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"I don't know," I replied, glancing at Josh's disappearing form. I really didn't know. Considering everything I'd been through in the
past twenty-four hours, I should have been curled up in a ball somewhere, babbling incoherently.
"Maybe we can get together sometime and you can float some theories," West suggested. "I wouldn't mind a few tips before my
college interviews." I blinked at him. He was asking me out. This unusually tall person and his preppy hair were asking me out. The
near corpse of my relationship with Josh was, I hoped, still revivable, and this guy was asking me out. How did he even know Josh
and I had broken up? I had only told the Billings Girls. Was Josh spreading the word? Was he so psyched about his newfound freedom
that he was shouting it from rooftops everywhere? "Um, maybe. Can we talk about this later?" "Sure. What's your number? I'll text
you," West said. He typed in my phone number and gave me a smile before sauntering off.
"Wow, Reed," London said, sidling over to give me a hip-nudge. She looked West's departing form up and down like he was a
piece of meat and tossed her thick, artificially streaked hair over her shoulder. "Way to bounce back." "Are you kidding me?" I hissed
at her. "I just broke up with Josh, I'm not just going to start dating." "Who said anything about dating?" London replied. "Just hook up
with the guy. West is an excellent kisser," she said, smiling at him over my shoulder. I glanced back there as well. "Ew," I said, realiz-
ing that London knew from experience. "I have to go." There was only one guy I was interested in right now. The one fleeing the
scene--my scene--as fast as his squared sneakers would carry him.
TELL ME HOW YOU REALLY FEEL
As I approached the art studio, I couldn't ever remember feeling so nervous in my life. Not when I'd first arrived at Easton. Not
when I had been questioned by the police about Thomas Pearson's murder last year. Not when I thought I was about to be expelled.
Maybe on the Billings rooftop last winter when Ariana had been hell-bent on throwing me over the side. But that had been more terror
than nervousness. A trembling, knee-weakening, life-flashing-before-my-eyes kind of terror. This was almost worse. Because there
was hope behind these nerves. Hope even though I knew I was about to get crushed. But I couldn't seem to squelch it, even to protect
myself. "
I pressed my damp palms into my jeans, then grasped the cold door handle and pulled. Perched on a wooden stool, Josh sat with his
back curled like a C. So lonely and sad. He didn't look up from his easel. On the canvas was a charcoal profile that looked a lot like
mine.
He hadn't opened any paints yet. The brushes sat dry and untouched. When he finally turned and saw me there, anger flashed
through his blue eyes. "You can't be here," he said. "Why not? Maybe I've developed an interest in painting." I tried for levity. Bad
idea. Josh stood up, nearly knocking his seat over. "No. I mean, you can't really be here. You can't actually think we're going to talk
about this. That you're going to find some way to explain it that will make me forgive you."
All the oxygen left the room. Tell me how you really feel. "Josh, please--" "No! Reed, no. God! "He brought his hand to his head
and winced. "I can't get the picture of you and Dash out of my mind. Do you have any idea what this is like for me?" "Actually, yeah.
