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This time last week, I wouldn’t have known whose handwriting this was. But now, after two days of getting to acquaint myself with it, the chicken scratch was easily identifiable even if they didn’t leave their full name.
Meet me by the football bleachers at lunch.
-C
Before I had a chance to react to the demand, to the absurdity of him slipping a note into my locker—because when would he have had time to do it, anyway?—a voice sounded right behind me. “Hi, bestie.”
I turned to find Rachel and Ava standing behind me, the former offering me a sleepy grin, the latter gazing at me with a seriousness that wasn’t like her. Seeing her, though, reminded me of the article from Thursday night, of the picture of me that she hadn’t deleted from the text thread. It caused a dark emotion to stir in my stomach, and I crushed the slip of paper into my bag. “Morning.”
Without wasting a second, Ava thrusted her cell phone at me, lit-up screen facing me. Her features were grim. “I got this submission last night.”
My stomach dipped as I read the bold text.
Maybe they should change Most Likely to Marry a Math book into Most Likely to Get Dumped, because Maisie’s boyfriend ditched her Friday night at the Wallflower to sit with the popular crowd. How embarrassing!
“People love to stick their nose into business that isn’t their own,” I muttered, trying to invoke the anger I knew was simmeringsomewherein my body, but I felt more and more weighed down, as if I was about to sink into the floor.
Rachel took a step closer, lowering her chin. When she spoke, her voice was loaded with concern. “Did that actually happen on Friday?”
My silence spoke volumes; I knew it did. But I knew that if I were to say anything, there was no coming back from it. I could forgive Alex, but I wasn’t sure that they would.
As I reached into my bag, the soft fabric of Connor’s sweatpants grazed my fingers. I stared into the pit of my locker, but I couldn’t see it anymore. All I could see was Connor in the driver’s seat of his car, anger in his eyes.
Meet me by the football bleachers at lunch. Was he serious? After Friday, he thought he could boss me around?
I tried to imagine myself walking down the hallway, finding him before classes started, passing back the freshly washed pair of sweatpants. What would his reaction have been? Would he have thanked me for washing them? Snatched them back, embarrassed to be seen talking to me? Would he have pretended they weren’t his?
The unknown answer had me passing the stupid things off to Rachel. “Here. Can you give these back to Mr. Popular for me?”
Without another word, I shut my locker door and flicked the combination before walking away. I wasn’t sure if Rachel and Ava stuck around to talk to him, or whether Rachel went off to find Connor and return the sweatpants, but I didn’t look back to find out.
Even though the bell rang for us to go to lunch, Mrs. Greer hurried and got one last assignment in, leaving me scrambling to make a note in my planner. No one else bothered to stay around and write it down—some left even though she was talking—so I ended up being the last to duck out of the classroom.
I was one step away from starting down the staircase before a hand wrapped around my wrist, tugging me backward. My sneaker caught on the linoleum floor, creating a squeak that sounded like a scream.
When I turned around, I came face to face with Connor Bray.
“Would you stop getting all grabby-handy with me?” I demanded, wrenching my hand from his wrist, though he was quick to let me go. He wore a black hoodie and tan shorts, an odd combination for a late September day, but I only judged a little. “Seriously, there’s this thing called personal space—”
“Is there anyone else left in the classroom?”
I frowned at him talking over me, squeezing my fingers into a fist. “No, I was the last one.” And then something weird hit me. “Wait, were you out here waiting for me?”
Connor’s eyes bobbed around everywhere but at me—down the staircase, down the hallway, even peeking into Mrs. Greer’s classroom to make sure no one was about to emerge. He was waiting for someone to catch him being too friendly to me. I wondered if he already had an excuse ready. “Did you not get my note?”
My mood darkened as a cloud covered my sunshine. “Lunchjuststarted. There’s no way I would’ve made it to the bleachers by now. Why did you want to meet me there, anyway?”
“I figured we could meet and talk about where we should go today for tutoring. Go over my math homework you assigned. Get in some bonus tutoring time. Maybe we could doyourtutoring session. Except I assumed you giving the sweatpants to your friends was your way of saying ‘not a chance.’”
He was right about that. I hadn’t been planning on going. “How did you even know this was my class?” And then it hit me. “Rachel.”
“Ava, actually. I asked her when Rachel gave me back the sweatpants. Which—” He turned back to me with a curious, raised eyebrow. “Going back to my above point, I didn’t expectherto be the one to give them back.”
“You shouldn’t have given the pants to me in the first place. You’re the one who preached about keeping this a secret.”
“Only about the tutoring.”
If it was any other student wanting to keep their tutoring sessions a secret, would I have thought twice about it? Would it have felt so much like an insult? Embarrassment washed over me all over again seeing Connor now. Seeing him launched me back into the creaky diner chair at the Wallflower, where my Friday night quickly turned into the Friday night from hell. Lastweekwas the week from hell. And of course, Connor had a front row seat to most of it.
