Page 25 of The Puckable Playbook

“Have you ever used it in an article?”

“Pretty sure.” I grin. “I try to throw in at least one word that will trip up people.” It’s become a sort of running joke in the newsroom now.

“She’s the one who wrote all the articles about the football scandal.”

“Ooh.” His mother’s eyes flash. “He sent them to us. Very nice.”

“Now I see why you like her.” Izzy laughs. “Your grudge with the football team.”

“It’s not a grudge.”

His father laughs from the front. “Now who’s lying?”

Zaiah’s jaw twitches, but he doesn’t respond, and soon, Izzy is giving her brother a play-by-play of her field hockey match yesterday with his parents interjecting every now and then.

The motorhome shakes as it picks up speed. None of them seem to notice, but this is the first time I’ve been in a home on wheels, so every slight shimmy has me peering around to decipher where the noise is coming from and whether we’re going to fall apart on the highway.

Luckily, we get to our destination in no time.

Zaiah’s father situates the RV so that the windows in front of me face a good-sized lake. A small firepit, an ancient charcoal grill, and a rocky beach are the only things visible before the water’s edge.

“This is so pretty,” I muse, stretching in my seat so I can peer out. In the distance, you can see the opposite bank, bare trees painting the landscape.

Zaiah’s father releases his seat belt and steps into the main living space. “Perfect spot, huh?” He pushes a button on the wall, and a mechanical whir starts up. “Floor levelers,” he says above the noise, nodding and smiling.

I didn’t realize we were off kilter, but soon, the noise stops and everyone starts moving about. Mr. James places a hand on my shoulder. “Listen, my house is your house, Lenore. There are beds to take a nap in, my wife will be cooking—you won’t wantto miss that,” he adds. “And I’ll probably watch some sports. Go outside. Stay inside. The day is yours.”

A warmth envelops me. “Thank you, sir.”

He puffs his chest out. “Sir? I like her.” Pointing at his own kids, he says, “You two could use some manners.”

Zaiah shakes his head. “Thanks for making us look bad.”

I pat his shoulder. “Pretty sure you do that well enough on your own.”

“Ohhh,” Izzy howls. “I double like her.”

His mom stands. “So this is what it would’ve been like with three kids.”

“You could’ve stopped after me and saved yourself the trouble,” Zaiah calls out after she retreats to the kitchen.

“Ha. Ha,” Izzy overexaggerates. A pillow flies across the RV, but Zaiah easily snatches it out of the air before it hits him.

The day with the Jameses is so fun. I skim stones along the water with Zaiah. Eat his mother’s cooking, which tastes divine. Listen to his father’s dad jokes, and witness true sibling interaction. It doesn’t take long before I feel a part of the gang, not an outsider asked here by Zaiah. His parents include me in everything. Izzy even asks me what I’m currently writing, and among them, who’ve never heard the clock tower lore, the opinion is split down the middle on whether it should be fixed or not.

After the second time we eat—yes, the second—I steal away outside to write some notes on my article about the clock tower. Since people will want to make their own opinions, the fact-only piece will help them decide. I could even poll the newsroom or other specific campus groups for sidebar content. Maybe urge the school administration to let the students decide the clock tower’s fate with a popular vote.

I write down my last note and come up for air. The wind off the lake whips around for a second, and with it, voices filtertoward me. It takes me a minute to realize Zaiah and his sister are doing the dishes in the RV above my head.

“I like her.”

“Me too,” Zaiah says. “She’s fun.”

“Would you maybe like her…more?” she pries.

My stomach twists. I definitely shouldn’t listen to this, but I can’t really get up now. They’ll see me.

He groans. “I wish you guys would stop butting into my love life. I’m not interested in being with anyone right now.”

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