Broken Beautiful Hearts

  It’s the same one I see in the mirror all the time now.

  Regret.

  Owen says something and squeezes his mom’s shoulder, but she doesn’t stop crying. She stares straight ahead like a zombie.

  He looks past her and catches me watching them.

  My cheeks heat up. I turn to look away, but his eyes find mine.

  A knock on the window scares the crap out of me, and I yelp. Cam waves, and I reach over and unlock the driver’s-side door.

  “Are you going to stay in the car all day?” he asks, clueless that he scared the hell out of me.

  “I’m coming.” I open the door and get out carefully.

  My eyes flicker to the silver SUV. Owen’s mom is backing out of the parking space and he’s already across the street, walking up the sidewalk. He opens the door to the building, and at the last possible moment, he stops and looks back.

  It’s two seconds. Maybe less.

  But when a boy looks at you like he’s drowning and you’re the only person who saw him fall in, it feels like forever.

  CHAPTER 15

  Warriors

  THE FRONT OFFICE is small and cozy. Framed motivational quotes written in looped calligraphy and a collection of Beanie Babies crowd the counter.

  Cam chats up Miss Lonnie, the gray-haired lady behind the counter, while she hunts for my schedule. The rosy circles of blush on her cheeks match her silk blouse perfectly.

  I tune them out until Miss Lonnie says something that grabs my attention. “I hate to say it, but I’m worried.” She toys with one of her huge pearl earrings. “A team without a quarterback isn’t any different than having no team at all.”

  I don’t remember anyone getting injured at Friday night’s game, not that I saw much of it. With all the football talk afterward, wouldn’t the Twins have mentioned it?

  “Only thing worse would be a team without its linebackers,” Cam says.

  “Always looking for a pat on the back.” She shakes her head at him. “Know your worth, Cameron. Don’t rely on other people to remind you.”

  He looks away.

  “Did the quarterback on your team get hurt?” I ask, rescuing my cousin from an awkward moment.

  “Everyone on the team is fine as far as I know,” Cam says. “Why?”

  I drop my backpack on the floor. The extra weight—which isn’t much since I don’t have any books—has my knee aching. “She was talking about an injured quarterback. Was he from your team?”

  Miss Lonnie smacks her hand on the counter and cackles. “No. He’s the quarterback on my fantasy football team.”

  Fantasy football? Is she serious? The woman must be pushing seventy-five.

  “It wouldn’t be any fun if you win every year,” Cam teases.

  “It would be for me.” She thumbs through the papers in front of her, plucks out a thick white card, and pushes it across the counter. “Here’s your class schedule. Cameron knows where to find everything, since he’s always roaming the halls when he’s supposed to be in class.”

  The rotary phone on the counter rings. Miss Lonnie removes her gigantic clip-on earring before she answers it. She shoos us out with a wave. “Black Water High School, how can I help you?”

  I scan my schedule as we leave the office. Precalculus first period, followed by AP English, chemistry, and lunch. European history and photography round out the afternoon. Who chose these classes? I don’t know anything about photography, and precalc first period requires being alert at eight o’clock in the morning.

  Cam reaches for my schedule. “Let me see.”

  I turn away before he snatches the paper. “I’m reading it.”

  He circles behind me and reads over my shoulder. “I want to see which classes you have with me or Christian.”

  I rattle off my schedule. “Happy now?”

  “You don’t have any classes with either of us. Just lunch,” he complains.

  “Are you worried that I can’t find my way around this gigantic campus?” Knowing Cam, it’s probably true.

  I follow him around the corner to the vending machines, which are so old they don’t take credit cards. Cam hunts in his pockets for change. One machine is stocked with packaged doughnuts and baked goods and the other one is full of candy and chips.

  “No soda machine?” Weird.

  “We’ve got two at the end of the hall. When the machines were delivered, the building supervisor, Mr. Kent, wasn’t paying attention. He didn’t notice where the delivery guys put them until after they left.” Cam finds some change in his jacket and drops the coins into the slot. “Now he pretends this is where he wanted them all along.”

