Free A Match Made in High School by Kristin Walker

much hangs on until the victim quivers in defeat. If you don’t think it’s true, then check out my seventh-grade yearbook picture. The yearbook company changed my name to Frank Sheehan because they were sure the kid with the buzz cut in the photo couldn’t possibly be a girl. That’s what they said when Mom cal ed about it, anyway. She never nagged me about my hair again.
    I’d BEEN wATChING SAMANThA pICkLER EVER SINCE
    her family moved into Arborview Estates four years earlier. I’d seen Sam change from a nonstop-jabbering kid into a bright, sassy eleven-year-old. She was funny, beautiful, and way, way cooler than me. I never felt unlucky when I was around her. Plus, she made me laugh.
    “Come on in, Fiona,” Mr. Pickler said when I got there. I stepped into their spotless foyer. Normally, I don’t like houses in developments, but Mrs. Pickler had pretty decent taste, décorwise, even if she was a neat freak. The paint in the foyer was this organic copper color, set off by black accessories, caramel wood floors, and a giant glass vase filled with deep green eucalyptus branches. The whole place had that spicy, clean eucalyptus smell.
    “Thanks,” I said. “Actually, Mr. Pickler, I have a question to ask. We’re doing this project in school”—I couldn’t bring myself to say it was a marriage education course. I was humiliated enough just to say this much—“and my partner and I have to earn some money together.”
    “Oh, is it an economics project?”

CHAPTER 9
73
    “Uh, kinda. Anyway, I was wondering if it would be okay with you to have him come here to babysit with me.”
    Mr. Pickler drew himself up. “Wait a minute—your partner is male?”
    “Uh, yeah. Is that a problem?”
    “You know Sam’s mother and I have a strict no-boyfriends policy, Fiona.”
    I literally felt myself gag. “Oh, no way , Mr. Pickler. Todd Harding is not my boyfriend. Please. Nooo.”
    “Todd Harding? Got hurt playing football a few years back? Is he your project partner?”
    Uh-oh. “Do you know him?”
    “He lives down the street. Moved in about the same time we did.”
    “Oh, great,” I said without sounding like it was great at all. What can I say? I’m a rotten liar.
    “I’ve got no problem with Todd coming to help babysit Sam.” He turned sideways and pointed at me. “I’m not paying double, though!” He laughed at himself. I laughed too, because I had to—he was the guy who paid me.
    “In fact, since it’s warm out,” he said, “you and Sam could take a walk down there so she can meet him, if he’s home.”
    “What a terrific idea, Mr. Pickler!” I said with totally sarcastic cheer. He couldn’t tell the difference, though. “We’ll do that.”
    “His house number is . . .” He tapped his fingers together as he counted the houses. “319, it must be. To the right, down the street, fifth house on the right.”
    74 Kristin Walker
    “Great! Thanks!”
    Sam came galloping down the stairs. “Fiona! You’re finally here. I’ve been waiting forever .” She jumped to hug me and a strand of her strawberry blond hair got caught in my glasses.
    “Ow!” she cried. I took off my glasses and gingerly pulled the hair from the frame. The strand stuck out from her head, but it wasn’t terribly noticeable, since the rest of her hair was kind of a mess too. Sam hated having anyone brush her hair, but she forgot to do it herself most of the time. It drove her mother nuts. But what really bugged her mother were Sam’s fashion choices, which were not unlike mine. Our motto was: If it’s clean and it fits, we wear it. Actually, clean is sometimes optional. Today must’ve been one of the optional days, because Sam had a red dribble stain down the front of her peach-colored shirt. A cherry Popsicle was my guess. Sam’s dad started tugging on the cuffs of his shirt and straightening his tie. “Sam’s mom and I should be back around eleven.” He called up the stairs, “Victoria! Time!”
    He kissed