A shy high school senior jock and a closed-off girl battling an immune disorder fake a relationship to win a social media contest.
Being shy isn't easy, especially when you're the new kid at school. Scotts Valley's football program is subpar compare...
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I didn't think Home Ec would get worse than sewing over my fingers, but it did.
"Congratulations, Brody." Paige's shoulders bounced with her extended arms. "She looks just like you."
"Hilarious." I accepted the baby doll she handed me with brown eyes, long eyelashes, and a tiny patch of brown hair tied with a pink bow. It was so small and light, but how was I supposed to hold it? Clutching its arms wasn't right.
I probably should've paid more attention to the videos Mrs. Calvin played leading up to today, but I couldn't. Every weekend, Mom and I were on the road selling my football skills to any West Coast D1 school's athletic department who'd listen.
Scholarship offers were slow to trickle in; so far, I'd gotten half-ride offers from Oregon and Cal to redshirt as a freshman.
Next weekend, Mom and I were traveling to Arizona for my brother's bowl game. Two weeks from now, training for baseball started, so I needed to be on top of my game–football and baseball games, not a pretend baby daddy game.
"Like this, Brody." Paige cradled Layla's baby before handing her over.
I imitated her, tucking mine into my elbow. It was the length of my forearm, almost football-sized, staring at me with creepy, unblinking eyes.
I dreaded this assignment from the first second Mrs. Calvin described it last week. Paige plopping a car seat on the floor at my feet, then Layla's didn't help. Mrs. Calvin stood at the front, clutching a baby and smiling as if we were in for absolute torture.
"Ahh, good. All babies dispersed. Thank you, Stork Paige. Each one is calibrated for a different fussiness scale and will cry without warning. You'll be responsible for stopping the crying by feeding, changing, or holding. The recorder inside also contains an abuse signal. If you drop your baby—" She released hers onto the floor, where it landed in a quiet crash of plastic. "The abuse signal will record."
"If you jostle the baby—" She held hers by the shoulders and shook it. "The abuse signal will record. If you strike the baby—" She smacked the top of its head—"The abuse signal will record. If you allow the baby to cry for more than ten minutes with no intervention attempts—"
"The abuse signal will record," the class answered.
"You've got it. Your internal monitors will reflect your grade. Your activity journal is where you'll keep track of every feed and diaper change. I'm sure all babies are in good hands." Mrs. Calvin looked so smug. What did she know that we didn't? "Welcome to single teenage parenthood. You can set up your activity journals and name your babies."
Ridiculous. What was more embarrassing, carrying a doll for a week or giving it a name? I eyed mine. How was I supposed to monitor a baby twenty-four-seven? Mom worked, so I would have to bring it to school.
Layla leaned over and smiled. "I'm sure you'll be a wonderful father," she whispered.