  I glance down the hall.

  Owen is standing at a soda machine.

  He’s wearing earbuds and he seems oblivious to the noise around him. He pushes up the sleeves of his thermal, punches a number on the vending machine, and bends down to grab his soda out of the compartment. His forearm is covered with dark patches.

  Are those bruises?

  Those aren’t the kind of bruises you get from bumping into things.

  Owen stands and I turn away, but I’m not fast enough. His eyes are clouded with emotion, as if he’s still sitting in the car with his mom. He sees me and the lines in his forehead relax. He shakes off whatever he was feeling and flashes me a smile that’s the perfect combination of sweet and sexy.

  It’s the second time he’s caught me staring at him this morning. I feel like such a loser.

  “What are you looking at?” Cam asks.

  “Nothing. Stop asking so many questions. I’m not a science fair project. Point me in the direction of my first class. Room A-four.”

  “Right this way.” Cam lifts the backpack off my shoulder.

  I reach for the strap. “I can carry it myself.”

  “If you want to put extra weight on your knee for no reason that’s your call.” He’s stubborn, a quality we share.

  “Fine.”

  When I turn around again, Owen is gone.

  Cam walks me to class, and I find a seat in the back of the room.

  I can’t stop thinking about the bruises on Owen’s arm until the bells rings and class starts. After that, I don’t have much time to think about anything because precalculus sucks at Black Water just as much as it did at Adams.

  It doesn’t help that our teacher, Mr. Wickwheeler, is a beady-eyed jerk who probably became a teacher to torture kids. He gives everyone exactly two seconds to answer a question before he scribbles the solution across the whiteboard so fast that his comb-over flips the wrong way. He calls me Miss Rios, rolling the R in my last name in a dramatic attempt at a Spanish accent. When the prison bell finally rings, I’m tempted to lie to Mr. Wickwheeler and tell him that I’m Portuguese. Let him try practicing that accent.

  Christian and Grace are waiting in the hall outside the classroom.

  “You survived your first class with the Weasel,” Grace says, holding out an open bag of SweeTarts. “Congrats.”

  “So I’m not the only one who notices the resemblance?” I pop a candy into my mouth.

  Grace slows her pace to match mine. She’s dressed like most of the other girls, in a cute flannel and jeans with hearts embroidered on the back pockets. But Grace brought her A game when she picked out her footwear—red cowboy boots.

  “Everyone hates the Weasel. He’s a jerk.” She picks through the candy bag until she finds a pink one.

  “He kept pronouncing my last name in a crappy Spanish accent.”

  Christian notices that we’re lagging behind him and waits for us to catch up. “Who’s a jerk?”

  Grace shoves him. “Calm down, Wrecking Ball. We’re talking about the Weasel. None of the guys here are stupid enough to bother Peyton.”

  “Wrecking Ball?” I ask.

  “People call me that sometimes because of football,” Christian explains. He turns to Grace. “But you never do, Gracie.”

  “Sorry,” she whispers.

  This conver
sation just got awkward.

  A chorus of high-pitched laughter cuts through the hallway. April and Madison are at the end of the hall, entertaining a group of guys.

  “Enemy forces at twelve o’clock,” Christian mutters.

  Grace steps away from Christian and lets him walk ahead of us.

  “Don’t let April intimidate you,” I say. “She’s a bitch.”

  “I’m aware. But she’s a bitch who can make my life miserable.”

  “Only if you let her.” Why am I giving Grace a hard time for wanting to fly under the radar when that’s exactly what I’m trying to do? “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

  “Don’t apologize. I think about telling April off at least ten times a day.” Grace tucks her hair behind her ear. “But she’s cheer captain, which means she picks the routines and decides who gets the prime stunts. I can’t afford to get on her bad side or she’ll stick me in the back row. Or find an excuse to kick me off the team altogether. A cheerleading scholarship is my only chance at getting into a decent college. My GPA isn’t great.”

