Instead of the wrist gauntlets I love, I fasten a studded cuff. I apply some anti-frizz serum to my hair—not that it does any good—but at least my hair doesn’t sound like I’m sanding down a hunk of wood. I leave it loose and do my makeup in my usual way. I stare at the mirror and feel better about looking how I usually look. Ten minutes later with food and my borrowed camera tucked into my bag, I’m ready to rock.
“Mom?” I find her in the basement, feeding clothes into the dryer. “Can you take me to school?”
She glances at me and then her watch. “Yeah, I was just about to leave for work.” She makes no comment on my clothes.
“No run today?”
She grins fiercely. “Already did four miles.”
Jeez. She always wants me to run with her, but I strongly believe if God had intended man—or woman—to jog, he’d have scaled way back on breast size and sent some of that padding to the soles of our feet. Just sayin’.
We hop in the car and head to the school. The radio’s pumping out the hard rock I like and Mom hates. “What time should I pick you up?”
“We’re done at four.”
Mom winces. “I work until five. Can you get a ride from a friend?”
“Sure, if I had any.” I roll my eyes. Lindsay and Miranda still haven’t talked to me.
“Still mad?”
With a sigh, I cross my arms. “I’m not mad. They are.”
She turns into the parking lot, pressing her lips together. “Did you try apologizing?”
I turn my head just far enough to glare at her. “I was assaulted, Mom. You think I should apologize?”
She blows out a loud sigh and shakes her head. “No, of course not. But you did get drunk and flirted with the boy Miranda likes right under her nose. You should apologize at least for that because God knows you could use a friend.”
“No, Mom. I got drunk and shot down the boy Miranda likes. Only he didn’t stay down, did he?” I shove through the door before the car stops and slam it to cut her off.
I stalk down the main corridor that’s blessedly cool, though the weather outdoors is sunny and warm, my face tight and my hands clenched. Ian’s already here. He glances my way when he hears my footsteps. There’s a second, a flash of interest in his eyes when he sees me. And then it’s like he suddenly remembers he’s not supposed to be interested in me.
“Hey,” he says with a chin jerk.
I don’t bother replying. I stow my bag at the bottom of the utility cart and whip a pair of rubber gloves out of the box, snap them on. Ian’s watching me, but I don’t look at him. I don’t need to. I know exactly how his hair falls into his dark eyes and how he sucks in a cheek when he’s thinking hard about something. I know he’s got a tiny scar on his left hand with straight edges—likely from a knife or other sharp tool. I know that if I stand directly in front of him, close enough to touch, his lips would be perfectly aligned to my forehead. Oh, God, what would those lips feel like if he kissed me there?
I slam the door to the locker I just scrubbed, imagining Ian’s face caught inside.
“Bad day?”
He speaks! I deliberately straighten my shoulders and slowly stand to face him. In sneakers, I am exactly tall enough for the forehead kiss scenario, and I clench, willing it out of my head. “It’s a day. It’s not good. It’s not bad. It’s just another day of locker cleaning.”
His lips curl in a smirk, and he holds up both hands, surrender-style. “Okay, okay. Don’t bite my head off. I was just making conversation.”
“Oh, conversation, is that it? Really?” I shoot out a hip, put my hand on it, and wave the other for him to continue. “How does that go again?”
“Um, I say something, and then you say something back.”
“Right, right. Not like Saturday, when you just shut down, shut up, and turned your back on me. Hate to break the news to you, but I’m not going anywhere. Fucking deal with it.”
Instead of rolling his eyes, flipping me off, or just walking away, Ian does something I never expected.
He smiles.
And it’s a real smile, not one of those cocky grins every member of the lacrosse team learns on their first day of practice. A real smile that reveals perfectly straight teeth, though one is a few shades darker than the others. I wonder why.
I’m so blinded by the smile that I almost don’t notice the step closer he takes. He’s in front of me—I mean right in front of me—and I have to wrestle my gaze off his mouth, which is now only a few inches away from my forehead. I’m seconds away from sobbing. Or bursting into flames, I’m not sure. Ian hunches down, so we’re eye level, and I can breathe again.
