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And I am, in a way. My original affliction—Heartbreak by Nate—is about as cured as I could hope for. Sure, the occasional song on the radio will make me remember a date with him, or I’ll catch the scent of leather in the mall and think about the smell of his truck after he’s cleaned and buffed the leather seats. But those are just unavoidable memories, and they don’t hurt for very long.
Even with all of this progress, I’m still just as screwed up as ever. And the people who are supposed to help me can never know my new secret. I can’t tell the Break Up Support Group about my undeniably impossible and pointless crush on Emory, the group’s most notorious member. That means my current problem can only be solved by one person: me. The only possible way to get over a crush I shouldn’t have is by ignoring him and hoping my feelings go away in the process. Right?
Sometimes during lunch, I’ll glance up from my desk between Sequoia and Ciara and I’ll see Emory looking at me with an unreadable expression. It’s become clear that the only way to avoid him altogether is to leave the support group, but I haven’t found the willpower to do that yet. I like my new friends in the group, especially Ciara. Leaving the group would mean sitting alone in the cafeteria at lunch, having to buy my own food that isn’t delicious and free from Meadows Pizza. Although I’m no Doctor of Psychology, I am hoping against every tension-filled heartstring in my chest that I’ll be able to single-handedly force myself out of my crush on Emory.
I’m feeling pretty good about it on Monday during gym class. After changing into my gym clothes and lacing up my running shoes, I jog into the gym to wait for Coach to call attendance before dismissing us. This last week of running has done wonders for my endurance, and I’m hoping to run a full two miles today.
The moment I enter the gym, I know something odd is going on. Coach Carter stands with the boy’s coach, talking quietly over a plastic bin. She’s as tall as he is, with short brown hair that’s pulled tightly into a bun. One look at her tells you she loves fitness. Her arms are ripped. She holds a stack of black things that look like walkie-talkies or a radio, gesturing to them while she converses with the other coach.
“Have a seat everyone,” she says, her stout voice echoing off the concrete walls. “We have a surprise planned for you today. Partner up—you’ll be geocaching.”
My heart stops at the mention of needing a partner. I don’t have a single friend in this class. I glance around the small basketball court, looking for a girl that I may have spoken to at some point since school started. But people are already pairing up—girls with their boyfriends, groups of longtime friends, people who belong with someone else in this class.
I don’t have anyone.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Emory’s voice is both a relief and the catalyst to tachycardia. I turn toward him, faking a polite smile. He looks strangely athletic in the Granite Hills High gym uniform of black shorts and a blue shirt. The only thing that’s the same is the compass bracelet around his wrist.
“I just—” I say with a shrug, unable to humiliate myself by admitting I have no partner.
“Want to team up?” he says. “I mean, I know you hate me and all but I don’t have a partner and it looks like you don’t, either.”
I blink. “What? I don’t hate you.”
He lifts an eyebrow, tilting his head down as he looks at me. “You’ve ignored me ever since I tried getting you that date. It’s kind of obvious that you’re pissed at me now.”
That day on the stairs was humiliating but not the reason I’ve been ignoring him. He thinks it is though, and this really works in my favor. My chest tightens when I wonder what he’d do if he knew the truth about my crush on him. I push those thoughts out of my mind and make a small nod. “Yeah, I’ll be your partner.”
Emory gets a GPS tracker from the box, along with a list of coordinates and a pencil. The coaches explain that geocaching is a fun way to get exercise by looking up the coordinates on our trackers and then finding the exact location in the wooded field behind the school. Each cache is a small hidden box with a notepad inside. We’re supposed to find the box, write our names, and then place it back exactly where we found it. There are ten locations on the list and finding all of them counts as a test grade.
“Have you done this before?” he asks as we head outside, venturing into the wooden area that separates Granite Hills High from the surrounding neighborhoods.
“Nope,” I say, messing with the buttons on the GPS tracker, trying to get the thing to turn on. I hold it up to him. “Have you?”
He nods and reaches over, steadying the tracker with his hand over mine. I hold absolutely still, ignoring the tingle in my toes that intensifies with each second. He twists a knob on what looked like a static part, and the screen turns on. “You’re a genius,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Not really. We do this every year.”
“So you know where all the caches are already,” I say, eyes going wide. “This will be an easy grade.”
“Hardly, snowflake.” He snickers and bumps into me as we walk. “They move them each year.”
We follow the first set of coordinates to a small pine tree. Emory finds the cache—a tiny black metal capsule—hanging from a branch. We sign our names, and I input the coordinates for the next item on the list. The woods are thick back here, and although there’s a walking trail that winds around the perimeter, the caches are all off the path, deep into the heart of this suburban forest.
Being alone with Emory is a rush. I love every second of it. And I hate every second of it.
By our fifth cache, I’m getting the hang of this endeavor. Emory and I walk around the area of the coordinates, looking for the black box. He’s found every one so far, and I’m getting more than a little agitated at being bested by someone like him. So far they’ve all been different sizes and shapes, so I’m looking for anything that isn’t a piece of nature.
I step onto a pile of white rocks that look like they were dumped out of someone’s garden and scan the branches of the tree in front of me, pulling up on my toes to peer over the leaves.
“Two have already been in a tree,” Emory says thoughtfully, his eyes narrowed as he searches the ground around us. “I’m guessing the rest of th
em will be placed somewhere else.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” I say, pushing off the tree and taking a step back. My running shoes hit the rocks and slide, quicker than I can regain my balance. I flail, my shoulder smacking into the rough bark of the tree.
Strong hands grab my arms and hold me steady. “Watch out for the killer rocks,” Emory says, a smile tugging at his lips. “You okay?”
I nod. My legs go weak … being this close to him is more dangerous than the slippery terrain. He watches me for a beat, and I bite the inside of my lip to keep from smiling. Those dark brown eyes, brows knit together in concern—he’s really not making it easy to stop liking him.
