The Matchmaker Read online

"I don't, like, see why I like the bracelet, anyways," Jess huffed, "It's so, like, ugh! Like, cheap."

  I glanced over to see if Emma had heard. She had glanced up from her conversation with Lex, and our eyes met for a moment. I realized she had known exactly what we had said the whole time, and however much we argued about other things, on one point we were in total agreement. These girls were complete and utter idiots.

  Chapter 7

  * * *

  Emma

  * * *

  I really hate Thursdays. It's the day when the sameness of the world really catches up with you, when you realize that your whole life is just the endless repetition of a few actions, a mindless reel of apathy. Or at least, I do. I completely agree with Douglass Adams, I never could get the hang of Thursdays.

  As always, I jog to school, stop about a block away, pull out my book (The 2 Towers today), and meander in, adeptly dodging moving objects and flying people. I make my way to my locker, put my book down, grab the stuff I need for my first few classes, and glance through the Matchmaker's basket for anything urgent. If there is anything either urgent or interesting, I ponder it a moment before walking away. If there isn't, I shut my locker, pick up my book, and wander to class, still reading. My routine never alters, not because people respect me too much to interrupt it, but because they don't notice me. Usually, that's useful and amusing. On Thursdays, though, it's enough to make me want to slaughter them all.

  Today, I almost made it to class before I sensed rather then saw someone standing directly in front of me.

  "Could you please move?" I asked, not taking my eyes from the book.

  "No." It would have to be him, wouldn't it? I put a finger in my book to mark my place and shut it, crossing my arms stubbornly across my chest.

  "A gentleman lets a lady proceed first," I pointes out.

  "Is there a lady here?" Darien smirked. His groupies giggled dutifully. Obviously, they hadn't realized he had insulted them too.

  "More ladies then there are gentlemen," I retorted smoothly. He scowled.

  "Because of course a girl who buys things from a thrift store knows what a gentleman should be," he spat. His flock rustled like that had been a horrible insult. I don't think he's gathered that I'm not offended by my shopping choices being publicized.

  "You should try shopping at a thrift store sometime, perhaps then you would appear vaguely different from your fellow clones." I grinned and slipped by him before he could stop me from having the last word. Maybe Thursdays aren't that bad after all.

  "You shouldn't have, like, insulted him," a cheerleader informed me as she trotted to catch up to my hurried pace, her bobbed golden hair bouncing as she trotted beside me.

  "Why ever not?" I asked, not putting down my book. I was going to finish the chapter by class.

  "He'll get revenge. He isn't big on being, like, insulted."

  "He needs to be taken down a notch."

  "Maybe," she agreed, her perfectly manicured pink nails rising in a shrug, "But not by you. By someone who could, like, fight back. He could make your life a misery."

  I glanced covertly at her. She looked sincere, but that didn't make sense. From everything I've ever seen of her, she was only slightly more intelligent then her fellows. Not enough to be a philanthropist.

  "Why do you care?" I asked her. I remembered this girl, Candy I think her name was. She requested the star forward on the soccer team last week. That was a nice and easy assignment. A note in his locker and a note in hers setting up a date, and they were together. I wondered if they still were. I doubted it. They weren't right for each other. He was far too arrogant for someone with even a hint of decency.

  "I know people who like you," she explained, turning down a different hallway, "People whose opinions I, like, trust. Just be careful with Darien, okay? Don't let his meanness scare you."

  She left. I looked after her a moment before continuing on my way. Well, that was a refreshing change. A cheerleader was being kind to a nobody. Maybe there was hope for this school after all.

  A jock, sprinting down the hall, as unobservant as ever, slammed me out of his way and into a locker. Okay, cynicism restored.

  o0O0o0O0o

  "Now before we start a book," my English teacher droned. I doodled on the margins of my notebook. Usually, I adore English, but not when we've been going over comma rules for weeks and the idiots that call themselves my classmates still don't get them. How hard can it be?