  “I get it.”

  “What’s your locker number again?” Christian asks.

  “I don’t know. It’s not on my schedule.” That would be too easy.

  “Are you sure?” Grace asks. “Usually it’s on the back, at the bottom.”

  I scan the printout Miss Lonnie gave me. “Six sixty-six. That can’t be right.” I check again.

  LOCKER #666.

  “You got the Beast? Let me see,” Christian says.

  I hand him my schedule. “What kind of high school uses the symbol of the Antichrist as a locker number?” A month ago I would’ve thought it was funny. But now that I’m April’s latest target, this is ammo.

  Christian stops in front of my locker and checks the combination listed on the schedule. He opens the bright blue door and peeks inside. “No sign of the Antichrist or any weird satanic stuff. Just a couple of girls’ phone numbers.”

  “Thanks.” I take everything out of my bag except for a notebook and a pen.

  “Incoming,” Christian warns.

  April zeroes in on me, her resting bitch face intact. “How’s the first day going so far?” she asks. “Looks like they found you the perfect locker.”

  Madison laughs.

  “Why do you have to start shit all the time, April?” Christian asks.

  “I don’t know, Christian. Why are you such an asshole?”

  He lowers his voice. “You must’ve rubbed off on me.”

  April notices Grace standing beside me and acts shocked. “Seriously, Grace? I thought we were friends.” This girl gives new meaning to manipulative, and Grace can’t afford to piss her off. I don’t want April to give her a hard time because of me.

  “Grace’s dad told her to show me around. He’s a friend of my uncle’s. So lay off her.” I have no idea if it’s true. Hopefully, April’s and Grace’s fathers aren’t golf buddies.

  “I’m going to class,” I tell Christian.

  I mouth bye to Grace, and I head down the hall.

  Hopefully, I’m going in the right direction. But getting lost is worth it if it means I don’t have to listen to April’s annoying voice anymore.

  Titan, the Twins’ friend who threw the barn party, walks up beside me. He’s a lot taller than I remember and he makes my cousins look average-size. His T-shirt strains across his broad chest, and he flashes me a well-practiced smile.

  “How’s your day going?”

  “Fine, thanks.”

  “Did you have a good time at my party?” he asks.

  Small talk. My favorite.

  “Yeah. It was my first barn party.” I read the room numbers on the classroom doors. Am I going the right way? I have no clue.

  “Need some help finding your class?” Titan asks. “What’s the room number?”

  “B-nine. I thought I knew where—”

  Before I realize what’s happening, Titan literally sweeps me off my feet—in a move that I’m sure he thinks is swoon-worthy. He slipped his arm under my legs like he had practiced this a hundred times.

  It catches me off-guard and my pulse speeds up the moment he touches me.

  “Put me down, Titan.”

  “What’s the problem? I offer this kind of assistance to all the pretty girls with leg braces.” He grins and makes a huge show of carrying me down the hall. “Coming through,” he calls out so everyone will hear him.

  How far away is my classroom?

  The crowded hallway traffic parts like the Red Sea as people move out of his way. Screaming at him will just call more attention to us. It literally feels like every person in the hall is watching me, and I can’t stand it.

  I turn my face toward Titan’s neck and hide.

  It seems like it takes forever to get to my class. “Here you go,” he says, bending down until my feet touch the floor again. “Door-to-door service.”

  I’m so annoyed, but people are still gawking. This will be lunchroom gossip for sure. But nothing anyone in Black Water says about me could be worse than what some of my friends were saying about me back home.

  “That was so uncool,” I say, just loud enough that he can hear me. “Don’t pull that crap with me again.”

  “I bet you’ll change your mind.”

  “Doubtful.” I turn away and walk into my classroom.

  Less than half the seats are occupied in the tiny room. I go straight to the back row and take out my notebook so I won’t have to make eye contact with anyone. At least nobody in here saw Titan’s performance in the hall.

  I wish someone had asked before saddling me with AP English. I’d rather be in a regular section—easier homework and shorter novels.

