“Okay, love letters?”
“Absolutely not.” He stands and stretches his legs, then squats down again.
I bite the inside of my cheek, thinking. What would a quiet, easygoing guy like Trevor not want me to see? “You write. You’re a writer.”
He raises his eyebrows in the do-you-seriously-think-that’s-a-possibility? look.
“Maybe your stint in the library inspired you to pen your memoirs.”
“You’re making a bigger deal of this than it is.”
“Negative,” I say, stealing his word. “You are. Anytime you make something a secret, it becomes a big deal.”
He smirks. “Are you going to keep guessing until I tell you?”
I nod once. “Yes.”
“So if I tell you, you’ll drop it?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Here’s the huge secret: I draw a little and fail at it a lot.”
I thought finding out what the paper really was would make me want to see it less, not more. “You draw? What do you draw?”
He gives me the didn’t-you-say-you-would-drop-it? look, then peers around the tailgate. “You ready? He’s here.”
I turn and see a black SUV pull into the principal’s spot, Rowan already standing on the sidewalk ready to distract him when he exits the car. “Let’s go.”
“Principal Lemoore,” Rowan says, when the principal steps out of the car and shuts the door behind him. I approach the back passenger-side door, slowly opening it. Trevor stands behind me, waits until I’m all the way in, and closes it. I crawl along the floor but pause when I see the principal’s back in the driver’s-side window. Couldn’t Rowan have led him farther away? I hold my breath, tempted to wait, but I know I need to get it and get out before he sets the alarm. I start to crawl over the shorter middle seat and into the front. That’s when I notice a briefcase sitting on that middle seat. Crap.
I duck behind the driver’s seat just as I hear Rowan say, “Wait, what are you doing?” The front door opens. The principal grumbles and grabs his briefcase, then shuts the door again.
Another door opens and closes, and Trevor whispers, “I’ll get it, Addison. You just go out the back.”
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?”