Текст книги "Ten Things Sloane Hates About Tru"

Автор книги: Tera Lynn Childs

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

Chapter Nineteen

“Hey.”

The Tru who walks up to me before school the next day isn’t the same Tru I’ve known for just over a couple weeks. Gone is that cocky, charming smile. The mischievous glint in his eyes. The arrogant tilt to his head.

No, the Tru who stands before me today is totally subdued. Raw. True.

“Hey,” I say back. “Principal Ben let you come back?”

He nods. “Thanks to you.”

His clothes are slightly less disheveled than usual. The ironic tie that hangs loose around his white button-down is actually pretty straight. And his shirt is tucked in. Well, half tucked in. I can see the white hem hanging out below his black jacket in the back.

He has never looked more sincere.

And I have never felt the urge to kiss him more.

I shrug. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is,” he says, stepping closer. “Thank you.”

With only a few inches separating us, his head hanging low so he can whisper, it would only take a little lift. I would only have to rise on my toes an inch or two to close the distance.

But we’re still in an uncertain place, and I’m not sure that will make anything better. And I’m not sure that I want to push things in that direction.

My relationship history is rocky enough. I’m going home soon, hopefully. Anything between us would only complicate my leaving.

“You’re welcome,” I answer, turning away from him to busy myself with my books. “But I didn’t do it for you.”

“No?” he says, leaning against the locker next to mine.

I don’t have to look at him to know that the cocky smirk has returned. I can hear it in his voice.

“No,” I say, slamming my locker shut and whirling to face him, “I did it for me.”

His brows draw together, confused, like he can’t see what I could possibly get out of saving his ass from Principal Ben’s lawnmower. But he’s still smiling.

“I didn’t vandalize the school,” I explain. “And I know you didn’t.”

He shrugs one shoulder.

“But someone did. That someone clearly wanted me to take the fall for it.” My blood boils at the very thought. “Someone knew I would be blamed and wanted me kicked out because of it.”

His smile falls. He considers my words for a moment before answering. “You’re right.”

I give him an obviously shrug.

He runs a hand over his shaggy hair, sending the straight, shiny locks into every direction. My fingers itch to smooth them back into place.

“Who would do that?” he asks. “Who would want you out of NextGen?”

“Not only that,” I say. “Who even knew about the original vandalism?”

“Aim and me,” he says. His mouth twists into a wry smirk. “I didn’t tell anyone.”

“I know,” I say. “You’re good with secrets.”

We start walking down the hall, heading toward the AGD classroom.

“I haven’t made any enemies that I know of,” I say as we turn a corner. “I can’t see any of the faculty doing this. Aimeigh’s my friend. She has no reason to want me gone, and she swears she hasn’t told anyone else. She thinks it’s Jenna.”

“For real?” Tru sounds surprised.

“Yeah. She thinks Jenna overheard the conversation when I told you guys the truth,” I explain. “Remember she came up to us right after?”

He nods slowly, like he remembers but doesn’t necessarily believe.

“Jenna is a weird one,” he says, “I’ll give you that. But pull off something like this?”

“That’s what I thought. But I don’t know who else to suspect.”

“Yeah, I guess…”

We reach the end of Building C and the door to Mrs. K’s classroom.

“Want to meet up for lunch?” he asks. “Maybe we can brainstorm some ways to smoke Jenna out.”

“Sounds good.” I nod. “I’ll bring Aimeigh. We can meet at that same picnic table.”

He smiles at me. For a moment, just a fleeting instant, he pauses like he wants to lean in. Wants to kiss me good-bye.

And for that same instant, I want him to.

Is it possible he’s feeling the same pull that I am? Are we back in that place? Before the vandalism, before Abbey Road?

Then he pulls back. “See you at chow time.”

Apparently we’re not there yet.

I watch him walk away and stare at the spot even after he’s gone. I force myself to turn away. To focus on the real problem: the vandal. My mind is full of thoughts—none of them make sense, just a jumble of words and names and places and motives—as I walk into the AGD classroom and take my seat. Jenna is, of course, already there.

As Mrs. K readies something on her computer, I grab my supplies and get ready for the free sketch period. My mind is so full of other things that I can’t think of anything to sketch. I hold my pencil above the paper, waiting for inspiration to strike.

When it doesn’t, I fall back on something that my very first art teacher in fifth grade taught me.

When all else fails, draw the world.

Meaning you should take inspiration from the world around you when you have none of your own.