  "We're going to need more grades, so you're going to do a project…"

  Blah, blah, blah. The real reason he's having us do a project? Our presentations will take at least a day, and that's 1 less class to put up with our idiocy.

  "You'll have to pick your favorite author and present their life and works to the class…"

  So perhaps one hour of work. I'll get it done quickly, if I don't procrastinate like I usually do, and then sit back and laugh while the rest of the class freaks over how much work it is. Over achievers, pah.

  "And to give it a twist, we'll do it in pairs.."

  He was handing out information sheets now. Partners. Annoying, but not horrible. There's an odd number of people in the class, and I can be the odd man out. Or I can put up with whoever gets stuck with me for a while. I hate group work, I'm not going to let some moron mooch off of my hard (ish) work, but I can deal with it. No one in this class is too horrible.

  "But to make it fair, the partners will be assigned alphabetically. Arnold, Borlak…"

  I continued his list for him. Assuming the last three would be the trio, it meant… I sat up straight as I realized who my partner would be.

  "Laycha and McGavern…"

  I swear the world hates me.

  * * *

  Darien

  * * *

  "You are fucking kidding me!" I yelled as I stormed out of my English class, stomping over to where Brock was waiting.

  "What happened?" he asked tolerantly. He's gotten used to my rages by now.

  "I don't do work!" I ranted, "And no one makes me do it! No one. But I bet you that damn scrap of a girl thinks I'm going to do part of it. She's going to try to make me, and so she's not going to do it, and then I'm going to fail it. It's not that I care, but that doesn't matter to her. It'll be all 'I care', and 'you should' from people like her. Why does God have it in for me? 1st she invades my café, and now this!"

  Brock was completely confused by now.

  "Wait, who's doing what to who?" he attempted to interrupt. I ignored him and continued my tirade.

  "He's mad," a calm, amused voice answered Brock, "Because I've been assigned to be his partner for an English project, and he believes, quite correctly, that I will not allow him to fob all the work off on me."

  Her slightly condescending tone got my attention like nothing else would have.

  "Look, Laycha," I spat at the tiny girl, who was leaning unconcernedly against the wall, "I didn't ask to be your partner, and I really don't fucking care about this damn project, so I don't see why I've got to do anything."

  "Think of it as training for when you do care," she suggested.

  "Not likely."

  She stood and straightened up to her full height. It would have been more impressive if she had been less then a head shorter then me.

  "You think I'm any more thrilled about this arrangement then you are?" she hissed, emerald eyes blazing, "But unlike you, I actually want to do something in my life other then live off of my father's money, so I need to get in the habit of doing distasteful things. Including working with you. I'm sorry to inform you, but this project is going to work."

  I chuckled. She scowled. She obviously wasn't used to people laughing when she made proclamations like that. And they call me arrogant…

  "You want to do well, so you do all the work," I proposed. She sighed, anger still sparkling in her eyes.

  "As much as I would love to do that, you don't deserve the A I could give you."

  "And you say I'm conceited."<
br />
  "Conceit isn't when you say something everyone knows as the truth," she retorted, "That's a healthy pride."

  "A bit too healthy, if you ask me," I observed loftily.

  "No one did," she muttered. I smirked.

  "What was that?" I inquired innocently.

  "You would think that," she scoffed.

  "Why?" My voice was getting lower as my temper rose. That sounded like a true insult, and I do not take insults from chits who I could break without a thought.

  "Because that's probably the reason I don't roll over and show you my belly like the rest of this damn school."

  Her holier-than-thou attitude tripped me over the edge. Who was she to tell me she was better then everyone else? That just because no one else argued as vocally with me, she was supposed to be better? She had to be set back on track.

  Suddenly, I moved, pinning her against the wall, one arm on either side of her. A flicker of fear passed through her eyes as quickly as remorse through mine. Then her eyes hardened and I sneered.

