Team Spirit

16. Lars Executes a First Date

16. Lars Executes a First Date

I dab my sponge against Sam's neck as he sits in the back seat of my car, door wide open and legs hanging out of it. Crystal's bridesmaid dresses hang behind him on the little hooks above the backseat windows, still in their bags.

It's Billy's car, still, really. If he wasn't in a different country, the Grand Am would still be his. It's still got the pictures of his friends pinned to the passenger side visor. It still has his mix CDs in the glove compartment.

"It smells weird," Sam complains while I attempt to mask the tell-tale mark on his neck.

Of course it does. It smells like drugstore foundation. The truth about makeup is unglamourous for a boy. It's a mess of trying to find the right match in something that doesn't go on too goopy or too thick, that works simultaneously with your skin tone, your skin type, and doesn't smell too much like caked on chemicals. If it does, chemicals in the form of perfume can cover that up. Of course, none of that is anything Sam's had to think about before.

I suspect the concern is more that one of the boys at volleyball practice will somehow get a whiff of this drugstore foundation and jump right to accusing Sam of wearing makeup. Like any of the boys on the team are perceptive to notice it in the first place or knowledgeable enough to realize that it's the smell of drugstore foundation. Besides, the gym'll reek too quickly of macho teenage boy BO to smell anything else.

"Shush, or I'll curl your eyelashes, too," I say, leaning in close to blend the edges.

Leo did quite the number on him. I'm almost jealous. Almost.

The crunch of gravel behind me makes me listen closer, but makes Sam completely freeze. I don't know what he's afraid of more: being caught wearing makeup or covering up a hickey.

I sigh, closing my hand around the makeup sponge and leaning in for a kiss instead. A secret makeout session, not makeup session. Use scandal to distract from scandal. That's been Sam's MO the whole time. Sam completely stiffens. I want to assume it's out of surprise and not utter disgust. 

"For the love of God, please stop. It looks painful," Wren says from behind me and I pull back. Crisis averted. One crisis averted, at least.

Sam opens his eyes from the tight squeeze and I resist the urge to roll mine. Yeah, the awkward face scrunch really sells the love story.

Restless, Sam gets out of the car, finding my side mirror to take a look.

"It's not quite the right colour, is it?" he asks.

"I'm sorry. We're not the same shade and I wasn't going to waste money buying you a really good brand."

When he glances back, past me to Wren, the colour is clearly not the thing unsettling him most. The colour is enough of a distraction that he doesn't seem to notice me shaking slightly. He doesn't see past the dry chastising.

I can't look at Wren. Not yet. All day, I kept my eyes on my books, on my homework, on madly writing notes in class until Mrs. Channing dared suggest that I remind her of my brother. Top of his class, she reminded me. As if I forgot. As if I hadn't lived with him my entire life up until the summer when he left the continent.

"Don't be late for practice," I say, and Sam does notice that I'm trying to get rid of him. He knows, obvious from the knitting of his brow under the shadow of his hat, but he says nothing of it. Not in front of Wren.

"Right. Tell me how it goes tonight," Sam says, flashing me looks like he's uncertain whether or not he can leave me alone, as if I can't take care of myself in the face of a girl who knows about our fake relationship.