Page 21 of Patrick

CHAPTER 5

TRICK

The way I play the game with abandon, getting one goal and three assists, makes me think maybe Fifi is a good luck charm. Not that I’m not usually productive, but not like this. Even Coach Zabra gave me a grudging nod of approval.

“This calls for a celebration,” Bog declares, stepping off the bus at the Whit.

“I can’t make it. I have somewhere to be.” I hand him my bag. “Take this for me. See you tomorrow, guys.” I wave as they grumble and call me names when I walk away.

There’s not a lot of time before the Coop closes, but I promised a gift, so I hustle to the campus bookstore where I haven’t been since the beginning of last semester. Candy is out, and I don’t have time to go off-campus for flowers, so I’ve settled on the brilliant idea of bringing Fifi a book of poetry.

It’s the most romantic gift I can think of—at the suggestions of Google’s AI. Stamping the snow off my sneakers, I approach the first book nerd—I mean expert—I see as I venture inside.

“Hello there, I need your help finding the most romantic book of poetry you have.”

The girl’s shock can’t be hidden by her glasses as she faces me.

“Oh my god! I can’t believe it. Trick Jennings is getting seriously romantic about a girl.” She clasps her hands to her chest so earnestly I’m afraid she might have hurt herself. Too late, I realize that even book nerds—I mean experts—are sometimes also hockey fans.

“Take it easy—what’s your name? It’s not what it looks like.”

“Pammy Pledge.”

“Pammy,” I say in a low voice, “I’m doing a favor for a friend.” Shit. That sounds cheesy. I should have gone with the class-assignment excuse.

She gives me a sly grin and winks like we’re in league together on some mission. “Don’t worry, Trick, I know how to keep a secret. Follow me.”

“It’s not like that, I swear.” I follow her upstairs, crossing my fingers inside the pocket of my hoodie against the bold-faced lie. And since when did strangers in bookstores start calling me Trick like we’re old pals?

She stops in front of a tall bookcase in a room off the third-floor gallery that I didn’t even know existed. It’s stacked floor to ceiling with books that have that dusty old important scent, the kind of books that give the saying knowledge is power its gravitas. Shit, I’m using big words now. There might be something to the scent of books—maybe it stimulates the mind.

Facing the bookcase on her tiptoes, she picks out a few books then turns to me.

“We have William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience.” She holds up a slim but fancy book, and I’m ready to grab it. “But I wouldn’t recommend it because it kind of hits a girl over the head with the message if you know what I mean.”

She holds up a second book. “This one is an anthology of English notables like Keats, Shelley, and Wordsworth, which is fine, but this one is my favorite.” She quickly switches to the third book, an unassuming paperback. “This one includes my all-time favorite love poem. It’s subtle and all the more moving.” She rifles through it.

“Sounds good to me. I like to be subtle.”

She stops at a page. “If you want my advice, not that I have personal experience, but I think the most romantic thing you could do is take the time to memorize a poem and recite it to the object of your desire.”

The object of my desire? I almost laugh, but she’s perfectly serious. “Go for it.” I gesture for her to read the poem.

She clears her throat and then in a quiet voice, reads a poem for me. She throws herself into it with such feeling that I’m convinced Pammy is in love with me when she finishes. I softly applaud, and her face turns beet red, and her eyelashes flutter as she looks down.

“Bravo. That was something. You a drama major?”

She looks up, eyes widened and the blush gone. “No. I’m in a Master’s degree program for Cybersecurity Engineering.”

A low whistle blows through my lips. “That’s impressive. I knew you were a smart one. I chose the right person to help me. Thank you, Pammy.” I take the book from her, glancing at the poem as we go to a checkout area downstairs in the back.

She gift-wraps the book—her idea. “A wrapped gift, especially with a pink bow, is more romantic than handing her a plastic bag, right?”

“Absolutely.” I pull her aside because the store is getting busy and some customers—girls—glance our way. “Look, Pammy, you can’t tell anyone about this. I mean it. I’m not romantically involved with anyone.” Not yet anyway, but the truth is the truth. “The last thing I need are people gossiping and spreading false rumors about me.”

She nods, serious as a cybersecurity nerd. “I get it. You’re a high-profile guy, and people like to talk about you. Not me though.” She quickly shakes her head. I’m starting to worry her neck is going to be sore tomorrow from all the head-shaking. She’ll be standing in the store, stiff as a palace guard unable to look anywhere but straight ahead.

“Give me your solemn promise that you won’t say a word about this, not to anyone.”