  The classroom door opens and I look up.

  Owen walks in.

  Maybe AP isn’t so bad. Owen seems nice. Just because I’m not dating, it doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.

  Owen trudges down the center aisle. I wait for him to notice me, but he doesn’t even glance in my direction. I’m hard to miss—especially when he reaches the back row. I’m sitting two seats away from the aisle. It seems like he’s trying not to look at me.

  He sits down and takes out a notebook.

  “Sorry I’m late.” A slender black woman about Mom’s age breezes into the room, carrying an armload of books. She’s wearing a fitted black sweater with wide-leg black pants that would be considered classic and understated in DC. But there is nothing understated about her hair. It’s amazing. She has long dreadlocks, dyed a rich shade of yellow-blond that almost looks gold. Thin braids are layered between her locks, and the sides are gathered on top of her head in a loose bun.

  The teacher drops the books on her desk.

  “Miss Ives? Are we starting a new novel?” asks a perky girl in the front row.

  “Not today.” Miss Ives puts on a pair of cat-eye glasses and I wait for the inevitable moment when she notices me.

  Here it comes.

  “Forgive me. This morning has completely gotten away from me. Class, we have a new student.” She sweeps her arm in my direction, and the other students turn around in their seats.

  My classmates stare, and I sit frozen in place like a deer in headlights.

  Miss Ives purses her lips. “Miss Lonnie told me your name this morning.… Wait. Don’t tell me.”

  Seconds pass and she doesn’t seem any closer to figuring it out. A few students lose interest and go back to whatever they were doing. It’s taking her too long. I have to say it or this will drag on forever.

  “Peyton,” I finally tell her.

  “Peyton. That’s it.” Miss Ives snaps as if she remembered on her own.

  Owen has his leg in the aisle and his knee bounces at record speed. His eyes dart from the notebook to the floor before they finally land on me.

  Miss Ives launches into a boring recap of the way she introduced The Stranger, the novel the class finished last week.

  I tune out.

  This
is the time when I’d normally text my best friend to report every embarrassing detail of the hallway incident with Titan. Instead, I try to pretend that Owen isn’t sitting two seats away from me. I’m hyperaware of his every move. I can’t look up without catching glimpses of him in my peripheral vision.

  “We’re doing something a little different today,” Miss Ives says, and I refocus my attention.

  “Initially, it might sound strange, but it’s part of a larger activity.” She seems more excited than the class. “And we’ll be working in pairs. So I want everyone to find a partner.”

  Working in pairs on my first day?

  What’s next? A blood drive?

  The class isn’t big enough for much decision-making. A few people partner up right away, while the rest of us linger in our seats as if we think Miss Ives will forget about whatever she has planned if we don’t move.

  It’s down to four of us—a guy with a fade, who is wearing a T-shirt with GO BIG OR GO HOME printed on the back; a girl smacking a wad of gum, whose sunburned skin looks leathery; Owen; and me.

  I’m going for the gum smacker. Before I swing my leg toward the aisle to get up, she’s already bouncing over to the guy in the clever T-shirt.

  “Owen, it looks like you and…” Miss Ives taps her temple.

  “Peyton,” Owen says.

  “Of course.” She waves a hand in the air as if she was just getting to that part. “As I was saying, why don’t you find a seat closer to Peyton so we can get started?”

  Owen grabs his notebook and a pen and crosses to my side of the room. He catches the back of the chair in front of my desk and flips it around so it’s facing me and he drops into the seat without a word. He doesn’t seem like the same friendly guy I hung out with at the party.

  Maybe he’s upset about his mom.

  “What now?” the gum-smacking girl asks midchew.

  Miss Ives clasps her hands together. “Ladies, I’d like you to empty your purses on your desk. If you don’t have a purse, take everything out of your backpacks except textbooks, binders, and class supplies. Gentlemen, go ahead and do the same thing. You may also empty your pockets.”

  “For real?” the guy in the GO BIG OR GO HOME T-shirt calls out.