It’s something I would’ve seriously dreamed about five months ago. I probablydiddream about it. Possibly while sitting in Mr. Sweeten’s Honors English class, “listening” to him drone on about the merits ofThe Scarlet Letter. Possibly.
And now that daydream is a reality.
Which, despite our history, actually isn’t much of a problem.
It was just like at practice—not exactly comfortable, but not exactly uncomfortable. It’s fine but awkward. Probably the best scenario, all things considered.
Though I’d appreciate it if he randomly forgot his cologne for the rest of the school year because—hot damn—that’s distracting.
Now it’s hours later and I canstillsmell it, after sitting through two other classes where I knew exactly noone. And now I’m standing at the entrance to junior-senior lunch, paper sack in hand, scanning the room. It’s filled with hundreds of faces, but I’m only looking for one.
But of course I spy Mr. Cologne first. He’s sitting with Kelly and some girls I recognize from softball games. In my previous life, that would’ve been my table to curate.
I don’t linger long as a familiar tan arm shoots up, hand open as casually as if it had just thrown a perfect spiral. Grey, calling me to a table by the windows.
As I get closer, I recognize other faces at the table, mostly as people I’m used to seeing in football gear—Topps, Chico Sanchez, Zach Tate, Trevor Smith, and, interestingly, Nick Cleary. I suppose twins don’t have to do everything together, but separate lunch tables wasn’t something I was expecting. Also unexpected: The only girl at the table is a brunette in a cheerleading uniform. I haven’t seen her before, but she smiles at me like we’ve been best friends since macaroni necklaces.
“O-Rod,” Topps says by way of greeting, beard even more striking when paired with a T-shirt emblazoned with the phrase I LIKETACOS.
“Good one, Topps,” Grey says, aiming for a lazy fist bump across the table.
Topps raises a bushy brow. “What do you mean?”
“O-Rod. Like A-Rod. And she even plays third like him,” he deadpans, the corners of his lips curled. “It’s clever.”
“I didn’t make it up. It’s her actual nickname.”
Grey kicks out the chair next to him. It puts me between him and Nick, and directly across from the cheerleader, who is still smiling—and stealing Topps’s fries while he attempts to explain his lack of cleverness. It also puts me within Grey’s wingspan, as he’s got both arms splayed out and curled around the chairs on either side of him. Chico is on his left side—and not looking weirded out by the manspreading—while I’d be on his right. “Your nickname is O-Rod? How did I not know this?”
I slide into the chair and pull it up, conscious of his forearm making contact with my upper back. To cover for the flush I feel creeping up my cheeks, I sock him on the shoulder. “You didn’t ask. Topps did.”
Grey lifts his chin in appreciation. “Nice work, Topps.”
“Now, I’ve got a question for you, Topps,” I say, popping open my water bottle. “What’s your actual name? Clue a girl in.”
“Tobias James Topperman,” the brunette says with a giant grin crowded onto her elfin face. She’s got huge brown eyes that make her look like Bambi—in a good way. “And I’m Lily Jane Mack.”
“My Lily Jane,” Topps says with a smile, squeezing her shoulder with a bear paw. Said by anybody else, the “my” there would come across as misogynistic bullcrap, but with Topps, it’s somehow sweet and endearing.
“Nice to meet you, Lily Jane.”
“Likewise, O-Rod.” She leans in. “Don’t let the uniform fool you. I’m not like she-who-must-not-be-named.”
“Oh.” Frost settles over my skin as it dawns on me that I’d forgotten Stacey was on the cheer squad.
The chill spreads with further realization that—yet again—these people at Northland know a heck of a lot more about me than I know about them. All of them know about Stacey. And all of them know about why I’m here.
No use in denying our shared understanding, as much as I hate it. I match Lily Jane’s smile, or at least I try to. “I’m fine with giving her the Voldemort treatment.”
“Me too.” Grey raises his knuckles to me in an offer of a fist bump. I offer my fist back, but as I do, I catch Nick and Topps in a whisper, both their eyes glued to Grey.
And I wonder what else I don’t know.
14
I’M HIGH AS A FREAKING KITE AS GREY AND I WALK TOthe only class we have together. Honors calculus—with Coach Lee as our instructor, as it turns out. Lily Jane, Topps, and Nick are in the class, too, which is awesome because it wasn’t pleasant feeling so alone in my earlier classes.
We pile into the classroom, Grey in front of me, which is much more enjoyable than sitting next to Jake, and pull out notebooks in a shuffle. Grey immediately wrenches around in his chair until he’s facing sideways, the sling of his body oh-so-comfortable, both myself and Coach Lee now in his sight line.
