Page 29 of Playing with the Heartbreaker

“Itold you so,” Charlotte says.

I gaze at the racks of clothes. Other people’s cast-offs given a second chance at life. Kind of like the music that plays over the speakers, which is donated vinyl records the owners are trying to sell. Now it’s some crooner I can’t name who’s going on about being confused.

Welcome to the club, buddy.

“That is totally unhelpful,” I say.

Charlotte moves a few items down the rack and studies a golden leotard. Despite being one of the few financially well-off people I know, Charlotte loves thrift shopping. She picks up the leotard I one hundred percent would never have looked at twice and gasps when she checks the tag. “This is a premium Nicolette Q. Aubert design.”

“Should we know who that is?” Anita asks the exact words I’m thinking.

“It’s in pristine condition,” Charlotte says, awestruck.

“She’s not here with us anymore,” I say to Anita. “She’s in the zone.”

Charlotte flits to a different area of the store with Anita and me trailing her like lost puppies. She stops at a rack of cropped jackets and picks up a golden fur one of questionable origins. After sniffing it to affirm it’s not gross, she holds it up next to the leotard and nods, oblivious to her friends’ existence.

Luckily, I already have my Dorothy costume and am just along for moral support and to whine. Dionne’s party is fast approaching, and as Charlotte keeps reminding us, we have to search a little harder for costume pieces. We don’t want to buy a ready-made costume from the Costume Depot like everyone else, do we? We want to stand out, don’t we?

After a five-minute spiel, I gave in just to stop her from talking. So here we are, rummaging the racks at Cardinal Ridge Thrift on my one free afternoon of the week.

“Find a winner?” I ask.

Charlotte finally exits her shopping haze and focuses her attention on me. “I think I did. And you’re telling me you spent eighty, unsupervised minutes with Hotty McStriker, and you didn’t kiss him?”

Apparently she can still hear over the siren song of discarded clothes. She picks up and puts down a brown fur coat, wrinkling her nose. As I pass it, I get a whiff of must and old lady perfume.

“Stop calling him that.”

“If the name fits.” Anita picks up a plaid shirt and holds it out for approval.

“Too lumberjack. Try this one.” I hand Anita a slightly fitted shirt instead.

“Chloe.” Charlotte scoffs. “Your life can’t just be about soccer.”

“Did you swap bodies with my mother? Because that impression was spot-on.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m just saying that you can afford to have some fun with a very cute boy and still be the amazing athlete we all know you are.”

“Char, I think she’s had enough of a lecture today,” Anita interjects. She adds a pair of skinny jeans with rips in the knees to her stack.

“Thank you, Annie.”

Without missing a beat, Anita continues. “We both know it’s inevitable. The data clearly illustrates he’s more interested in you than anyone else. I haven’t seen him so much as smile at another girl since you talked to him after his home game. Have you, Char?”

“Nope.” She pops the “p” and smirks in her satisfaction.

“Furthermore, you almost kissed today, and it was your first training session.” Anita does finger quotes around the word “training,” and I do not appreciate the implication.

“What? You think I can’t resist his charm or something? That I’m too weak-willed in the presence of the hair and the jaw and the coffee-colored eyes?” I rest my hand on my hip like a preteen with an attitude problem.

“You didn’t deny almost kissing him.” Charlotte pauses, her hands hovering over the rack. She sighs dramatically. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. We just want you to be happy. To go to formal with a date who deserves you. But you’re going to have to get out of your own way.”

I roll my eyes. That’s currently the theme of my whole life, I guess.

“Does this hat make my head look enormous?” Anita asks. She tries to push a cowboy hat on over her full head of curls, but it makes her hair poof out the bottom.

“Maybe try a bandanna as a headband instead,” Charlotte says, appraising. “If you wear a hat, no one will see those eyes of yours. How will you flirt?”