Damn it. I’m going to engage. I punch the power button on his stereo system with my thumb, stuffing the cab with silence while we still have at least a mile or more in our trip to school. When he reaches forward, I slap his hand away, my fingertips stinging his wrist. He bunches his face and turns to give me an angry stare, but in the midst our childish feud, a car turns into our lane, nearly sideswiping his truck right outside my door. Lucas swerves and his arm juts out to hold me in place, a stiff arm across my chest that I grab like a child on their first roller coaster. The entire incident lasts maybe three seconds, but in its wake, Lucas is protecting me and I’m holding on for dear life. I unfurl my fingers and release my hold when our eyes meet, and he retracts his arm, putting his hand back on the wheel. His expression goes blank, and I hate how practiced he’s become at erasing moments.
My breathing is hard, the in and out keeping pace with the pounding in my chest. Meanwhile, Mr. Stoic-faced letterman-jacket wearer rushes through the last light before school, clearing the intersection on yellow.
“You trying to get into another near accident?” I scold. The look on his face remains impressively unfazed.
We’re running a few minutes behind, but the twins are still waiting around their parking spot, the space next to them open and waiting for Lucas to pull in. No Ava around, or Abby, or my new group of friends. Nobody to witness the shocking display of the two of us pulling into the school lot in the same vehicle. But having to face Tory and Hayden with me in tow must be enough to make Lucas overreact because he cruises right past his usual spot, opting instead for one in the far corner, near the football field. We’ll have to haul ass to make it to class on time from here, and my ankle isn’t in sprinting shape.
I pull my bag to my chest and get out before Lucas fully shifts into park, and manage to get a few yards ahead of him before he reaches into the back of his truck for his things. I notice when glancing over my shoulder that he’s ditched his jacket, leaving it in his truck. He’s wearing all black, a thin long-sleeved T-shirt that hugs his body and black jeans that ride low on his hips. I hate how attracted I am to him, even still.
It takes every ounce of determination in my body to maintain my speed to make sure Lucas doesn’t somehow sprint past me, and when I find my legs working into a near jog, I laugh inwardly at how ridiculous all of this is. But that doesn’t stop me from taking things up one more notch.
“And yeah, Tory and I are friends now. For now. I mean, who knows,” I say as he moves into the space next to me just outside our first period doorway. I glide into the room first, taking my seat a breath before he falls into his, the now familiar kick of his foot against the leg of my chair jostling me. In my unreasonable state, I dig my feet into the floor and push back in my chair with just as much force, my seat back clanking into his desktop with a snap. Momentarily, I actually wanted his fingers to be caught in there, like a trap. My emotions are cooled by the puzzled look on our teacher’s face, so I lift a hand and apologize, making an excuse.
“Sorry, bag strap was caught on something,” I say, fussing with my backpack at the side of my chair.
Lucas’s heavy foot hammers at the leg again, but this time I’m level-headed enough to ignore it. And as the pattern continues for the next hour, I grow smug, because I pissed him off with that Tory thing, and more than that, that I’ve stopped playing along.
Game. Set. Match.
Chapter Twelve
Abby is able to drive me to Eight Lanes after school. A lot of good that does, though; my car refuses to start. The sweet girl gave me her last rev over the weekend. I wish I had known, maybe I would have savored the sound. I call my mom while Abby drives me home and tell her the bad news; she arranges for a tow truck to haul my car home. My Uncle John knows his way around an engine, and he promises to come up from Fort Wayne to give it a look next weekend. In the meantime, my trips to school are going to be pieced together with rides from Abby, Lola, and Naomi, because my mom’s photography venture is taking off and she’s looking to rent studio space for portraits. It’s good news, and I’m willing to wake up early and walk to school just to keep her busy and our bills paid.
“Do you think your mom would be down with doing my new headshots?” Abby’s been posing in front of the mirror on the back of my closet door for about ten minutes.
“For sure,” I answer, tugging out my laptop and logging in to my student portal. My friend flops down on my bed next to me and pushes my laptop closed.
“I was working on that, you know,” I groan. She pulls it from my reach.
“You work too hard on that. Senior year, remember the plan? Coast a little.” She lays back and tugs at the back of my T-shirt, coaxing me to rest next to her.
“I’m pretty sure the plan has been blown.” I blow out hard enough to move the few stray hairs that fall across my lips.
“Nah, plan is in full motion,” my friend says, pulling her phone from her back pocket and holding it above her face. She scrolls through a few social media apps in search of something and stops on some comment left by a person tagged RedTedFred.
June and Tory totally dating.
My eyes blink quickly and I push the phone away from my face. I’d call it meaningless, but even a wallflower like me knows that high school gossip carries a little bit of weight.
“We’re not dating,” I clarify.
“I know. You’d tell me.” There’s a lilt in her tone that tells me she’s not one-hundred percent sure that I would. And since I’m sitting on so many things I haven’t told her, I can’t honestly agree and say “Of course I would,” so I say nothing.
“Rumors are stupid. And I’m not dating Tory D’Angelo.” Of course, I totally used that very same suspicion to piss off the boy next door and let him wonder what’s up between Tory and me. I’m such a fucking hypocrite.
“The fact you’ve stirred curiosity is a good thing,” Abby says. She rolls to her side to face me and begins twisting pieces of my hair.
“How is that?” I don’t know why I’m asking. I guess maybe there’s a little part of me that’s hooked on the drama. That’s painful to admit to myself, so I tuck that thought somewhere deep and pretend I never had it.
“People like a good story.” She shrugs her top shoulder and lets go of the twist of my hair she’s been holding. It unravels like silk.
“I don’t like being the story.” I glance at her sideways and she gives me a crooked smile.
“Yeah, you do. Just a little.” My friend tucks in her knees and rocks herself back to a sitting position. I stay where I’m at, pondering her words and feeling a little guilty about the dash of truth to them.
“I miss Lucas,” I admit. It’s strange how light my chest feels after saying that out loud.
My friend swings her backpack over her arms and stands from my bed.
“You should try really talking to him, and then tell him that,” she says with her back to me.
“Probably,” I agree. I do a sit up on the center of my bed, then scoot my feet to the floor to hug my friend good-bye at the waist. Maybe next time I’ll tell her about the affair I witnessed and she can help me figure out how that secret fits in with me and Lucas having a real conversation.