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Quinn made a face. “You know, that’s a local number.”
Becca stared. She hadn’t noticed. Did that mean he was in town?
Did it matter?
Becca tore the piece of paper from the notebook.
Then, just like last night, she crumpled it up, shoved it in the trash, and carried it out to the curb.
CHAPTER 9
By Friday, Chris still looked like crap, and Becca wanted to call him on it. But in third-period English Lit, he sat across the room and didn’t make eye contact once.
Fine.
She must have beaten Chris to World History, because New Kid was sitting in the same seat as the day before—Chris’s usual spot. He’d paired a rust-colored tee shirt with dark jeans and black Vans today. Average, nothing-special clothes that looked striking and exotic just because he was wearing them.
Monica Lawrence was sitting at the desk next to him, leaning into him, giggling at something he’d said. She called Tommy Dunleavy her boyfriend, but you wouldn’t know it from the way she was putting her assets front and center.
Not that New Kid seemed to mind.
Guess he doesn’t need the dog to pick up chicks after all.
Becca swung her bag higher on her shoulder and moved down the aisle to her seat, carefully avoiding Monica’s eyes.
New Kid looked up when she passed. “Hey—”
“Ohmigod, no,” said Monica. Her manicured hand latched onto his arm and a spill of blond hair pooled on his desk. Her boobs were going to explode from the neckline of her shirt in a minute.
Then she leaned in close and whispered into his ear, breaking off to glance at Becca more than once.
Yup, that had lasted about five minutes.
“Grow up,” Becca muttered. She dropped into her chair, busying herself with pulling a textbook from her backpack, finding a pen, and establishing the mental fortitude for the abuse that would start when Tommy sat down.
“Hey.”
It was Chris Merrick’s voice, his tone almost aggressive—and so startling that she jerked her head up, sure he was talking to her.
But he was standing next to New Kid, a hand braced on the nylon strap of his backpack. “You’re in my seat.”
New Kid lifted his head, a slow, deliberate movement. Becca watched him size up Chris—but his eyes widened fractionally when they got to Chris’s face. The bruising along his cheekbone and jaw had lightened, turning a mottled yellowish blue. His lip was healing, but you could still see a split.
Monica was staring, her lips slightly parted. “What happened?” she said, her voice soft with awe.
“Wow. Yeah.” New Kid settled back in his chair—a clear refusal to move. One eyebrow lifted, and his voice was dry. “Someone sit in your seat?”
Monica snorted with laughter and giggled behind her hand.
Chris leaned down, his blue eyes dark, like the ocean at night. The bag slipped off his shoulder to hit the floor.
Mr. Beamis chose that moment to step into the classroom. He cleared his throat. “Mr. Merrick. I presume you’re welcoming our new student?”
Chris put a hand on New Kid’s desk. “Welcome. Move.”
“Keep moving, Mr. Merrick,” said Beamis. His tone drew the attention of the rest of the class, and conversation died. “There’s a seat farther down. I suggest you find it.”
Chris didn’t move. Neither did New Kid.
