Page 32 of The Way We Swing

“Hitting is dumb,” he said. So, he wasn’t serious.

My shoulders loosened, and the tight breath I hadn’t realized I was holding slipped out. “That’s probably why your average is the worst on the team,” I said, forcing a grin and hoping it would land as teasing, not panicked.

Thankfully, our teacher walked in the room to hand out the syllabus and get us on to our work.

The rest of the day blurred into the usual first-day nonsense with syllabuses, speeches, seating charts, and teachers pretending their classes were going to change our lives. My last class of the day for the whole school year would be journalism, and I expected the same.

Journalism had been my main elective since freshman year, and it was something that I (mostly) enjoyed. As long as we produced an article every two weeks for the school paper, it was essentially a glorified study hall. The only part of the class I didn’t like was the fact that once a semester, we had to get in front of a camera for morning announcements. Whoever invented public speaking deserved jail time.

I walked into the class for the first time that year and took a seat in the back. Bella and Lacy were already sitting, Bella’s hair curled to perfection as always. They had bothjoined the class sophomore year, and we had “worked” together on most of our articles.

I’d almost brought up the Easton problem to Bella more than once. She was crazy, but I was also pretty sure she’d keep the secret. I kept shutting down the urge to tell her, though. If I had any doubt about how someone might react, then I couldn’t bring it up at all. The risk far outweighed the reward.

My mood flipped when I looked up. Easton had just walked into the room and was heading toward me.

“What’s up, Tan?” he said as he sat next to me. His new shirt already had a pen mark going down the sleeve; we couldn’t take this kid anywhere.

“Don’t you have an art class this period?” I asked.

“You convinced me. Journalism is much more my speed than art, so I switched.”

“Nice.” A full year of having a forty-five-minute class with Easton? Yes, please.

Lacy turned around and looked at us. Bella hadn’t stopped talking since I’d walked in the room, but Lacy seemed to put her on mute.

“So, we have the cute one in class,” Lacy said.

Easton’s face was as red as the notebook in front of him, exactly like it had been at the softball field on the Fourth.

“Sorry, Lacy, he’s not interested,” I said.

“Who says?” Easton mumbled.

“You can’t handle her, Easton,” I said. “She’d eat you alive.”

“Maybe that’s what he wants,” Lacy said, raising her eyebrows in a way that I was sure was seductive to most guys.

She was clearly getting to Easton, who nearly jumped out of his seat at the look. Lacy and I laughed, settling down as we saw our teacher stand up in front of the class.

“Okay, class. Listen up!” Ms. Seek doubled as both the American government teacher for the juniors and thejournalism teacher.

I wasn’t her biggest fan, but I’d stayed in her class for four years because I loved writing articles. I wasn’t that good at it—my grammar was rough, and my punctuation and spelling were hit-or-miss—but I loved telling stories. Plus, getting my homework done before I left school was a nice bonus.

She reviewed the typical first-day-of-school crap and told us to brainstorm ideas for our first articles. For me, that meant turning toward Easton and talking about everything but what I actually wanted to say.

When we got out of school that day, it was only Easton and me in the car. Gavin had gone to a friend’s house, and Zach had football practice. I had asked Easton to come over for a couple of rounds of batting practice, so we were heading back to my house and avoiding homework.

On Saturday night, we had watched a movie together once everyone was asleep. He had cuddled up to me…and we had made out again. And yet, we still hadn’t talked. I didn’t know what this was, and it was eating me alive.

“I’m starving,” Easton said. He was always starving, and Mom had started stocking our cupboards with food for a fourth boy.

“Make us something,” I said, heading to my room. I changed into a pair of athletic shorts and started thinking again. Easton and I had hooked up, and the physical parts were real, and I had enjoyed them to no end.

But Easton continued to behave like we didn’t kiss. I’d hoped he’d say something on Sunday morning, but he hadn’t. When we’d gone clothes shopping, I’d hoped again, but there had been people around all day. I was still waiting, but it was becoming clear I’d have to be the one to bring it up. Not that I was surprised.

I walked back into the kitchen as Easton threw pasta into a pot of boiling water on the stove.

“Does your mom have any tomato sauce?” he asked.