nachos.
So
gross.
Sam had invited Cammie to come to the game with her, saying that they hadn’t seen each other much during the week. That was true, and that was the only reason Cammie deigned to sit on a hard bleacher seat in a high school she’d vowed never to set foot in, watching tall boys in baggy shorts attempt to throw an orange ball through a cord net. She hadn’t hung out with Sam in a couple of days.Though she was loath to admit it, she missed Sam. And she thought she might be able to steer the conversation around to her birthday party and make Sam feel guilty as hell.
“That’s all right, that’s okay, you’ll be working for us someday!”
The BHH chant went up again, provoking boos from the Van Nuys fans. Cammie half worried that one of the Van Nuys gangbangers would pull out a nine-millimeter Glock and start firing. Then she realized that was what the metal detectors at the doors were supposed to prevent.
“Thanks for coming on this excursion,” Sam told Cammie. “When was the last time you were over here in the valley?”
Cammie thought for a moment. “Never. I’m allergic.” Sam laughed. “It isn’t that bad.”
“Yuh, Sam, it is. Why are you here, anyway? I didn’t know you were a basketball fan.”
Sam flushed for a millisecond, which made Cammie very suspicious.
“What?” Cammie continued. “Is there a guy on the team you want to take home from the game?”
“No!” Sam retorted.
Cammie smiled. That “no” had come too quickly. She wasn’t Clark Sheppard’s daughter for nothing: sometimes “no” meant “maybe,” and “maybe” meant “yes.” And sometimes “no” definitely meant “yes.” Like now.
But cheers from the Van Nuys side obliterated whatever Cammie was planning to say—the Van Nuys center had just sunk a free throw to put his team ahead by two points. There were less than ten seconds left to go in the fourth quarter, and Beverly Hills was clearly heading for defeat. But the hundreds of students and fans who had driven their Beemers, Masaratis, and Z Roadsters over the hill for this experience weren’t deterred. Most of them had an ulterior motive for coming to the game: the post-game party.
Before Beverly Hills could inbound the ball under their own basket, Adam signaled the referee for a timeout so the team could talk things over. Cammie, fist under her chin, watched them. Adam Flood looked surprisingly good in baggy satin shorts. He had great definition in his upper arms, too. He was quite cute, albeit in a Midwestern hick sort of way.
“Hey, you guys!” Dee headed toward them, her Brooklyn guitar player, Stevie, in tow. “Sorry we’re late.” She plopped down next to Cammie.
Stevie sat next to her. “We were otherwise detained.” He smirked.
Dee beamed at him. He leaned in and kissed her. Hard. Dee kissed him back. Their hands were all over each other.
“Kids, if you wanted seconds, you should have stayed on at the hotel,” Cammie said sweetly. “There’s only ten seconds left.”
“We’ll head back later,” Stevie said, his hand squeezing Dee’s thigh.
Well, well, well, Cammie thought. Look at our little Dee. Perhaps she’d finally ended her skein of falling for guys who always turned out to be gay. Or not.
The horn sounded to end the time-out, and the two teams filed back onto the court. The Van Nuys cheerleading squad yelled and hollered for their team. Cammie laughed. Their girls looked so ridiculous. At BHH, cheerleading was somewhere in the same social stratum as swine raising.
“Come on, Adam!” Sam shouted anyway, getting into it.
Dee stood up and pumped the air. “Woo-hoo! Go, Adam!”
God. School spirit. It was enough to make Cammie reach for her dark glasses and pretend she didn’t know them.
The game restarted. A Beverly Hills player inbounded the pass to Adam, who dribbled three times and then fired a bounce pass to a forward in the right corner. Then Adam streaked across the court without the ball as
So
gross.
Sam had invited Cammie to come to the game with her, saying that they hadn’t seen each other much during the week. That was true, and that was the only reason Cammie deigned to sit on a hard bleacher seat in a high school she’d vowed never to set foot in, watching tall boys in baggy shorts attempt to throw an orange ball through a cord net. She hadn’t hung out with Sam in a couple of days.Though she was loath to admit it, she missed Sam. And she thought she might be able to steer the conversation around to her birthday party and make Sam feel guilty as hell.
“That’s all right, that’s okay, you’ll be working for us someday!”
The BHH chant went up again, provoking boos from the Van Nuys fans. Cammie half worried that one of the Van Nuys gangbangers would pull out a nine-millimeter Glock and start firing. Then she realized that was what the metal detectors at the doors were supposed to prevent.
“Thanks for coming on this excursion,” Sam told Cammie. “When was the last time you were over here in the valley?”
Cammie thought for a moment. “Never. I’m allergic.” Sam laughed. “It isn’t that bad.”
“Yuh, Sam, it is. Why are you here, anyway? I didn’t know you were a basketball fan.”
Sam flushed for a millisecond, which made Cammie very suspicious.
“What?” Cammie continued. “Is there a guy on the team you want to take home from the game?”
“No!” Sam retorted.
Cammie smiled. That “no” had come too quickly. She wasn’t Clark Sheppard’s daughter for nothing: sometimes “no” meant “maybe,” and “maybe” meant “yes.” And sometimes “no” definitely meant “yes.” Like now.
But cheers from the Van Nuys side obliterated whatever Cammie was planning to say—the Van Nuys center had just sunk a free throw to put his team ahead by two points. There were less than ten seconds left to go in the fourth quarter, and Beverly Hills was clearly heading for defeat. But the hundreds of students and fans who had driven their Beemers, Masaratis, and Z Roadsters over the hill for this experience weren’t deterred. Most of them had an ulterior motive for coming to the game: the post-game party.
Before Beverly Hills could inbound the ball under their own basket, Adam signaled the referee for a timeout so the team could talk things over. Cammie, fist under her chin, watched them. Adam Flood looked surprisingly good in baggy satin shorts. He had great definition in his upper arms, too. He was quite cute, albeit in a Midwestern hick sort of way.
“Hey, you guys!” Dee headed toward them, her Brooklyn guitar player, Stevie, in tow. “Sorry we’re late.” She plopped down next to Cammie.
Stevie sat next to her. “We were otherwise detained.” He smirked.
Dee beamed at him. He leaned in and kissed her. Hard. Dee kissed him back. Their hands were all over each other.
“Kids, if you wanted seconds, you should have stayed on at the hotel,” Cammie said sweetly. “There’s only ten seconds left.”
“We’ll head back later,” Stevie said, his hand squeezing Dee’s thigh.
Well, well, well, Cammie thought. Look at our little Dee. Perhaps she’d finally ended her skein of falling for guys who always turned out to be gay. Or not.
The horn sounded to end the time-out, and the two teams filed back onto the court. The Van Nuys cheerleading squad yelled and hollered for their team. Cammie laughed. Their girls looked so ridiculous. At BHH, cheerleading was somewhere in the same social stratum as swine raising.
“Come on, Adam!” Sam shouted anyway, getting into it.
Dee stood up and pumped the air. “Woo-hoo! Go, Adam!”
God. School spirit. It was enough to make Cammie reach for her dark glasses and pretend she didn’t know them.
The game restarted. A Beverly Hills player inbounded the pass to Adam, who dribbled three times and then fired a bounce pass to a forward in the right corner. Then Adam streaked across the court without the ball as
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