I start at the bottom of the page, sketching the surface of the table I share with Jenna. Slick white melamine, with a soft glare and a few scuff marks from overeager artists who couldn’t contain their work to the page.

I sketch Jenna’s hands, small and delicate as she creates yet another one of her recurring shape drawings into her new sketchbook. Could she really have set me up? Honestly, she doesn’t seem like she has enough imagination to come up with the idea in the first place. She has decent technique, but her artistic voice is lacking.

Then again, maybe that explains the copycat art. She couldn’t come up with her own epic art, so she ripped off mine.

Maybe.

I expand my sketch to include the other tables in the room. From the back row, I have a clear view of them all. There are eight tables in all, enough to seat sixteen students.

As I rough sketch the tables and begin to pencil in the students seated at each one, I notice something. Several of the seats are empty.

On the first day of class, every seat was occupied—hence the fact that I got the last available next to Jenna. Now, there are several open spaces.

I pull up my memory of that first day and picture who was seated where.

Mira had been in the seat directly in front of me.

Jaq was in the table two rows up and one over.

Mark, Devan, and Hannah are also missing. Mark is out sick—we all saw him spew chunks in trig yesterday—and Devan spent all last week gloating about jetting off to Seattle to see his favorite band in concert this weekend. But Hannah had surprisingly dropped the class on Tuesday.

It’s the girls, I realize. Most of the empty seats are where girls sat on the first day of class. And now they’re gone.

Of the seven girls Mrs. K called in to tell us about the design scholarship, three of them are either out of the class permanently or have been removed for disciplinary reasons.

“No,” I gasp.

Jenna looks over at me. “What?”

“What?” I jerk back, realizing that I hadn’t meant to say anything out loud. “Oh, nothing. Just, um…” I wag my pencil. “Broke my lead.”

She shrugs and goes back to her shapes—today they’re stars. Star after star after star. No imagination.

I stare at the sketch filling my page. The empty seats where girls once sat. Where scholarship contenders once sat.

Could that really be why? Could the copycat incident not be about me at all, but about getting rid of the scholarship competition?

It seems ridiculously farfetched. Who would go to these lengths just to improve their chances to win a stupid prize? Farfetched, maybe, but it still makes more sense than someone targeting me specifically for whatever nonsense reason.

Okay, okay. I calm my thoughts. I have to think through this, work through the possibilities. Like a detective in a murder mystery, I have to consider the…suspects.

There are four girls left in the class.

Me. I obviously didn’t do it. Besides the fact that, well, I know I didn’t, I would have taken myself out of the running by pulling the copycat—or, in that case, repeat—Incident.

There’s Jenna. She’s weird, which is saying a lot at an art school, but she had a near meltdown last Thursday when her sketchbook turned up missing. I can’t be certain that’s part of the whole conspiracy—oh God, am I actually considering this possibility?—but she said it included a lot of the sketches she was going to submit for the competition. So I’ll mark that down as a yes for victim.

There’s Liza. Her computer got some kind of terrible virus and her entire portfolio was destroyed. Definite victim.

There’s Aimeigh. She… I struggle to think of anything bad that’s happened to her. Any design-related sabotage or trouble. Nothing. Of all the girls in Mrs. K’s class, only Aimeigh has been untouched by the bad luck curse.

Only Aimeigh is poised to present her best work and be academically eligible to enter the competition.

Is that…? Is that possible?

“Sketchbooks away,” Mrs. K says, calling the room to order.

My suspicions will have to wait until after class.

When the bell rings, I take off. I’m across the hall and hiding behind the door to the empty ceramic arts classroom before Aimeigh can catch me.

I wait impatiently as the AGD room empties. Aimeigh walks out in a group of guys, looking around like she’s searching for me. I can’t face her, not until I at least bounce my crazy theory off someone else. I duck deeper behind the door.

They walk on, and I hope she’s given up on me.

Still, I wait. Jenna is always last. Always has something to talk with Mrs. K about.

Normally I mock her brown-nosery, but today it works to my advantage. Everyone is long gone, the hall all but empty by the time she emerges.

“Jenna, wait,” I whisper-shout, jumping out from behind the door.

She smacks a hand to her chest, like I just startled the hell out of her. Which I probably did.

“Sloane,” she says, her voice tight. “Yes?”

“Sorry,” I say, mostly meaning it. “Look, last week when you warned me about trusting Aimeigh. Why did you say that?”

She frowns. Studies me like she’s evaluating a test subject.

Jenna seems way more in tune with a science magnet program than an art school. I wonder how she ended up here, on this path.

