Free Better than Perfect by Simone Elkeles

again. “I’ll have a meatball sub to go.”
    â€œYou got it.” She calls out my order to the chef, then pours me a glass of water. “You go to Fairfield? I haven’t seen you in here before.”
    â€œNah, I’m visiting from California.” I nod toward Bonk and his posse, who now have a crowd around them. “So, um . . . do those guys go to Fairfield?”
    â€œSure do. Football players. The one with the shaved head is Matthew Bonk,” she adds. “He’s our star receiver,” she says proudly as if he’s someone famous. “We won State again this past year. Matthew’s our local celebrity.”
    She goes to take someone else’s order.
    Bonk walks up to the counter. He notices me sizing him up. “What’re you lookin’ at?” he asks as if he’s some deity unworthy of my gaze. He’s obviously taking the local celebrity thing seriously.
    Time to have some fun . . .
    â€œI just . . . wow! Matthew Bonk in the flesh.” I take his hand and shake it with an overabundance of enthusiasm. “It’s a pleasure finally meetin’ the famous receiver from Fairfield High.”
    â€œThanks, man.” He pulls his hand away. “Who’d you say you were?”
    â€œPayton Walters,” I tell him, reversing the name of one of the greatest running backs of all time. The dude is clueless. “I was wonderin’ if I could get your autograph for my girlfriend. She’s a
huge
fan o’ yours, man. You’d earn me some serious brownie points if she knew I met you.” I grab my napkin and hold it out asthe doting waitress eagerly appears and provides a pen. “Make it out to Sugar Pie.” I peer over his arm as he straightens out the napkin. “It’s what I call her.”
    â€œWhatever floats your boat, dude.” Bonk makes the napkin out to Sugar Pie and signs it:
Matthew Bonk, #7
.
    â€œCan I take a picture of you?” I lay on my thickest southern accent. “Sugar Pie’ll shit a massive cow pie if I show her a picture of you holdin’ up the napkin with her name on it.”
    Yankees often assume people with southern accents are stupid. What they don’t know is that we use our accents to our advantage when we find it useful. Like now, because Bonk is posing with the napkin as I take a picture with my cell.
    â€œListen, buddy, I got to get back to my friends,” he says as he hands back the napkin and asks the waitress for a drink refill.
    â€œNo problem.” I grab his hand once again and shake it hard. “Thanks, man!”
    He walks back to his friends and I hear him tell them what a dork I was. After I pay for my sub, I follow Bonk and his buddies outside. They’re standing by the Jeep. One of the guys mentions Ashtyn and suggests they break into the Fremont locker room and hang the leftover tampons on the lockers.
    When they realize I’ve followed them, they look at me like I’m an alien from another planet.
    â€œThat picture I took was blurry,” I say apologetically. “Can I trouble you for just
one
more? I swear my girlfriend will pee in her Daisy Dukes when she sees I got a picture of you holdin’ your signature.”
    Bonk rolls his eyes and laughs, but doesn’t protest as I hand him back the napkin with his signature. He leans on the back of his car as if he’s a stud and holds up the napkin. It couldn’t be more perfect, except . . . “Can y’all get in the picture with him?”
    The guys are all too willing to pose for the camera.
    Mission accomplished.

Chapter 12

Ashtyn
    Monika comes over Sunday morning with Bree, the two cocaptains of the cheer squad. They want my opinion of a new cheer and a dance routine they’ve made up, as if I possess some insider knowledge of whether my teammates will like it.
    On my front lawn, Bree and Monika start clapping and moving their bodies like they’re made of some