Page 50 of Devil in Disguise
“I can’t. I’m working. Really, guys. I just have to do some laundry. But right now, I need to finish here. Back to work, and all that.” She glanced back at Owen, and she was right. He was standing very still. Like he thought …
She said, “Oh. This is, uh, my boyfriend. Owen.” She still wasn’t saying the NFL thing. She was the freak of the world right now, and she just wanted to be astudent.How had this all gone so wrong?
“Your boyfriend.” That was Fletcher, and his tone was flat. Avery, for his part, looked … something. Stricken, if that wasn’t too big a word.
“Owen Johnson,” Owen said, and put out a hand. His voice, though, didn’t sound like his relaxed, good-natured self. He shook hands with each of the guys, clearlynotsqueezing too hard, like he was above all that, then said, “I’ll hang out until you’re done, Dyma. Eight-fifteen?”
“Uh … yeah,” she said.
“Right. See you then.” He walked out.
Wait,what?
Fletcher had his arms folded. “See, now,” he said, “what a girlusuallydoes is, she says something like, ‘My boyfriend and I play this game a ton.’ Which lets you know the deal.”
“But …” Dyma wanted to explain. The best she could come up with was, “We don’t doanythinga ton. What would I even say? We don’t … we’ve always been kind of long-distance. But committed,” she added fast, because she didn’t want them to get the wrong idea.
“Uh-huh,” Fletcher said. Avery still hadn’t said anything.
“What, I was, like, flirting?” Dyma asked. It seemed she was getting mad again. “I was not flirting! I was hanging out!”
“You might want to work on that,” Fletcher said.
Dyma couldn’t say more, because the maintenance guy was saying, “I’ll give you a hand cleaning this up.” Which was nice of him. He took the broom from her and said, “Owen Johnson. Man, you could’ve knocked me over with afeather.OwenJohnson.Best center in the league. That’s some boyfriend you got there.”
So much for her anonymity. A couple of the kids at the table looked up, and Dyma said, “Well, uh, yeah. Owen’s great.”
“So tell me,” he said, getting to work on the glass while Dyma held the dustpan, “how did you manage to meet Owen Johnson, young girl like you? That’s bound to be a story.”
Oh, boy. If Fletcher and Avery thought she’d been lying before, or, what? Playing games, to get them to be into her? She glanced up. They were both still there.Say it,she told herself. “He’s, uh, Harlan Kristiansen’s best friend, and they, uh, spent a fair amount of time together this offseason.”
“Well, yeah,” the man said. “I heard that. Tough break for Kristiansen, with his mom and all.” He shook his head.“Realtough break.”
“Yeah. It was. And, uh, see, my mom’s sort of … engaged to Harlan.”
She heard something from behind her. A moan, it sounded like. She turned around, and the maintenance guy said, “Hang on with that dustpan, now.”
Never mind. She’d seen. The moan was from Cassandra or Sydney, who’d clearly heard that. Alotof peoplehad heard that, apparently, because the buzz was going right down the line of students at the table like some kind of gossip-montage from a high-school movie. She held the dustpan, contemplated her grease-and-tomato-stained jeans, and said, “So anyway. That’s how I know Owen. My mom and I met him and Harlan at the same time last winter, not knowing who they were, and we all kind of … stuck.”
“That’s a good story,” the guy said. “Kind of a Cinderella story.”
“Except for the mother/daughter thing,” Fletcher said. He hadn’t decided to forgive her yet, apparently. “That’s weird.”
“Orgross.”That was muttered, but Dyma heard it. Cassandra, she thought.
Dyma wanted to say,Harlan’s older than Owen, and my mom’s older than Harlan,except that she didn’t owe any of these people any explanations. Well, possibly Fletcher and Avery, but she wasn’t explaining to themhere.She said, “So, yep! That’s the story,” then stood up, grabbed her spray bottle and rags from a nearby table, and added, “And now I’m going back to work. Thanks for your help, uh, Mr., uh …”
He smiled. “Mr. Washington. Now, see, that’s what I’m talking about. Owen Johnson, he’s a good guy. Always had that reputation. And you’ve got nice manners yourself.”
A snort from behind her. Yeah, she’d have expected that.
She knew he was just saying that because of the celebrity thing. She hated the celebrity thing. She wasn’t even a celebrity! She was thegirlfriendof a sort-of celebrity, to anybody who recognized linemen on sight, which was probably something like .001% of the football-watching population, which was the percentage she ofcoursehad to encounter tonight, of all nights. But how did her reflected semi-celebrity even count? She said, “Nope. Just raised right, I guess. Not that Idoright, necessarily, but my mom tried. Also my grandma. Any errors or omissions are the responsibility of the author.”
Oh, great. She was babbling. She said, “Thanks again!” in a wild sort of way, then basically bounded off to another table. In her tomato-splashed Docs. And her stained jeans. And her notoriety.
* * *
Her supervisor hadto flick the lights to make everybody leave. It was like a party. Fletcher and Avery, on the other hand, had left a long time ago, and Dyma had no idea where Owen was. She carried bins into the kitchen, didn’t look at anybody, and escaped as soon as she could.
