me. And all I want to do is be free.”
The image of Layne and Massie on either side of Dempsey, crushing their crush into a panini, gave Kristen pause. Maybe, out of respect for his claustrophobia, it would be best to give him some space. And then, once he acclimated, she could talk to him about the Lassie situation.
Satisfied, Kristen kicked the ball. The instant it bounced back, Dempsey toe-lifted it onto his knee and took it around the world again.
Gawd, couldn’t he miss once?