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“With the spiked studs on the shoulders? You bet I saw it, too.”
“Ooh, someone’s got a crush on him.”
“I do not! You’re the one who called him hot. He looks … dangerous.”
“Exactly. You got yourself a taste for the bad boys. You’re in looove.”
Another annoying kick from Hoyt pulls my attention from the girls’ equally annoying banter. As Ms. Bean drones on in front of the chalkboard, I shut my eyes and beg for the clock’s hands to move faster. I also take a mental note to get to this class earlier tomorrow so as to snatch a seat away from Hoyt—if I can get Becky to release me from the main office on-time.
The bell rings, and I couldn’t be out of my seat faster. “Hey, why you runnin’ off, Toby-Tobes?” calls out Hoyt mockingly. “Did my feet give you a boner?” To the tune of a few laughs across the class, I shove through the door and into the hallway, clutching my backpack as I march off. I’m pretty sure my whole back and shoulders smell like Hoyt’s foot funk, adding salt to the wound of enduring his constant antagonizing the whole class period.
And I highly doubt, luck considered, it’ll be the last time I see him today.
Third period, chemistry, is located in a thicket of temporary trailers—the network of which has existed for seven years, which begs the question of whether it’s appropriate to continue calling them “temporary”. After navigating a series of wooden walkways, the slats through which the morning sunlight shines in white-hot stripes, I push through the heavy door of temporary trailer 4-A. I appear to be one of the last to arrive, so I claim one of only two available seats at an empty table in the back. In lieu of desks, this classroom has short white tables with stools, each of which sits two students, who will likely become lab partners, if this works the way it did last year for biology. When the bell rings, I enjoy the solitude of my partnerless back table, figuring I’ll be lumped in with another table in a trio situation, if necessary. I pull out my notebook and get ready for whatever Mr. Schubert’s got for us.
But before we learn about chemistry, Mr. Schubert calls roll. When it’s time for the M’s, I’m quick to answer for Toby Michaels, despite the itch I always feel in responding to that name. I never felt like a Michaels. I never had a choice. When my mom married Carl and brought them into our lives, I lost my true last name and had to accept the ill-fitting coat of “Michaels” whether I wanted to or not. If only eight-year-olds could have a say in such matters …
With no N’s in class, Mr. Schubert goes straight to the P’s. That’s when the fun begins. “Pane?” He looks up from his tablet, squinting at the rows of silent students. “Pane? … Donovan Pane?”
Faces turn to one another, confused. No one’s familiar with the name, first or last. Donovan Pane? Who are the Panes? Which side of town do they live on? Who knows them? Surely someone?
Just when it starts to dawn on me who it might be, the door flies open with a percussive bang, causing the whole temporary building to shudder in distress. All heads snap to the explosion, and in walks the missing student through a veil of bright daylight.
He is immediately striking, but not for all the reasons that the gossipy front-desk Becky or the girls in English went on about. His tall and slender panther-like build exudes power and confidence, which is then unexpectedly contrasted by the soft, sensitive look of his guarded eyes and smooth flushed cheeks. His short dark hair cuts partway down his forehead and frames the sides of his face in messy spikes, right where sideburns might be, giving him a total lead-singer-of-some-punk-band vibe. His aforementioned sleeveless leather jacket is layered over a gray shirt, fitted perfectly to caress a hint of his chest muscles, the sleeves wrapped around a modest set of biceps—not too big, not too small—with black leather cuffs on his wrists. The guy’s ripped gray jeans have holes at the knees and scrunch up at the shins, atop a pair of military-style boots.
There’s no mistaking it; this is the gorgeous new guy who has the whole school in a whispering, scandalized frenzy.
“You must be Donovan Pane,” Mr. Schubert notes, completely unaffected by his appearance. “Tardiness is forgiven on the first day, of course, as you’re finding your way around. Take a seat at the—” He squints across the room, searching, then nods. “—at the back, right there in the available spot by Toby.”
I freeze, eyes wide.
Donovan looks my way. He regards me for half a second, and that fleeting half second seems to pass like an hour of exquisite torture, before he faces Mr. Schubert and says, “Vann.”
