Pain sliced through me. Leo rarely used his special nickname for me anymore, and hearing him say it—his voice husky—reminded me of how far apart we’d drifted. And now he was giving me advice on finding friends? What kind of loser did he think I was?
“Thanks. I didn’t know I needed help making friends. I used to have some really good ones.” The words were laced with sarcasm.
Leo winced. “I’m still your friend, Quinn, you know that. But couldn’t you try a little harder? I mean, with other people?”
The truth was right there in his voice. I was an embarrassment to him. Poor Quinn, the geeky girl who just couldn’t seem to find her own circle. The girl who reminded Leo of a part of him he’d turned his back on when football and popularity became more important. The impact of what he was saying hurt, and I lashed out in response.
“The people I’d want for my friends wouldn’t expect me to be a phony. They would accept me for who I am.” I leaned forward a little, just to make sure he heard me.
“You don’t think I do?” Leo looked stricken, as though what I’d said was some huge revelation.
Anger bubbled up inside me. I was sick of the whole thing. Sick of mooning after this boy, sick of the pain of losing my best friend. Sick of him pretending nothing had changed, when everyone else in the world knew that it had. I took another step back and spoke in a low voice.
“I don’t know, Leo. Do you even know who I am anymore?”
Before he could respond, I wheeled around and started walking away as fast as I could. I knew he wouldn’t follow me, though in my fantasy world, Leo did chase after me, grab me by the arm and push me up against the wall between two sets of lockers. What happened next in my daydreams was something I couldn’t bear to think about just now.
I made it to the newspaper office without breaking down into tears, which I considered to be a minor victory. Jake Donavan was sitting at a desk, and he glanced up at me with a smile.
“Hey, Q! We’re getting lots of response on your cheerleader editorial. Want to read some of the comments?”
Gritting my teeth, I slid a chair out from beneath the long, cluttered counter that went all the way around the room. “I just got an up-close and personal comment on that piece, thanks.”
Jake frowned. “What happened?”
I slumped back in the chair. “I had a run-in with Trish. Let’s just say her response was decidedly in the against column. She’s not a happy camper.”
“Shit.” He spun his chair around to face me. “When you say run-in, do you mean she spewed venom at you, or ... she didn’t, like, actually get physical, did she?”
I quirked at eyebrow at him. “Are you worried about me, or are you intrigued by the idea of a chick fight?”
Jake laughed. “Your opinion of the male of the species could use some work, Q. Of course I was just concerned about you.” His lips curved up into a wicked smile. “But if you want to tell me how she pushed you down, and then you pulled her hair, please. Feel free.”
“Perv.” I crumpled up a sheet of newsprint and tossed it at him. “Sorry, but it didn’t get that involved. She knocked my books down, and then she and her goonies stood over me while I was trying to pick them up. I guess she might’ve gone further if—” I stopped abruptly, and Jake waved his hand in a go-on gesture.
“If?”
“If Leo hadn’t been there. He stepped in, and they left. Not without a subtle warning that we weren’t quite finished, but you know them. There’s not much long-term memory there. She’ll forget me the next time she has to memorize another cheer routine.”
“You’re probably not wrong. But still ... if she gives you trouble, say something to Ms. Nelson. She’ll take care of it.”
I leaned back in my chair and propped my feet on the counter desk. “She always tells us that genuine journalism can sometimes make people edgy, and we need to be prepared to deal with the fallout. Right?”
“Sure, but Q, this is a high school newspaper, not theWashington Post. No one expects you to put your safety on the line for the sake of an editorial.”
“Why would you be putting your safety on the line?”
A new voice from the doorway of the newspaper office made both Jake and me jerk our attention in that direction. Nate stood there, leaning against the jamb with what might’ve looked like casual nonchalance in other guys. But I knew he did that to rest his legs after the long walk down the hallway. Rowing crew had helped Nate improve his strength, no doubt, but it couldn’t take away the damage caused by the degenerative muscle disease.
“Hey, Nate.” I smiled, craning my head back so I could see him better. “I thought you had practice today.”
“Canceled.” His eyes flickered over to Jake. “Hey, man.”
I motioned him into the room. “Come on in and sit down. Jake and I were just talking about the response to my cheerleader piece.”
Nate didn’t budge from the door, but he shifted his laser-sharp focus on me. “What happened?”
“Nothing really. Tell you about it later. Are you heading home now?”