“I deserved that, didn’t I? Look, I messed up, and I’m sorry. It’s…well, yeah.” He takes a step back, rakes a hand through his hair, trying to find his words. “Zac’s my friend, Grace. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry he’s your friend?”
He makes a sound of annoyance. “No. Sorry I hurt your feelings.”
I stand up straighter. “Me and my feelings are fine.”
“So’s the rest of you.”
Did he just really say that? It was low, almost a whisper, and I’m pretty sure he did. I stare at him, jaw dangling, waiting for something, anything, just a little bit more, but he just nods once and reaches for a pair of gloves.
The question-and-answer portion of our day is apparently over.
We work on groups of six lockers each. Spray each, let the cleanser work through whatever muck and mire ninth-graders have spread inside them, and try not to breathe. When we hit the sixth locker, we go back to the first, scrub it out. Repeat. Repeat…and repeat. I look down the long corridor lined with lockers and wonder if this week will ever end.
By the time I’ve scrubbed my twentieth locker—I am totally counting—Ian’s dragging.
I’m not.
I keep scrubbing and spraying and spraying and scrubbing. Good for me. After another twenty lockers I look up, but Ian’s striding down the hall, long legs eating up the yards without a single squeak on the waxed linoleum. A moment later I hear the door to the boys’ room squeak open, then bang closed.
I press my lips together and think about it for three seconds and then head for the athletic field with my bag. If Ian says anything about my absence, I’ll lie and say I went out to grab food. As soon as I push open the door, my stomach ties itself into a knot. I force my feet to move ahead, repeating the path I took Saturday so nobody catches me.
But one glance at the field and I groan out loud. This is never going to work. Coach Brill has the boys doing skill-builders—drills the players do in pairs. Way too many of them are sitting or standing on the sidelines, watching. There’s a heavy weight spinning inside me, a sickness that leaves a sour taste on the back of my tongue. I have a mission. I can’t fail. It’s all I have left, and I can’t fail.
While I stand there with my thumb in my mouth, trying to figure out what to do, Zac McMahon turns and nearly catches me, but I duck behind a shrub before he can. I watch for another minute and finally give it up. Cursing, I hurry back inside the school and into my corridor, where the fumes of disinfectant are practically visible.
Ian’s still not there. The sounds of my feet slapping the floor echo in the empty building, and a sick, twisted part of me warns me with a cackle that I’d better get used to it since nobody wants to hang with me anymore.
I pass the boys’ room and then halt. What if Ian’s head is hurting again today? He could be in trouble. Passed out from the fumes. I push the door open slowly, relaxing when I hear his voice.
I hear the beep indicating he just ended a cell phone call and know I’m about to get caught if I don’t do something big to divert attention. I pound my fist on the door, trying to make it look like I only now just opened it. “Ian, you okay?”
“Fine.” He joins me at the door. His face is colorless, and his eyes are flat. When I don’t move out of his way, he waves his hands. “What? If you gotta go, you’re in the wrong plac
e.”
“Just wondered if your headache came back. You don’t look so hot.”
He grins, clutches his chest, and staggers. “Hit me where it hurts.”
“Seriously. You’re pale and sluggish.”
His grin slides away and he pushes past me. “I said I’m fine.”
I watch him head back to our section of lockers, only a little distracted by the sight of Ian’s butt in jeans. I don’t know if it was the phone call or his headache is back or if his hamster died, but I do know this. Ian is anything but fine, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
• • •
I quietly rejoin Ian, and soon we have our rhythm going again. Spray, spray, wait, wait, scrub, scrub, move. When he gets too close to me, there’s this scent that’s almost buried under the disinfectant but not quite. When it sneaks through, it makes me want to close my eyes and sigh. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s all that messy brown hair or his wide dark eyes. But there’s something about Ian Russell that makes me think of chocolate. Smooth, rich, melt-on-your-tongue chocolate.
