“You don’t need to play tough, baby girl.” My lips drop open and I’m about to call for Ryan, just so I can give him hell for being a stupid snitch after all the crap I boughthim. But then Danielle grabs my hand. “Anybody would be having a rough time starting a new school as a junior.”
I blink.
She thinks I’monlystressed about starting at Northland. Not because she knows about football and thinks I’m being reckless.
“Look, I know this year isn’t shaping up to be what you want—heck, it’s not exactly starting off to be what I want either.” I swallow, knowing that she means she’d much rather have me in the Windsor Prep weight room than across town. Maybe even in her Honors English section like Addie if Principal Meyer were cool with that. “You know me—I hate things I can’t control.”
Her fingers try to flatten the bumps on my comforter. Part of me would be fine with her discovering the jersey underneath. It would sort of be a relief to be found out. I think.
She stands but lingers by the bed, fingertips still grazing the edge of my comforter. “But really—are you okay? This new school thing is a big deal.”
“No—no, I’m not okay.” I take a shaky breath and press the heels of my hands to my eyes, trying hard not to cry. When I pull my hands away, Danielle grabs one and squeezes. I manage to take a deep breath. “I’m not okay, but if this is what I have to do to survive and advance, then it’s what I’ll do.”
Danielle smiles and brushes a piece of hair out of myface, her fingers cool on my hot skin. “Just like you’ll survive cross-country, right?”
Oh. Shit. I nod, internally kicking myself. I should’ve known that she wouldn’t just forget about that little detail.
“When’s your first meet? I’d like to go.”
Double shit. “I don’t know yet. I’ll find out.”
“Good. And if your Saturday morning race times conflict with Heather’s torture yoga, so be it,” she says with a little laugh and a shrug. She squeezes my hand one last time. “And tomorrow, remember to be yourself and you’ll be fine.”
13
THE SECOND I PARK HELENA THE HONDA ON MONDAYmorning, Ryan and Jesse barrel out and weave through the rows of cars, hot in pursuit of a couple of colt-legged freshmen cheerleaders.
No goodbye. No thank-you. No “That’ll do, Jeeves.”
Boys.
So I follow the gaudy orange paw prints through the junior-senior parking lot and up to the school’s main entrance. I’ve never actually entered Northland this way, preferring to sneak in the back like a criminal or a celebrity. Based on whose side you were on at the Northland–Windsor Prep game, I’m either or both.
The weather is beautiful, and at least half the school is still outside on the front lawn, soaking up the clearmorning sun, the atmosphere charged by the electric current that lights up the first day of school as much as the last. That little shock of promise and hope that’s threaded through a fresh start.
And that makes me want to cry.
I hadallof that exactly where I wanted it at Windsor Prep.
Now I can’t even dress myself properly, because everything that fits me is either old athletic clothes or part of my private school uniform. And I’m not about to beg for new clothes for the school year; we can’t afford that. So I settled on a pair of skinny jeans that I’ve got to roll up at the cuff because they used to be Heather’s, and a tank top that has seen far too many hours in the batting cage. Still, I curled my hair, swiped on some black liner with my daily mascara, dabbed on some cream blush, and smudged on a lip gloss four shades brighter than my summer cherry ChapStick.
My shoulders droop more than I’d like as I make my way through a crowd of strangers, a familiar voice cutting through my thoughts. “Posture like that makes me think someone punched your pony.”
Grey is dressed all preppy again, just like he was on Saturday night in a Lacoste polo and khaki shorts. He’s kicked up against a stone pillar, hands in his pockets, rocking his newscaster-surfer look in all its chiseled glory, his shades pulled low against the strong morning sun.
“Punched? Nice.”
“Touchy, touchy.”
I skate past him and catch the door handle. “No offense, but I’d rather be starting school at Windsor Prep.”
“Why? So you can play fashion face-off with a bunch of girls in the same skirt?” He bumps gently into my shoulder, but there’s no wink. The deadpan game is strong with him this morning.
“No. So I can play fashion face-off with a bunch of myfriendsin the same skirt,” I say, even though it feels like a lie. I’ve barely seen anyone but Addie since state.
“And here I thought we were friends.” Grey’s hand goes flat against the little Lacoste alligator over his heart and he falls with a clang against somebody’s locker. A few girls stop talking and look our way. “That was a dagger, Rodinsky. Adagger. Oh, my heart.”
“If you’re saying you want to trade the shorts-and-polo number for a Windsor Prep uniform, I do own a sewing machine and about eight skirts I no longer need.”