Then again, people might wonder how I ended up here. With parents who are corporate types and a brother who is a certified math genius—seriously, he has a certificate—I might seem like an unlikely candidate. But considering I have a rebellious streak a mile wide…maybe it’s not so unlikely.

So I suppose stranger things have happened than a science geek ending up in an art school.

“Why are you asking?” Jenna replies.

I roll my eyes. “I don’t have time for this, Jenna.”

“All right,” she says. “I warned you about Aimeigh because she has burned people before.”

“Like who?” I move closer, like I’m physically approaching an answer. “In what circumstances?”

“Lots of people. She stole Vivian’s American history assignment freshman year.” Jenna ticks off the offenses on her fingers. “Planted a stolen test on Edgar Ross in algebra last year. Gave Megan the wrong study guide when she was TA in intro to art history. Flushed an entire group project—”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” I say, stopping her because it seems like she’s never going to end. “God, why didn’t anyone tell me?”

Jenna shrugs. “I tried to warn you.”

In the vaguest way possible.

“How did she get away with all of those things?” I ask.

How could I have been so wrong about her? I thought Aimeigh was my friend. I trusted her, I confided in her, and she was playing me. It doesn’t say much for my people-reading skills.

But Tru trusted her, too. Tru believed in her. I’m not the only one who was blinded by her game.

“She never gets caught,” Jenna says. “Everyone knows she did it, but there’s never any proof.”

Until now. Aimeigh picked the wrong girl to take on this time. Never pick a fight with a New Yorker. We know how to fight back.

“Come with me.” I clamp a hand around Jenna’s wrist and pull her down the hall.

“Where are you going?” she demands. “I have an advisory meeting with Principal Haverford.”

“It can wait.”

“But I need his approval—”

“Seriously, Jenna, don’t you want to help me catch the person who stole your sketchbook?”

That silences her protests.

Thankfully the halls are mostly empty. Half of the student body is probably eating, either in the cafeteria or in some secret spot around campus. The rest are in study sessions or advisor meetings. No one is there to see me physically drag Jenna out to the picnic table where Tru is waiting for me.

Assault. Kidnapping. Forced socializing at lunchtime. That probably wouldn’t look good on my permanent record.

We come up on Tru from behind, so he doesn’t see who I have in tow.

“Hey, what took you so—” He sees Jenna dangling at the end of my arm. “Hey Jenna.” He flashes me a confused look.

“I don’t think Jenna is the one who set me up,” I say.

“What? Me? No,” Jenna argues immediately. “Of course not.”

I ignore her. “I think it’s Aimeigh.”

“You think it’s…” His question trails off, and I can see him sliding the puzzle pieces into place.

Tru has known her longer than me. How can he not know what she’s done? He must have seen things, heard things. He’s just too good-hearted to want to think something so terrible of his friend.

“You think what is Aimeigh?” Jenna asks.

“But why?” Tru asks. “Why would she do it?”

“To get me out of the way for the scholarship competition,” I explain. I nod at Jenna. “To get us all out of the way.”

“You think it’s Aimeigh what?” Jenna repeats, as if changing her emphasis will get her an answer.

Maybe it does.

“Who spread red plastic all over the front of the school. Got Jaq suspended. Set up Mira for cheating.”

Jenna stares at me blankly.

Clearly I’m going to have to explain it closer to home.

“She stole your sketchbook.”

Jenna gasps and her jaw drops open. “I knew it!”

Yeah, clearly.

Tru’s brows draw together in thought, and I can only imagine what he’s processing. Aimeigh is his friend—as much as Tru has friends—so it must be hard to suddenly be asked to doubt her.

“We couldn’t go to Haverford with a guess,” Tru says. “Even if Aimeigh is guilty, we’re going to need proof.”

“I know,” I say with a shrug. And thus endeth my plan.

How do you prove someone did something when there is no evidence? Clearly she’s covered her tracks well, or someone else would have suspected her before now. She would have been expelled instead of Tru or me.

“Any suggestions?” I ask our little group.

Tru shrugs. “You’re the evil mastermind,” he says. “You come up with all the plans.”

I’m not sure whether to kiss him or punch him in the arm, so I settle for neither. I slide onto the bench next to him, letting my arm press against his. He presses back. We’re in this together now. All the way.

“We could confront her,” Jenna suggests.

Tru and I exchange a glance.

I ask, “Do you really think she’ll confess?”

“She’s too clever for that,” Tru says.

“You’re probably right.” Jenna smiles awkwardly. “Too bad we couldn’t catch her in the act.”

