She smiles as she squeezes my hand. “I’m so glad to see you. Also, my parents are insisting you come to dinner soon. It’s been a while.”
Indeed.
Before I can answer, someone jostles into us, moving away quickly, but not before I hear snitch from his lips.
My purse falls down with the force of his shoulder.
And so it begins.
Helping me get my bag, she turns her head and snaps at the retreating back of the person who bumped into me. “Watch it!” Then, “Jockass!”
Rising up, I crane my neck to see who it was. Red hair, football player: Brandon Wilkes. I barely know him.
She blows at the bangs in her face, schooling her features back into a sweet expression even though her eyes are darting around at everyone as if daring them to say one word against me. “Anyway, I’m glad you came back. We haven’t gotten to talk much, and that is your fault, which is fine. I gave you space like you asked.”
She never did pull punches.
I haven’t called her like I should have, but I needed distance from this place and everyone here. I tried in the beginning, but when she’d bring up school and the football games and her classes and everyday things about the day-to-day at Camden, I felt that pit of emptiness tugging at me, a dark hole of memories and people I didn’t want to think about. Her life went on—as it should have—while I was stuck wallowing in the past.
“But you’re here now.” She smiles, but there’s a wobbly quality to it. She jumps when she hears her name over the intercom, talking fast as lightning. “Yikes! I need to run. My mom is here. Can you believe I forgot my laptop on the first day? I’m such a ditz! See you in class, ’kay? We have first period together, yes?” She gives me a quick hug. “You got this.”
Do I?
Truly, I want to run and get back in my car and leave this place behind forever, but then I think about my little brother Tyler. Goals . . . must stick to them.
Before I can get a word out—typical—she’s gone and bouncing down the hall like Tigger from Winnie the Pooh.
I miss her immediately, feeling the heat of everyone’s eyes on me.
It’s funny how no one really noticed me during my freshman and sophomore year here. Nope. I was the girl who kept her head down and blended in as well as I could, trying to keep my upbringing off the radar . . . until the summer before junior year when I ran into Chance at a bookstore and he showed interest. Then when school started, I got it in my head to be a cheerleader. Mostly, I told myself it would look good on my college applications, plus I assumed it would take less time than soccer or tennis—but the truth is I did it for him. I wanted Chance and Friday night football games and parties with the in crowd.
The lockers seem a million miles away as I push past all the onlookers, my hands clenched around the straps of my backpack. Whispers from the students rise and grow and spread like a wave in the ocean.
And of course . . .
The Grayson brothers are the first Sharks I see, holding court with several girls as they lean against the wall. Knox and Dane. Twins.
I flick my gaze in their direction, keeping my resting bitch face sharp and hard, taking in the two guys, their matching muscular builds, tall with broad shoulders. They may look almost identical, but they’re like night and day. Knox is the cold one, never smiling, that scar slicing through his cheek and into his upper lip, disrupting the curve of his mouth and the perfection of his face. I swallow. Screw him.
I refuse to spend this year afraid.
His lips twitch as if he reads my mind, that slash on his mouth curling up in a twisted movement, and I glare at him.
You don’t scare me, my face says.
He smirks.
Thick mahogany hair curls around his collar and his eyes are a piercing gray, like metal, sharp and intense, framed by a fringe of black lashes. His scrutiny doesn’t miss much and makes me antsy—has since freshman year when I’d catch him looking at me, studying me as if I were a strange bug. When I’d get the guts to boldly look back—Like what you see?—he’d huff out a derisive laugh and keep walking. I’m beneath him. A speck. He as much as said so after our first game last year.
“What do you want?” he says with a sneer as I ease in the football locker room. Cold eyes flick over my cheer skirt then move up and land on the hollow of my throat. It’s not cool enough at night for our sweater uniform so tonight my top is the red-and-white V-cut vest with CP embroidered on my chest.
“Where’s Chance?”
He stiffens then huffs out a laugh and whips off his sweat-covered jersey along with the pads underneath.