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His brown eyes meet mine. “Iz-la Rush,” he says quietly, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “Nice to meet you … again.”
My brain fumbles for a quick-witted reply, but before I think of anything, the teacher walks toward my desk, his expression horrifyingly focused on me. “Miss Rush, would you like to say a few things about yourself?”
“Um, what?” I shake my head. “I mean, no. I’m good, thanks.”
He holds up a finger. “Complacency is not allowed in my class, Miss Rush. Since it’s the first day, I’ll let you stay at your desk instead of going to the front of class,” he says with a generous flourish of his hand.
“Are you serious?” I ask quietly even though I’m very much aware that the entire class is looking at me. So much for being invisible. “Doesn’t this kind of thing only happen in the movies?”
“Just because it happens in movies doesn’t mean it can’t happen in real life.” He gestures toward the rest of the students. “We are an open classroom that thrives on community and insightful ideas. No one is a stranger in my class. Those of you who had me sophomore year already know that.”
If I keep trying to get out of it, it’ll only take longer, so I shove all of my embarrassment into the back of my mind and try to step outside of myself and just get it over with. My hands push up on the desk, and I rise to my feet, turning toward the right to face everyone. All those problems I thought I had just moments ago, like the crushing on the new guy and mending my broken heart? They’re miles away from my current nightmare. Everyone is watching me.
Mr. Wang nods encouragingly. I start wondering how hard it would be to drop out of school and run far, far away. “My name is Isla, and I’m here because my town decided to exclude my street from Deer Valley’s district.”
“Excellent. And what are your hobbies?” My eyes drop to the floor, stopping just long enough to see that the hot mystery guy is busy on his phone and not even looking at me. For the last several years, my only hobby has been the Spirit Squad. No such thing exists here; I know because I checked on the school’s website. And I’m not about to admit that I’m a fake cheerleader to a room full of judgmental stares.
I clear my throat. “Cheerleading.” It’s not entirely a lie. I mean, yeah it is. But it makes my crush’s eyes look up from his phone. He lifts a single eyebrow, and our eyes meet. I quickly look away.
“That’s great, Isla,” Mr. Wang says, emphasizing my name now that he can pronounce it correctly. “Will you be trying out for the Wildcats’ cheerleaders this year?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh, and why not? You’d be great for it.”
I stumble for a response, but someone else beats me to it. “Oh come on, Wang. You’re killing her!” I look over at the gorgeous guy next to me, and he throws me a wink. “You didn’t make the rest of us give such long introductions two years ago.”
“Emory Underwood, back in my class. This will be a fun year.” Mr. Wang nods like he’s just discovered a new element. “I guess you have a point,” he says, followed by other things like telling me I can sit back down. I don’t hear much of what he tells us next because now I officially have a name for hot mysterious guy. Emory.
I watch him as he takes another sip of coffee, shrugging his shaggy hair out of his eyes. It’s shaggy in a silky way, not all curly and frizzy like Nate’s hair used to get when he’d let it grow out. Emory’s hair makes me want to run my fingers through it.
I lean over toward him as Mr. Wang starts handing out the syllabus. “Thanks,” I whisper.
Emory shoots me a glance. “No problem, Iz-la.”
The girl in front of me turns around, her perfectly curled hair sliding across my desktop. I think she’s about to talk to me, but she looks at Emory instead. She hands him a folded piece of paper and then slips back around, studiously watching our teacher.
My chest clenches. That’s not the same girl from the auditorium on orientation day. But the way Emory smiles when he reads her note sends a painful sting of rejection through my bones. Looks like I’m not the only girl with a crush on Emory Underwood.
Chapter Seven
There should be an award given out for surviving the first three days of Mr. Wang’s class. He’s hell-bent on his idea of a perfect classroom, all one big community of ideas and sharing. But somehow, despite the feeling-sharing in first period, I make it through the first week of school. The rest of my classes are easy enough and conducive for blending in. I’d chosen a seat in the back of each classroom, and hardly anyone had talked to me. Lunch was a little awkward, but a girl named Lauren in AP history offered to let me sit with her and the other introverts. So three days in a row, I’d eaten my PB&J at a table with six other girls who all kept to themselves. It’s a complete one-eighty from my old way of life, sitting on Nate’s lap at the loud football table in the cafeteria. But a girl with a broken heart could really get used to this quiet isolation.
In gym, I’d noticed Emory on the first day but every day since then they’ve separated boys and girls like we’re in elementary school. The girls have been doing stretches and toning exercises in the second gym, while the boys do something else in the first gym. Since he doesn’t talk to me in first period, I haven’t bothered looking for him in gym. Well, not that much, at least.
I pull my car into the driveway on Friday afternoon, relieved to be home for the next two days. My phone beeps from its place in the drink holder in my console and my heart skips three beats.
It’s Nate’s ringtone.
I shut off the engine and force myself to breathe before I look at the screen. It’s a miracle I hadn’t heard his ringtone while driving, or I might have swerved off the road and died from surprise. I pick up my phone, and it feels like it weighs a thousand pounds.
Nate: how’s the new school?
That’s it?
Two weeks after ripping out my heart and stomping on it, after saying he wanted to stay friends but then ignoring my last two weeks of friendly texts, that’s all he has to say? A tear rolls down my cheek. My thumb slides up the phone’s screen, looking at all the unanswered messages I’d sent him, nearly one per day. No response at all. And now this.
My head falls back against the headrest, and I stare at the gray upholstered ceiling in my car. Four years of dating Nate Miles meant four years of texts and calls that I’d totally taken for granted. I used to ignore his texts for a few minutes if I was busy doing something else, knowing that they’d be there when I returned. Now, it’s all I’ve wanted for two weeks. And now that he’s finally texted me, it’s like a bubble of anticipation has been destroyed.