Tru nods. “Too bad there’s no one left to sabotage.”

“Yeah,” I say, starting to agree. “No, wait. Actually there is.”

They both look at me. I point at myself.

“Right,” Tru says. “She didn’t actually take you out.”

“Or Jenna either,” I say. “We may have had setbacks, but we’re still contenders.”

We all fall silent, presumably trying to think up a way to use this information. Thoughts are spinning in my mind like Dylan’s dead goldfish in the toilet bowl. Suddenly, the thoughts lock into place, and I know what we need to do.

Like Tru said, I’m the evil mastermind. I come up with all the plans. And this one is going to knock Aimeigh’s socks off.

“I’ve got it,” I say. “I know how we’re going to catch Aimeigh in the act.”

“How’s that?” Tru asks.

I flash him a diabolical smile. “By giving her exactly what she wants.”

She’ll never see it coming.

Chapter Twenty

We have all the details hammered out and are ready to carry out our plan between third and fourth periods on Friday. Right before senior seminar. Aimeigh and I walk together from Building E as usual.

She’s too smart to miss anything really out of the ordinary. Between us, Tru, Jenna, and I have the timing all figured out.

As soon as I settle into my seat in senior seminar, I reach into my bag. I dig around for a couple of minutes. Put the bag on the table and search through everything.

“Damn it,” I mutter.

Jenna walks in, right on cue.

“What?” Aimeigh asks.

How had I missed the tone in her voice before? She sounds almost delighted at my distress. Now that my new-girl blinders are off, I’m seeing her in a whole new light. And it’s not an attractive one.

“My tablet,” I say. “It’s not in my bag.”

“Bummer,” Aimeigh says, doing a fair approximation of actual sympathy.

Jenna takes her seat at the head of the table, making a big show of getting out her notebook.

This class session is supposed to be our first official meeting about the senior project, so of course she would have a bunch of things ready to present.

“I don’t know where I could have left it. I haven’t used it all day.” I dig through my bag again, as if certain that I must just not be seeing it in there. “It has all my new work for the scholarship portfolio on it. I haven’t backed it up yet.”

A lie, of course. But hopefully just the kind of bait Aimeigh is looking for.

Jenna doesn’t look up from her supplies. “Is it the one with the Roy Lichtenstein cover?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” I say. “Have you seen it?”

She smiles absently. “I found it on the counter in Mr. Danziger’s room. I put it on the file cabinet next to the door.”

“Oh great,” I say, starting to push to my feet.

For a second I don’t think Aimeigh is going to bite. She’s going to let me get up and retrieve my not-really-forgotten tablet without a hitch.

For a split second I have doubts. What if I’m wrong? What if Aimeigh isn’t the culprit? What if—

“Hey, wait,” she says, grabbing my arm before I can move away from the table. “I left my seminar notebook in my locker. I can grab your tablet on my way back.”

I smile with relief, inside and out.

“Great,” I say. “Thanks.”

As soon as she’s out the door, I exchange a look with Jenna.

She pulls out her laptop and flips up the screen as I drop into the seat next to her. Her browser is open to the webcam feed that Tru set up. He’s monitoring it from the supply closet in the chemistry classroom.

Jenna and I watch the screen, waiting for Aimeigh to appear. When she does, I literally hold my breath. What if we’re wrong?

I have to admit, part of me wants to be wrong. The part of me that was grateful for the easy friendship she offered wants her to prove me wrong. Even if that means going back to square one in the hunt for the copycat vandal, it would be worth it to know that she really was my friend.

I stare at the screen, hoping she just grabs the tablet and brings it to me.

But she doesn’t.

Aimeigh snatches the tablet from the counter where Jenna placed it earlier. She turns her back to the door, shielding herself from the view of anyone walking by. Completely unaware of the webcam capturing her every keystroke from above.

I watch, horrified, as she flips open the tablet and pulls up my CloudFile app. Locates my portfolio folder. And promptly deletes it.

She even goes to the trash folder and empties that, deleting the files permanently.

The camera catches every detail.

“That bitch,” I mutter.

Jenna smiles. “Told you.”

“Come on,” I say. “Let’s go confront our saboteur.”

“Saboteur?” Jenna asks, amused.

I shrug. “I’m feeling very French spy today.”

She smiles. “Me too.”

I smile back. Jenna may be a bit of an odd duck, but she has a good heart. And that counts for a lot.

We meet Aimeigh on the sidewalk between Buildings D and E. At first she looks surprised to see us—maybe shocked to see us together—but she recovers quickly.

