Gladly. I head for the door. “Do you have it?”
“Yes.” At the same moment he utters the word, the horn sounds twice.
I drop back down, curling into a ball. “Tell me that was you accidentally bumping the horn.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Great.”
Rowan’s face appears at the window. “Uh. He just set the alarm. Sorry, guys. Operation ‘key retrieval’ in motion.” Rowan disappears.
I crane my head back to look at the silver door handle. “So we open the door and set off the alarm. He won’t know it was us.” I suddenly feel very trapped and have an overwhelming desire to get out of the car.
“If we didn’t have to borrow his bobblehead, I’d say, yeah, let’s bail. But we should give Rowan a few minutes and see if he comes through.”
I roll onto my side and realize I can see Trevor under the seat. I focus on him and only him and try to forget where we are and what kind of trouble we can get into because of it. “Is this guy a bobblehead collector or something? I don’t believe he’d notice it missing.”
He laughs. “Yeah, he’s a freak. You should see his office.”
“Considering where we are, I think that’s a huge possibility.”
Trevor’s jaw tightens. It’s interesting to watch someone when he doesn’t realize you can see him. Trevor’s unguarded expression looks more concerned than his normal one.
The fact that he might be as worried as I am eases my nerves. It’s like there’s a certain amount of stress appointed to every situation and I’m used to being responsible for holding it all by myself. It’s nice to share it with someone. “You okay?”
He looks over and smiles, the worried look immediately gone. “Oh, hey.”
“So let me see this toy that’s causing so much trouble.”
He rolls onto his side, facing me. I can tell he’s pretty cramped in the space when he brings his hand up and it’s smashed against his chest. The bobblehead jiggles slightly. It’s a football player, but I have no idea which team it’s supposed to represent. “Here’s the offender,” he says.
“A football player.”
“Yeah.”
“Is everyone in the world obsessed with football?”
“It’s pretty big around here.”
It seems to be the theme of my life lately, and I don’t even like the sport. “What’s up with Rowan always coming up with players and their injuries?”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m surprised he didn’t say it the other night. He has this theory that someone is purposefully injuring the competition.”
My throat feels dry, and I try to swallow down some moisture. “Why does he think that?”
“Well, because of the nature of my hit. It was after the whistle. I wasn’t expecting it, and neither was my line—which is odd, because I’m always on guard for a few seconds after each play. But that time I felt completely relaxed. And then I was hit. Hard. The ligaments in my shoulder were torn pretty bad. Which makes him think that someone tried to permanently injure me.”
“But you don’t think that?”
“No. Football is all about smashing into other people as hard as you can. Of course players are going to get hurt. And how could someone know how badly I would get hurt anyway?”
I clear my throat. “And these other players who have been hurt too … The ones Rowan’s been telling you about. Did they all get hurt while playing that same school as well?”
“I don’t know. I try not to take Rowan too seriously. It’s been my downfall many times.” He pauses. “But he’s a lot of fun. He lives off adrenaline. You’ll never be bored with him around.”
I’m not sure if that statement was made specifically for me or if he was speaking in generalities, but it’s time to make my feelings for Rowan clear. “Adrenaline is overrated.” Okay, so that isn’t the clear-cut ‘I hate Rowan’ statement I was looking for when I opened my mouth. But I feel bad; I don’t want to be rude about his best friend.
He readjusts his position on the floor, but it doesn’t seem to make him any more comfortable. “I never did give you that zombie quiz on Friday.”
“That’s because you were too busy driving strangers to my house.”
He groans. “I thought you might’ve been mad about that. Sorry.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve known me for such a long time. You should be able to read my looks by now. Glaring at you in the rearview mirror, like this, means: ‘You will die if you take people to my house. Come up with an alternate solution.’” I give him an example of the look.
“Good to know. I’ll start a list.”
My cell phone chimes, and I pull it out of my pocket. The text message from Laila reads, I just let the air out of the tires of one of my dad’s loser friends’ car at Fat Jacks. It felt so good.
I close my eyes, trying not to let this news affect me now, from hundreds of miles away. Because my immediate response is to ask her if she’s crazy. What’re you doing off-campus for lunch? Shouldn’t you be sitting on the stage tormenting people who walk by?
I felt like Fat Jacks. Snuck off. Apparently the entire football team hangs out here. You should see this place. Packed. What’re you up to?
I’m locked in a car with Trevor, I text back.
“Is that our rescue squad giving us an update?” Trevor asks.
Ooh, Sounds fun, Laila responds.
“Oh. No. It’s my friend Laila. Rowan doesn’t have my cell number, and I really don’t want him to, so please don’t give it to him.”
Trevor’s eyes dart to mine. “Wow, it was that obvious, huh?”