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If I can pull it off.
I pick up a rock and throw it as far as I can. It lands all the way on the other side of the moon-shaped beach with a sharpcrack!The girl on the rock ledge peers up from whatever she was poking at in one of the tidepools. She brushes her palms against her thighs, eyeing us.
“Everyone knows about me getting kicked out of Hadley. That I failed junior year,” I say softly, feeling her out to see if she was aware of this. That people somehow found out I failed my junior year and worked out a deal to make up the grades over the summer when they offered me a spot at SH Prep. They were willing to be flexible—agreed to keep it quiet, because they wanted me on their football team. Bad. Mrs. T. might not care so much, but the SH Prep board wants that state championship as much as I do. They know it’ll boost the school’s reputation and solidify their status among the top private schools in the country. Most people might not know this, but a lot of the more prestigious private schools in the country put more focus on recruiting top athletes than high-academic achievers. I’m not saying it makes sense. I’m also not complaining.
“Yeah, people know you failed. You had to do summer school—it’s not like it’s some big secret.” She rolls her eyes. “Literally no one cares, Seb. Everyone loves you.”
I don’t tell her thatIcare. That it’s humiliating, knowing people think you’re dumber than a tree stump, but overlook it because you’ve got a good arm. Or because you’re popular with girls. Most of the time I just laugh it off—make a joke out of it or whatever. Because Scarr’s right: most people love me, so who really cares that it’s not for my intelligence?
But sometimes—especially with the memory glitches recently that make me seem like even more of a dunce—it would be nice not to be the guy at the bottom of the IQ barrel.
“Whatever. It’s cool,” is all I say. A non-committal way of changing the subject. I toss another rock, aiming away from the girl across the beach, who is now making her way down from the rocky plateau and navigating the craggy boulders down to the beach.
And we move on to talking about the lame-ass party at Hillary Clary’s place last weekend, whose parents showed up two hours in and shut the whole thing down in a matter of minutes.
“Yo, losers!” a guy’s voice bellows from across the beach, interrupting our conversation. “What’s good?”
It’s Trevor Albrecht, another guy on the team. Three other guys follow behind him, making their way down the last few steps to the beach. Scarr and I wave as the guys wander along the sand toward us, laughing and talking loudly over one another the whole way down the beach.
“Get your clothes back on, kids!” Connor shouts. “Playtime’s over!”
“Unless you’re prepared to share!” Trevor counters. “Then, by all means, carry on with whatever you were doing!”
Trev and Connor refuse to believe that Scarr and I don’t fool around. The idea of having a friend who’s a girl and not wanting to jump her bones is a foreign concept to them. To a lot of people, apparently, because they’re not the only ones who assume our relationship is more than just a friendship. But in Trev and Connor’s case, their perspective is a little cloudy anyway when it comes to Scarr. They’ve both been pining after her since fifth grade. To be fair, Scarr’s kind of at the top of every Sandy Haven dude’s dream girl list. Because of her looks, but also the attitude. She plays the part of the classic, untouchable Queen Bee like a pro.
“You guys getting all romantic over here or what?” Trevor asks when they finally reach us.
“Just hanging out,” Scarr says. “What about you guys?”
“You mean, were we getting handsy?” Trevor grins. “’Cause the answer is yes. Obviously. You know how hot my man Declan always is for me.”
He wiggles his eyebrows playfully, which draws an eye-roll from Scarlett. The guys roar with laughter, taking turns jostling Declan. Because twenty-first century or not, apparently nothing is still funnier to a bunch of football dudes than your standard “as-if-a-jock-would-ever-actually-be-gay” fare. Har freaking Har.
Trevor is talking again but I’m not listening, because the girl from across the beach is making her way toward us and I’m trying to figure out if I know her. I’m almost positive I don’t. Like I said, she looks younger: like the kind of girl you’d see on a Christmas card building a snowman or baking cookies or something. Her crazy curly hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, one arm of her gray polar fleece bunched above her elbow, and she’s wearing the most butt-ugly, never-in-style at any point during any decade ever green rain boots.
Trevor must have asked me something, because he waits a beat, then turns to see what’s caught my attention.
“Hey, it’s Fish Girl!” he bellows, and the girl actually falters.
“In her natural habitat!” Declan cackles when he turns along with the other guys and spots her.
I tilt my chin at the guys’ still turned backs. “What the hell are they talking about?” I ask Scarr.
“She goes to SH Prep,” Scarr explains. “This weird mousy chick who tried to start up an ocean club or something freshman year. She did this whole cringy presentation in the dining hall trying to recruit people. Ever since then, everyone calls her Fish Girl.”
“Just for wanting to start up a club?”
Declan’s eyebrows arch almost to his hairline. “Dude, it was bad. You had to be there.”
“She goes to SH Prep?” I squint at her approaching figure. “She looks about twelve.”
Okay, so I’m exaggerating. Still, she definitely looks younger than someone in high school.
Scarr shrugs. “She’s one of those crazy geniuses. Super smart but a total dud socially.”
“Heeeeeeere fishy fishy fishy!” Declan calls in her direction, and she slows almost to a stop.
I can actually see her swallow; her throat bobbing just above the collar of her fully zipped polar fleece.