“Hey, found it.” She waves the tablet up for me to see. “I was bringing it to you. You didn’t have to meet me.”

“I thought we were friends,” I accuse.

She jerks back. “We are.”

“Then we have very different definitions of what that means.”

“Sloane, what’s going on?” she asks, her fake concern almost believable.

“Cut the crap, Aimeigh,” I say. “We just watched you delete my portfolio from my tablet.”

“What?” She sounds stunned. “No, I—”

Jenna opens her laptop, holds it facing out so Aimeigh can see the screen still open to the webcam. Still transmitting the very spot where she just committed her act of sabotage.

She scowls. “What is this?”

“This,” Tru says, walking up behind her from the other direction—with Principal Ben at his side, “is getting evidence that you’re the one who set up Sloane.”

“That you stole my sketchbook,” Jenna adds.

“And got Jaq and Mira booted.” I can’t believe I actually trusted her. “Heck, you probably gave Liza’s computer a virus and convinced Hannah to drop out of class, too. Did you blackmail her?”

“You guys don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aimeigh says, her voice high with desperation. “Principal Haverford, you have to believe me. I had nothing to do with any of that.”

Principal Ben gives her a disappointed grimace. “I watched the feed, Aimeigh. I saw you delete Sloane’s files.”

She stands there, shocked and affronted-looking. Then something cracks. Her demeanor changes instantly from wrongfully accused to crying out for sympathy.

“You don’t understand,” she says. “I need that scholarship. There’s no other way I’ll be able to afford college. I’m desperate.”

Is that even the truth?

Tears start down her cheeks and, if my eyes weren’t wide open, I might have thought they were believable. But now I can see the real Aimeigh lurking beneath the pathological surface. Even if it is true, even if she is sorry and desperate, that doesn’t excuse what she did.

“It doesn’t give you the right to ruin someone’s life.” I shake my head.

She turns to me. “What’s the harm?” she cries. “You didn’t get in any real trouble.” She flicks her gaze at Tru. “Either of you.”

Beneath the tears and the desperation, there is a shadow of bitterness. Of jealousy. Almost like she believes we deserved to get in trouble. Almost like she’s angrier that we didn’t than that she got caught.

How had I not seen this? Had I been so glad to have a friend that I didn’t see what lurked beneath her surface?

I won’t make that mistake again, either.

“Other girls got in trouble,” I say. “Other girls got hurt.”

“Aimeigh, you’ll have to come with me,” Principal Ben says.

She turns to him, gets a bit of a wild look in her eyes, like she wants to bolt.

“Please,” he says, “don’t make me get security.”

All of the fight drains out of her.

We stand there, watching, half in shock, as she follows Principal Ben toward Building A. This whole experience is kind of surreal. Like a bad movie.

“Did that just happen?” I ask.

“I can’t believe she went for it,” Tru says. “How did you know she would?”

I shrug. “If she really was guilty, she would have seen our setup as the chance to get rid of two birds with one action.”

“How so?” Jenna asks.

“Well, she could ruin my chances by deleting the portfolio,” I explain. “And since you would have been the one to—quote—find my tablet, she could blame you for deleting it.”

“Devious,” Tru says.

“She had already planted the idea with me that Jenna was the one who set me up with the vandalism.” And I almost fell for it. “I need to apologize to you, Jenna. For even thinking you might be guilty without any evidence.”

She frowns at me, like she’s confused by my apology. “You had no reason not to trust her. She was your friend.”

Was being the operative word.

It was stupid of me to believe the worst of her just because of Aimeigh’s say-so. I won’t make that mistake again.

“Well, I’m still sorry,” I say.

She beams. “Apology accepted.” She jerks a hand back over her shoulder. “Now, I’m going to get back to class before the project is decided without me.” She turns and hurries down the sidewalk.

Tru and I follow behind at a more leisurely pace. And a more roundabout route.

“So…” I say, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my jeans.

Tru nudges my shoulder with his. “So…”

The tingles are back.

“I guess I should thank you,” I say.

“What for?”

“If you hadn’t confessed, I’d have been out of NextGen so fast no one would have ever wondered why all the girls in AGD were dropping like flies.”

He laughs. “You New Yorkers and your colorful language.”

“We have to get our color somewhere,” I say, nodding down at my all-black outfit.

In a rare moment of seriousness, he shrugs. “I couldn’t let you go out like that.”

