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My face turns as red as the cup of cherry Jell-O on my tray I didn’t touch. “I’m not swooning.”
“It’s okay. I won’t tell no one. So you guys have chemistry?”
My eyes flash. “What?”
“Chemistry class. Are you not gonna eat that?” She snatches my untouched Jell-O and shoves it into her backpack. “So I want to know what he’s like. Did you ask him anything? Get to know him?”
“Not … Not really.” The commotion of everyone leaving the cafeteria and heading to their fifth periods all around me has my head scrambled up. “I don’t … I don’t know. He’s cool, I guess.”
“‘He’s cool, you guess’ …?”
“He likes to draw. He’s … quiet, though.”
“What else? C’mon. Give me the juicy stuff.”
“But I don’t have juicy stuff. Let’s go.” I rise from the table to deposit my tray. “We’ve gotta get to class. We’re already a few minutes into the bell, and I can’t be late to pre-cal again, not after missing nearly all of it yesterday.”
“You should have lunch with him tomorrow,” she proposes as she puppy-dogs me out of the cafeteria. “He could probably use a friend. He has none, and now that he’s unwisely poked the football team beast and invoked the wrath of the principal …”
“Oh, it’s fine,” I assure her. “The principal didn’t punish him.”
Kelsey frowns. “What’re you talking about? ‘Course he did.”
I shake my head. “Nope. He wasn’t punished at all. Vann even said so, today in chemistry.”
“But he did,” she insists, stopping in the middle of the hall. “I know ‘cause my daddy Ty, who is good buds with the principal, told me last night during dinner.”
Now I stop. Students push their way around us, hurrying to class. Just a couple minutes remain of the bell, but thoughts of its ring are so far behind me now. “What do you mean?”
“Principal Whitman gave Vann an ultimatum and even called his parents in. A sort of ‘three-strikes-and-you’re-out’ thing, and I guess yesterday was his first strike. His parents weren’t happy.”
I can’t close my mouth, too stunned for words.
Why didn’t Vann tell me any of that?
Kelsey shrugs. “Anyway, my class is the other way. See you in yearbook, buddy! I have a great idea to contribute about the front page. Ms. Reyes is gonna be so glad she brought me onto the staff.” She saunters away, chin up, and disappears around the corner.
I head the rest of the way to pre-cal in a daze. When I get to the room, I take the first desk that finds my weary ass. I don’t even notice my stepbrother Lee’s prying stare from the other side of the sea of desks. As Ms. Ducasse begins the lesson in a tired drone, I stare reflectively at the wall, thinking of Vann’s illustration from chemistry class, that strong, beautiful, black-winged demon, and the delicate shadows that live between his muscles.
04 | VANN
It’s a crazy thing, running away.
You always know what you’re running from.
But never where you’re running to.
The roar of my motorcycle shatters the air as I take the corner close, then rev the engine and fly down the main road.
I don’t even know what the big deal with Toby is. Why am I so fixated on him? He’s just another country boy in a town that’s full of them, from one ear to the other. Slender, toned in all the right places, has probably raked a field or two in his life, maybe grows potatoes or something in his backyard, who knows. I can picture him with a farmer’s tan, sweaty under the scalding sun, a tank top hanging off his body spackled in mud and grass stains, and those oversized gardening gloves swallowing his hardworking hands. Jeans threadbare and dusty, with one of those big belt buckles that glints and winks at me from the sunlight. And Toby, decked out in all that country boy bliss, lifting the bottom of his tank top up to wipe sweat off his reddened face, and revealing his smooth, firm abs and cute bellybutton, maybe the waistband of his underwear, his jeans hanging low off his hips.
I swerve my bike, dodging a squirrel as it skitters across the road in front of me. Keep your mind on the damned road, Vann, I chide myself, shaking my head and tossing away all thoughts of Toby.
Toby. Country boy Toby. Just another cute southerner with a twang in his voice and an adorable, killer smile that’s as nervous and meek as it is proud.
What the hell is it with this guy …?
I pull to a stop at the side of the road, confused on whether to take a left yet or keep going. This place called Spruce, every street looks like every other one—full of dusty pastures, old buildings, and overgrown trees. I passed a weatherworn church a few miles back that looked like it’s on its last legs. The movie theater is a rundown five-screen. Every restaurant, bar, and café is a mom-and-pop joint. I haven’t seen a single Starbucks or McDonald’s here.
