Class went by in a blur of mangled Spanish introductions and furtive glances at our newest CHS member, who was twirling my pen between his fingers looking bored. When he became aware of his audience, he stopped, clicked it once, and looked over at me. But I was too quick, whipping my head back into forward position.
When it was my turn to introduce myself, I stammered my way through what was usually easy conversational Spanish. Afterward, Mr. Sanchez called me out for it. “Katie, Katie.” He shook his head at me. “Looks like you forgot some of your basic Spanish over the summer.”
My neck was immediately gripped by an urge stronger than every ounce of my will not to peek. Pete was waiting with an arched brow as if to say: That’s the best you’ve got? A burning started in my chest like I’d swallowed a serrano pepper at lunch, and it just came back up. Why am I letting him rattle me like this? Mama would be so disappointed in me. The burning turned into determination not to let him get the best of me.
So when the bell rang, I bolted out the door before he could so much as blink in my direction. Ha! It’ll take him till the next bell just to pry Ashley-Leigh’s claws off. My laugh fell flat as our streets as a jolt more jarring than running over one of our potholes hit me:
What if Ashley-Leigh really does sink her claws into him?
I made it back to the main building and up to the second floor for my chemistry class in record time. Dizzy with anticipation, I slumped onto an empty stool at a lab table near the front. The bell rang and Mr. Benson closed the door. About a minute after roll call, the door opened again, and all eyes flew to the door. I kept mine trained on Mr. Benson as he droned on about the importance of safety precautions. Footsteps maneuvered around dumped backpacks, heading my way. Someone sat down on the vacant stool next to mine—closer than was strictly necessary unless two people were well acquainted. I didn’t turn to acknowledge him, and after a few more seconds of staring ahead so hard my eyes were beginning to water, I heard a familiar, muffled whisper.
“What the hell was with you back there?”
“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout.”
“Do you know that guy?”
“Um . . . not really,” I hedged, not meeting Miguel’s eyes.
Thankfully, it was impossible to continue the conversation because Mr. Benson was handing out his version of the three P’s: procedures, policies, and permission slips. Chemistry ticked by slowly with me not paying attention to anything except my own swirling thoughts. The bell rang, and Miguel picked up right where he left off.
“Katie, you’re such a bad liar,” he said, following me out the door. “You’re tellin’ me you’ve never seen the guy before?”
He had me there. “Actually,” I hemmed, “I think I, ah . . . might’ve waited on him before.”
“You think you might’ve waited on him before?”
“Correctomundo.” I always said stupid things like that when I was evading the question.
“Where? At the diner?” he persisted.
“Duh . . . obviously.”
Miguel stopped walking to give me a wounded expression. “Wow.” He stretched his arms up to get the kinks out. “Now you sound like Ashley-Leigh.”
“Really, Miguel. There’s nothing to tell,” I smiled thinly at him. “Sorry . . . I’m just a little tired. I’ll be less weird tomorrow, I promise.” I smiled more convincingly.
He eyed me sideways before deciding to let it go. “You work too hard. Have you ever heard the one about the girl who was all work and no play?”
I laughed. “It just so happens I have. But not to worry . . . I get to play now—soccer that is. I’ve got P.E. next, so I’d better get goin’.”
“Okay, chaparita, I’ll see ya there. I’ve got Athletics—I play football, remember?”
“How could I forget my favorite player?” I smiled, and he grinned and flashed the peace sign.
I trudged across campus to gym, which was easy to spot with the giant purple wildcat painted onto the brick. P.E. was a requirement I’d been hoping to dodge. It wasn’t that I didn’t like sports. I did. “Too much,” according to my mother. Anything I could poke my ponytail through the back of a baseball cap for was my favorite. Even with Mama insisting I sit out half the game, I still had fun. It was just . . . well, I needed to do jumping jacks like I needed a hole in my head. My day was a workout, so I considered P.E. to be a waste of precious energy. And since I wasn’t in Athletics, I was stuck taking Phys-Ed with the rest of the nobodies, who either didn’t make the team or weren’t interested in fitting in.
My palms slapped metal doors, and the familiar odor of our school’s gymnasium wafted over me, reminding me of what high school smells like: sharp sweat, cleaning product to mask it, waxed floors, and teen spirit. I hooked a right to the girls’ locker room, where I had to endure more ear-splitting chatter about the “amazing, new, hot guy.” The adjectives are getting a little tired I thought, slamming my locker shut with more force than was required.
I sat on the bench to put on my new sneakers and realized—they were compliments of the man-of-the-hour. After furiously whipping my laces into shape, I glared down at my shiny new shoes as if they were to blame for everything.
The whistle blew, and I followed behind Coach Sams and the ragtag group of girls that made up our P.E. class, marveling at the variety of clothes they considered athletic wear. High, piercing squeaks from new sneakers stopping short on court, and the hollow thump of balls echoing against palms was the background noise as we filed into gym. It was a busy place sixth-hour because volleyball players and cheerleaders shared floor space. We marched through the middle of the mayhem toward the back door leading to the football practice field.
Ashley-Leigh was sprawled out on the floor, stretching and gossiping with some of the other cheerleaders in a circle. I acknowledged her with a little wave. She just narrowed her eyes at me, leisurely pulling her hair into a ponytail as I filed past. I tried a smile, but that only prompted her to lean over and whisper something into Maddy’s ear. They both looked up at me, followed quickly by the rest of the squad. I faced forward again, feeling the weight of their stares pushing at my back as I exited through the double doors outside.
We were sitting together in the scratchy grass lining the football field, listening to our first day lecture on the importance of physical fitness. I exchanged eye-rolls with a girl whose dye job was even worse than mine. My eyes squinted in the sun as I lazily scanned the uniform rows of football players behind Coach Sams. They were jumping-jacking in purple unison, counting down with low huffs of air followed by claps.
I was barely paying attention so was caught off guard when Coach Sams began counting us off, “One, two, one, two.” She pointed to me and said “two,” so I moved over to where the “twos” were clumped together. A mousy sophomore in a boobtube I recognized from my computer class last year came up to slap me five. I raised my hand with a small smile that instantly froze on my face. A tall guy, with blonde hair shading to brown, sauntered past with a crew of boys, who looked very motley next to him. A toothy grin flashed my way the second he spotted me huddled up with Goth-girl, Gangbanger, and Boobtube.