We walk a few more paces in silence. A comfortable quiet, like most of our car rides. I’ve missed this. It’s amazing how, in such a short amount of time, he’s become a touchstone in my world. Just walking side-by-side with Tru makes everything feel right.

And there’s something more there, too. Something I didn’t realize before. Working with Tru to catch Aimeigh showed me what a great team we make. Not just where we’re sparring with words or swapping stories about crappy home lives, but actually working together toward a goal.

It’s like what I said in senior seminar, that art is about connection. Tru and I have a connection. We are a connection. So, in a way, we are art.

That thought kind of blows my mind.

My fingers itch to reach for his hand, to make that tangible, physical connection, but I’m not sure if we’re all the way back to okay yet.

“Does this mean you’re back to hauling me to and from school?” I ask. “Because I’m not sure I can survive many more commutes with my mom.”

He throws me a sideways grin. “I might be convincible.”

I smile back. “I have cookies.”

“What kind?”

“Oatmeal raisin?”

He scoffs. “A bullshit cookie.”

“Why bullshit?”

“Cookies are supposed to be unhealthy.” He makes a grand sweeping gesture. “That’s practically like eating a bran muffin.”

“Okay…” I mentally scan the shelves of our pantry. “Oreos?”

“Now that’s a cookie.”

“Technically, a cookie sandwich,” I correct.

“Touché.”

Tru opens the door to Building E and we start down the hall toward senior seminar. We’ve taken as much of a roundabout route as we can without leaving school property.

“Want to meet me on the roof tonight?” I ask. “After the week we’ve had, I think we’ve earned an entire package of Oreos.”

“That depends.” He stops just outside the senior seminar classroom, leans up against the wall.

I can hear voices inside, where our classmates are already discussing the group project. I’m in no hurry to join the conversation. I’m pretty happy right where I am.

I mirror his leaning stance.

“Depends on what?” I ask.

There’s that cocky grin. “Do you have milk?”

I make a face. “I think my mom has some soy milk.”

“A bullshit milk,” he teases, but his gaze lowers to the floor. “What will your mom think about me coming over?”

I see through the cracks in his cocky, couldn’t-care-less facade. It really hurt him when I said Mom wouldn’t approve, that I couldn’t see him anymore because it might cost me New York. My chest tightens, and I wish I could take that all back.

But since I don’t have a time machine, I’ll have to settle for making it better now.

“She’ll be fine,” I say. At his smirking expression, I explain, “We had a long talk. I told her that she needed to trust me. That even if you weren’t a good guy—which you are—that doesn’t mean I would follow you down the Delinquency Spiral.”

“Delinquency Spiral?” he echoes.

I roll my eyes. “Her words, not mind.” I step closer, place my hands on his chest, hoping the physical connection will reinforce what I’m saying. “I will choose my own friends, and she will just have to deal. Besides, she kinda feels like she owes you for saving my ass.”

He’s quiet for several long moments, and I’m not sure if I got through. I’m not sure if I’ve healed those wounds…or made them worse.

Then his mouth lifts into that cocky smirk.

“Friends?”

I smile back. “For now.”

He leans closer until his mouth is a breath away from mine. “With benefits?”

“Most definitely,” I whisper, and then close the distance between us.

Our lips brush in the briefest touch. A mere whisper. But I feel it like fireworks in every cell of my body.

Closing the door on the first phase of our friendship, and kicking in the second.

There are only thirty-six school days left in the quarter. Less than two months. What used to feel like an eternity, suddenly feels like nowhere near enough time.

What if you stayed? a tiny voice whispers in my mind.

Tru looks at me, into me, his dark, hooded eyes seeming to plead, Stay.

Three weeks ago, if anyone even hinted at the idea that I might possibly ever consider wanting to think about staying in Texas, I would have laughed them out of the room. And then killed them off in the next issue of Graphic Grrl. Gruesomely.

But now…? Now, with the magnetic pull between Tru and me sparkling like the Fourth of July, it doesn’t seem like such a horrifying possibility.

Not horrifying at all. And that scares me a little.

Reluctantly, I start to pull away. Tru doesn’t let me go. Instead, he wraps his hand around my neck and holds me in place for one second, two. Then his lips meet mine again, and the jolt is back, only this time it’s more a warmth spreading through my whole body, making my toes tingle and my hands tremble.

I could stay here forever, but we’re in the hallway and the bell already rang. He knows it, too, because this time when I pull away, he lets me.

As I open the classroom door, I whisper, “Maybe more than friends.”

I can feel the smile in his voice as he says, “Most definitely.”

Most definitely. I like the sound of that.

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