  "You know you want to show me more then your belly," I purred. At this, even Brock reacted. He had been quiet throughout the whole argument, but now he stood straighter and made a concerned noise, though he made no move to stop me. Emma's eyes froze.

  I reeled back, face stinging. Where the hell had that come from? That wasn't human speed; that was lightning. I had never even seen it coming. Emma was still leaning against the wall, but her amusement had left and her breathing was slightly louder then usual.

  "Don't ever touch me again," she ordered, "Or I will do worse then slap you."

  "Like what?" I mocked. Like she could do anything to hurt me. Another stinging pain. What the hell? And I had been expecting that one too.

  "I can do more to hurt you then you know," she informed me. At my skeptical look, she forced a chuckle. "Wow, I sounded like a 3rd rate villain from some horrible hero movie."

  "Basically," I admitted. How could she just let go of her anger like that? She had been ready to kill me and now she was making fun of herself with me.

  "So," she said easily, 'When should I come over?"

  "What?" who said anything about her coming over?

  "We don't get much time in class," she told me, 'I think it would be best if we worked on it this weekend."

  "Why can't we go to your house?" At the time, it didn't occur to me that I had conceded that I would work.

  "Because I'm sure your house has better resources," she responded innocently. So she was flattering me, I'm just as susceptible to it as the next man.

  "Good point. How about Friday?"

  "Dar," Brock cut in, speaking for the first time, "candy's got a party on Friday."

  "A good point," I granted, 'Saturday, then?"

  "Okay. I'll see you then." She walked off, but before she had gotten very far she dashed back. "Remember," she hissed, "you're doing half the work."

  And she was gone, but not before giving my perfectly styled hair a ruffle. I scowled, trotting off to me locker with Brock beside me.

  "Are you going to work?' Brock asked as I shoved books into my locker. A piece of paper fell out and fluttered to the floor. "Hey, what's that?"

  I recognized the Matchmaker's handwriting at once.

  "I don't know," I said quickly, pocketing the note, "What did you just say?"

  "Are you actually going to work?"

  My mouth dropped open. That manipulative little bitch!

  "I'm stuck with her coming, aren't I?" I asked hopelessly.

  "'fraid so," Brock chirped, "But hey, maybe she'll do all the work anyway."

  "Doubt it," I responded despondently, 'Come on, we have to get to lunch."

  o0O0o0O0o

  When I had finally lost Brock, I pulled out the Matchmaker's note.

  How do you even know I'm a girl?

  Now that was a challenge I liked.

  Chapter 8

  * * *

  Emma

  * * *

  "Hey kiddo!" Allan grinned as he jogged through the family room, ruffling my hair fondly. I rolled my eyes as my hair fell back into its boring, unvaried straightness.

  "I'm only two months younger then you, I'll have you know," I retorted, not taking my eyes from my book.

  "Two months and 8 days," he corrected me loftily. I put down my book and made a face at the towering boy.

  "Same difference."

  "Child, it makes all the difference," he replied with a grin. I slapped him with my book. "Ow, Em, that hurt! What was that for?"

  "Being an idiot. How was the game?"

  "We won. By a lot. 101-31," he smiled wildly, "Brock was by far the star. Hey, that rhymed!"

  "You really are a child," I informed him, returning his smile, "Why aren't you at the party?"

  He attempted to look cunning and sly.

  "Who said there's a party?"

  Needless to say, he failed miserably.

  "Allan's, there's always an after party. It isn't here, is it?" I looked around in a panic for signs of a party. He laughed.

  "Don't worry about it. It's at the Maloney's. I just stopped by to change and shower."

  I raised my eyebrows. That was unusual; he generally went straight to the party from the game, no matter how much he reeked.

  "Someone to impress?" I suggested idly, closely watching his reaction. He looked slightly startled, and a faint flush stained his broad tanned cheeks, but he did a better job of concealing his reaction then I would have expected.

