“I'm fine,” I mutter, shaking my crazy hair off my face.
“You’re not from around here,” he says, studying me a second. He has a music-player strapped to his arm, his earbuds draped over his shoulder, and I can’t help but wonder what he’s listening to.
Like that’s somehow relevant.
“No,” I say. “Connecticut.”
“You go to Faulkner?”
“Yeah,” I say, a touch of regret in my voice. I wish I went to a different school, that I didn’t have to see Chase London every day and remember that he doesn’t remember me. Or he’s faking it and doesn’t want to acknowledge me because he’s ashamed of our hookup. Not sure which is worse.
“Same,” says the cool guy, flashing me a quick smile before letting his eyes undress me. “Maybe we’ll be friends.”
The way he says the words tell a different story, that he’s hoping for something a little more than friendship. My stupid face turns red, and I swear I’m going to have my mother take me to the doctor and see if it’s some kind of disorder, because there’s no way normal people blush this often.
“Maybe,” I say, trying to pretend I’m not flustered.
“Cool,” he says slowly, looking me up and down one more time. “See you around, Connecticut.”
He makes a little two-finger goodbye sign, flashes me a cocky grin, and takes off down the road, continuing his run. I watch him go because hey, a girl can look, and he looks good.
At least it took my mind off my own shit for a minute. With a sigh, I tuck my board under my arm and start home. In the garage, I stuff it down in the bin, not looking at what waits in there like a snake of memory, coiled to strike.
“What inspired you to get those old things out?” Aunt Diana asks behind me.
“Nothing,” I say quickly, pressing my palms to my jeans so she won’t see the scrapes.
She stands there watching me, waiting, as if she expects me to unwind that string of memories and hold it up for the world to see. But I can’t, not even for his sister, who might have her own memories to add to the chain.
“Just a boy,” I say with a shrug.
“Ah,” she says, but she doesn’t look entirely convinced.
It’s the truth, though. That was the reason—until it wasn’t.
“Do I need to shoot him for you?” my uncle jokes, appearing behind Diana with a dishtowel in his hands.
“No,” I say, forcing a laugh. “It’s nothing. Everything’s fine.”
One of these days, maybe I’ll convince myself.
three
Now playing:
“Three Wishes”—Stone Temple Pilots
I make it through the next week at Faulkner High in one piece. I haven’t been recruited for any gangs, attracted the attention of anyone mean, and I’ve done my homework the best I can. I also haven’t made any friends, but that’s beside the point. I have Meghan, who I can talk to and text every evening and see on weekends, and I have David, who still never talks but hey, at least I have someone to sit with at lunch.
But the next Monday in lit class, we get split up into groups to work on a group term paper. We have to research topics relating to modern and old English style and how they’ve changed over time. Which is boring as well, but I suck it up and push my chair into a circle with two others who don’t immediately pair up with their friends.
That’s when Chase comes strolling into class, ten minutes late. He starts for the group of six where all his friends sit, talking and laughing and seemingly unaware that everyone in the room can hear them. I wonder what it’s like to have such an utter lack of self-consciousness.
“Mr. London,” the teacher calls, clearing her throat. He gives her an aw-shucks grin and returns to her desk. She points at our group with her pen.
No, no, no. Let him be in a group with his own people.
His eyes meet mine for the briefest second, and then he turns back to her, shaking his head.