And every time I think about closing my eyes and sighing, Zac’s face swims into focus. And instead of Ian’s chocolate scent, I smell Zac’s. It’s sweaty and sour, and vomit burns at the back of my throat.
I slam a locker in frustration, feel Ian’s eyes bore into me.
“So what’s with the getup?”
I go still. Getup? With a loud sigh, I turn, stare him down. “Got a problem with the way I look?”
Melted chocolate eyes travel up and down my body, and he slowly shakes his head. “Not with the way you look, just the way you dress.”
“Let me guess. My skirt too short for you?”
Ian’s eyes go wide, and then he laughs. A real laugh, a from-the-belly laugh. I force the scowl to remain on my face because I don’t understand this. Is he laughing at me or with me, and is there even a difference?
“No complaints from me on short skirts,” he says, the smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I’m just saying you don’t need the costume. You already look good.”
I don’t know what he thinks he’s doing, but I’m not falling for it. “Thanks, but I’m not trying to impress you. This is how I dress.”
The smile freezes, then slowly melts away. “My mistake.”
Our heads whip around when the door slams on the level below us. The thwack of flip-flops climbing the steps announces visitors—female visitors. I suck in a deep breath because I already know who it is before they’re in sight.
Miranda and Lindsay.
My ex–best friends.
Miranda struts down the hall, sleek blond hair flowing down her back like poured gold, makeup perfect. She’s wearing Laurel Point HS sweats with the waistband folded down to show off her navel piercing and a skimpy tank top that reveals bright aqua bra straps. Lindsay trails behind her, tucking soft brown hair behind her ears over and over in a gesture that says, “I’m so sweet,” and I try not to gag. I didn’t do a thing to either of them, but they hate me. Miranda hates me directly, but Lindsay’s hatred is more indirect.
No less deadly though.
I brace for combat, but the girls walk right by me and up to Ian.
“Hey, Ian,” Miranda purrs. “Heard you got stuck with sanitation detail. Hope you don’t pick up anything,” she adds with a sneer in my direction.
I spray another locker, noting Lindsay’s hanging back.
“Hey.” He nods once but doesn’t laugh at her insult. Points for him.
“So listen. We’re all meeting at my place tonight after lacrosse camp ends. You in?”
He shrugs. “I guess.”
“Awesome! See you later.” Miranda flips her hair around just as I spray another locker.
She whirls on me, flings her hands up to hair and shrieks. “You did that on purpose. You got cleanser in my hair.”
I force my face not to wince at the shrill note her voice hits. “Uh, no. You got your hair in my cleanser. You really should be more careful. You never know what might happen,” I shoot back. Miranda nearly goes thermonuclear.
“You bitch!” She advances, and I drop my rags and spray bottle, ready to defend myself if she so much as scratches me with a French-tipped nail. I try not to sigh when she goes for the shove instead.
Weak.
With my feet planted, I can’t be moved, so she sort of bounces off me. Naturally that’s my fault too.
“Whore!” She comes at me again, tries to grab my hair. I dodge and move out of reach.
“Go home, Miranda. I don’t have time for you.”
Lindsay finally emerges from her paralytic stupor and tries to control Miranda. “Come on, Mir. Let’s just go. It’s not worth it.” She does that hair-tuck thing again.
Miranda’s wild-eyed rage fades a little. “You’re right. It’s not. She’s not worth it. Skank.” She wrinkles her nose at me, and I can’t resist another jab.
“Who should I send the car repair bill to, Miranda? You or Lindsay?”
Miranda reacts predictably, struggles out of Lindsay’s arms, and comes at me, claws extended. I try to remember everything I learned from my dad. Plant my feet, angle my body, protect my face. Okay. I can do this. When she reaches me, I catch the first flailing arm, twist it behind her back, and pin her face-first against a locker. If I’ve done this right, I’m not really hurting her, just restraining her. I lean in, speak directly into her ear.
“Now, you listen to me. I didn’t ask for this. I’m sorry you think I stole Zac, but you were there, Mir. You know what happened, and you know I’m not lying. If you can’t deal, that’s your problem, not mine, so stay out of my face, and I’ll stay out of yours.” Still holding her arm behind her back, I shove her toward Lindsay.