  "No, why would you say that?" he inquired, voice carefully casual. I smirked, the Matchmaker's plan for my campaign beginning already. I usually only matched people on request from both, but I could make an exception for my step-brother. He just might need help to win his lady.

  "No reason," I shrugged, "Have fun at the party."

  He paused in the doorway and looked back at me.

  "You could come, you know," he proposed cautiously, "It's not just for players and cheerleaders. McGavern's hosted half of them, and he's never been to a game. I don't think. Not since sophomore year, anyway. You'd be welcome there, anyway."

  "Thanks, but no way." My refusal was just as final as the welcome I'd get there. Not even Allan's patronage would get me approval, especially as Darien wasn't precisely my biggest fan. Not that I was his, but that would make it even worse. The chances of me being accepted at that party were precisely the same as Darien McGavern and I becoming friends.

  Allan shrugged. We had argued this point before, and he knew he couldn't win. I refused, and will always refuse, to go to a place where I'll be reviled for being sane.

  Besides, I couldn't deal with all those cigarettes in one place without doing something stupid.

  "I'll see you later, then," Allan told me, disappearing through the door to his room.

  "Later," he didn't hear me, his heavy footsteps fading into the distance until the only sound around me was the faint sounds of the shower running. I hate big houses and their not-quite silence.

  I turned back to my book, losing myself in the story. Not even 15 minutes later, a door slammed and I knew Allan was off to woo his girl, whoever she is. The quiet was now complete. I hate big houses and their empty stillness.

  I tried to read, but the silence was oppressive. Mom and Jack were out on one of their uber expensive dates and Jan, our housekeeper, had her day off today. I was alone in the mansion on a Friday night. Way too much like a horror movie for my comfort.

  Once my mind began jolting me out of my book at every hint of a noise, I realized it was time to stop reading. I jogged to my room, determinedly ignoring the dark hallways and shadowy rooms.

  Finally, I collapsed onto my bed. The house groaned in the wind, the only sound I could hear other than what I was making. I could almost feel the emptiness crushing me. It was nights like these that I would give anything to go back a few years and have Rhi back to invite over. Of course, a few years ago the dark, silent mansion would have been a dark, silent apartment, and the complica
ted sound system I was messing with would be a old boom box, and my queen four poster featherbed would be a hard single bedstead. But I would give all that up just to be able to call Rhi, call anyone, and have them for company on this lonely evening.

  I pulled out my Matchmaker work. On the top of it was one of Darien's notes. I unfolded it slowly.

  No male would care about soul mates or have the perception to do about it if they did.

  Yes, I was perceptive or whatever. But it didn't really help me, did it? I slouched over my desk and emptied the basket. Might as well do something as the sound of Friend Like Me, from Aladdin, filled the room.

  This would be a lonely night. Alone.

  * * *

  Darien

  * * *

  I opened my eyes blearily, then closed them immediately as the too bright sunlight hit my eyes. How late was it? I hadn't managed to get home until 4, and my pounding headache told me I had drunk too much not to have slept till all hours.

  "Dar?" Troy's voice was the only thing that could have pulled me out of my stupor.

  "Yeah?" I groaned, sitting up. He was perched on the end of my bed, peering curiously at me.

  "Just wondering if you were awake."

  I punched him playfully.

  "Well, now I am."

  I rolled out of bed and stood with a moan. Gulping down the aspirin on the table with practiced ease, I stumbled sleepily down to the kitchen without even bothering to pull on a shirt.

  "I don't think it's a good idea to go down there now, Dar," Troy warned as he trailed beside me.

  "Why not?" I mumbled, "I need my caffeine fix-"

  I stopped as I staggered into the kitchen. My mother was sitting at the counter, daintily munching on her gourmet salad.

  "Darien," she acknowledged.

  "Mother," I responded with just as much warmth. Troy looked between us in confusion.

  "Where have you been this morning?"

  "Asleep. That's what one generally does in the morning."