“Good. And if your Saturday morning race times conflict with Heather’s torture yoga, so be it,” she says with a little laugh and a shrug. She squeezes my hand one last time. “And tomorrow, remember to be yourself and you’ll be fine.”
13
THE SECOND I PARK HELENA THE HONDA ON MONDAY morning, Ryan and Jesse barrel out and weave through the rows of cars, hot in pursuit of a couple of colt-legged freshmen cheerleaders.
No goodbye. No thank-you. No “That’ll do, Jeeves.”
Boys.
So I follow the gaudy orange paw prints through the junior-senior parking lot and up to the school’s main entrance. I’ve never actually entered Northland this way, preferring to sneak in the back like a criminal or a celebrity. Based on whose side you were on at the Northland–Windsor Prep game, I’m either or both.
The weather is beautiful, and at least half the school is still outside on the front lawn, soaking up the clear morning sun, the atmosphere charged by the electric current that lights up the first day of school as much as the last. That little shock of promise and hope that’s threaded through a fresh start.
And that makes me want to cry.
I had all of that exactly where I wanted it at Windsor Prep.
Now I can’t even dress myself properly, because everything that fits me is either old athletic clothes or part of my private school uniform. And I’m not about to beg for new clothes for the school year; we can’t afford that. So I settled on a pair of skinny jeans that I’ve got to roll up at the cuff because they used to be Heather’s, and a tank top that has seen far too many hours in the batting cage. Still, I curled my hair, swiped on some black liner with my daily mascara, dabbed on some cream blush, and smudged on a lip gloss four shades brighter than my summer cherry ChapStick.
My shoulders droop more than I’d like as I make my way through a crowd of strangers, a familiar voice cutting through my thoughts. “Posture like that makes me think someone punched your pony.”
Grey is dressed all preppy again, just like he was on Saturday night in a Lacoste polo and khaki shorts. He’s kicked up against a stone pillar, hands in his pockets, rocking his newscaster-surfer look in all its chiseled glory, his shades pulled low against the strong morning sun.
“Punched? Nice.”
“Touchy, touchy.”
I skate past him and catch the door handle. “No offense, but I’d rather be starting school at Windsor Prep.”
“Why? So you can play fashion face-off with a bunch of girls in the same skirt?” He bumps gently into my shoulder, but there’s no wink. The deadpan game is strong with him this morning.
“No. So I can play fashion face-off with a bunch of my friends in the same skirt,” I say, even though it feels like a lie. I’ve barely seen anyone but Addie since state.
“And here I thought we were friends.” Grey’s hand goes flat against the little Lacoste alligator over his heart and he falls with a clang against somebody’s locker. A few girls stop talking and look our way. “That was a dagger, Rodinsky. A dagger. Oh, my heart.”
“If you’re saying you want to trade the shorts-and-polo number for a Windsor Prep uniform, I do own a sewing machine and about eight skirts I no longer need.”
The serious planes of his face break. “Okay, nah, I’m fine.” He pushes off the locker and raises his chin. The girls are still staring at him, and that’s when it dawns on me that even though I’m a nobody here, Grey is a somebody. A major somebody of the “hot starting quarterback/senior football co-captain” variety. “Speaking of school, how’s your schedule looking?”
My schedule just has the names of classes and the room numbers. Not that I know where anything is, other than the locker rooms and weight room. Northland is the oldest school in the county and has been added on to so many times that it’s laid out like a half-full Scrabble board.
As Grey reads down the line of classes and places, I glance up, ending up eyeball to eyeball with about two dozen posters with faces and names I don’t know, all in various arrangements, all begging “So-and-so for Homecoming Queen!”
They let them campaign for honorary titles at this dumb school? And homecoming is still, like, five weeks away—I know because Coach Lee has it highlighted outside his office, the most important game outside of the league championship and anything else we get at state.
“Spanish first, huh?” Hope rises in my chest that he might be in that class, too, even though he’s a senior—it is an elective, after all. “My class is that way. I’ll show you.”
“You’re not in Spanish?” I ask, traitorous cheeks pinking.
“Not that section. But we do have Honors Calc together right after lunch.”
Lunch—that sounded like an invitation. Thank God. “Awesome.”
“We can discuss integrals for, like, two straight hours if we want.” At this, he winks, completely oblivious to the fact that the sea of students is parting neatly for him and his broad shoulders. I have people skirting past me, knocking into my backpack in a way I’ve never experienced in high school. Mostly because Windsor Prep doesn’t have nearly this many students, but also because I was so high up the social ladder, my shoulder wasn’t in anybody else’s airspace.
I start to laugh because though I don’t know him well, I doubt that’s what Grey likes to do for fun, but then suddenly his hand is twined with mine. “Liv, this way,” he says, and then he’s tugging me down a side hallway.
We’re touching. And not in a shoulder-knock cutesy way.
Too soon, he lets go. “Two down, on the left.”
“Cool,” I say, though I’m most definitely not. Between the nerves, the dread, and whatever the heck just happened when we made skin-to-skin contact, I’m pretty sure I should’ve gone without any blush this morning. “Thanks for walking me.”
“No problem. I’ll play Good Samaritan anytime.”
I open my mouth to respond, but suddenly—
“Grey?”
There, filling only half of the doorway with her slender frame, is Coach Kitt. Or, apparently, my Spanish teacher.
All the annoying color drains from my face.
“Hey, Mom.” Grey cocks a thumb at me. “Just helping out Liv.”
Coach Kitt’s red lips smooth into a line, but there’s a hitch at the end, her version of her son’s half smile. “A new favorite pastime of yours.”
Unfazed, Grey grins wider. “Eh, gotta have a hobby.” His shoulder knocks mine. “Later, Liv.”
When he’s gone, I follow the stilettoed heels of Coach Kitt into the classroom. A quick survey tells me I know exactly two people in the twenty or so seats. I hope that Coach Kitt’s love of team culture stops at the softball diamond because if we pair up for group projects at all, I now have a one in ten chance of having either Kelly or Jake as a partner.
They’re sitting next to each other—of course—which adds credence to the epiphany I had on the track, though they aren’t talking to each other at all.
Kelly is closest to me, cat eyes in finely drawn form as she stares daggers at the notebook in front of her. It’s the same look she gives the clipboard in practice. So, either her eyesight really is as crappy as I thought after she beaned me at state, or she just stares that hard at everything.