Lindsay’s staring at me in horror. Ian’s staring at me in what looks like awe, and Miranda’s staring at me with hate in her eyes.
That’s the one that gets me. I turn away, grab my cleanser, and pretend none of this cuts me.
“No. No. Let’s just go.” Lindsay’s guiding Miranda, but Miranda’s still rubbing the arm I twisted.
“You bitch! You got everything you deserved. Even your own father knows it.”
I flinch at that. I don’t know if it’s the words or the venom that laced them or the fact that they fell out of my best friend’s mouth, but I swear I’m bleeding. I raise my head. I won’t run. I won’t let her see the blood.
“Okay, okay, that’s enough. Get out of here, Miranda. We have work to do.” Ian takes her by the shoulders, turns her around, walks with her partway down the hall.
“Ian, she’s a slut. How can you stand to be near her? You might catch an STD.”
“I’ll be fine. Just go.”
Mercifully they listen to him. Flip-flops slapping the floor, they shoot me glares over their shoulders, shouting out the words I hear in my sleep. “Whore!”
“Slut!”
“Skank!”
I am immune now.
I watch until they’re gone. Until the steel door clangs shut. Until Ian picks up his bottle of cleanser and hands it to me.
Another locker waits for me.
Chapter 10
Ian
“Yo, man, heard you had front row seats to a catfight before.” Jeremy’s grin is diabolical. “Man, I wish I’d seen it.”
I shift in my seat, reach for another onion ring. We’re sitting at the front of a Burger King, four guys sweaty from lacrosse practice and me sweaty from manual labor.
“Shit, man, you smell like Orange Crush.” Matt makes a face and leans away from me. I throw a wadded-up napkin at him.
“Yeah, well, trust me, smelling like oranges is better than what that shit smells like fresh out of the can.”
“I think it’s sexy.” Zac wiggles his eyebrows, and beside him, Kyle laughs. I flip them both off and pop another ring into my mouth.
“Seriously, man, what the hell happened? Did Collier really whip out a switchblade?”
The Coke in my
hand jerks, sloshing against the plastic lid. “What? No! Where the hell did you hear that?”
“Well, what did happen?”
Four pairs of eyes swing my way, and I just grin, sip my Coke, and let them twist until Matt kicks me under the table. “Okay, okay. Look, it was nothing. Miranda got all up in Grace’s grill, and Grace got her in a chicken-wing hold.”
The table erupts in sounds of awe until Zac cuts everybody off with a fist pounded on the table. “Grace likes it rough.” He grins. I don’t know why, but that makes my teeth clench.
“What’s she starting trouble for?”
Grace didn’t start anything. Miranda did. But gotta admit it. Grace likes to challenge you, to get you to hear her, to get you to—
“Russell!” My chair gets kicked again, and I jolt back to here and now.
“Sorry, what?”
“I said, what happened next?”
“Oh. Uh, Grace told Miranda she didn’t steal Zac away from her.”
This time the table erupts in a synchronized “Ooooo!” Zac’s eyebrows wing up. “Wait, Miranda’s got a thing for me? Well, this is interesting.”
This is not news. “Like you didn’t notice.” Kyle rolls his eyes.
Zac lifts a shoulder. “Miranda flirts with damn near anything with a Y chromosome.”
“Not me, and I have a Y chromosome,” Jeremy says.
“No, you don’t,” Matt retorts, earning a fry tossed at his face.
A cell phone chirps, and Zac tugs his out of his pocket, scans a text message. “Speak of the devil,” he says with an evil grin. “Miranda wants to know if we want to party at her house now. You guys in?”
I roll my eyes. I will never understand girls. Miranda said there was a party at her place tonight but doesn’t actually invite anybody? What the hell?
Kyle, Matt, and Jeremy are all nodding their heads. The look on her face while she screamed insults at Grace earlier today swims into focus, and I would rather submit to another of my dad’s flip-calendar lectures than spend time with Miranda Hollis.