Текст книги "Ten Things Sloane Hates About Tru"

Автор книги: Tera Lynn Childs

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

Chapter Seven

After senior seminar, I have to stop by the front office to pick up some form Mom forgot to fill out, so Tru gets a head start to the parking lot. He is leaning against his car, face turned up to the gray sky.

When I walk up, he gives me a sloppy grin.

“Hey, New York,” he says, like he didn’t see me three minutes ago in seminar.

I roll my eyes and start to walk around him.

“Hey, wait a minute,” he says, placing his hand on my waist. When I stop, he adds, “Why are you being so uptight with me?’

Every muscle in my body tenses. In anger.

This isn’t the first time I’ve been called uptight. The exact word Brice used when he explained why he wasn’t interested in seeing me as anything more than a friend. My jaw clenches.

“I am not uptight,” I grind out.

“Look, we’re neighbors,” he says, pushing away from the car and standing way too close. “Can’t we be friends?”

He leans down until his mouth is right next to my ear.

“Admit it,” he whispers. “You like me.”

My mind is racing. He is so close, so warm, so there. That tingling sensation I seem to get whenever he’s around has my skin on fire. I barely know him, but I can’t decide if I should shove him away or lean in closer. Neither is a good answer.

“Tru, I—” As I turn my head to respond, I catch a whiff of his breath.

All trace of breath mint is gone. He smells like a liquor cabinet.

“Oh my God.” I shove both hands against his chest. “Are you—” I realize I’m about to shout the word drunk at full volume on school property. I drop my voice to a whisper. “Have you been drinking?”

He falls back against the car and shrugs, that crooked smile in place.

He’s wasted.

So many emotions rush through me. Shock. Shame. Confusion. And anger. Most of all anger.

“Give me your keys,” I demand.

His smile deepens. “Your eyes glow when you’re pissed.”

I’m not the only one who’s pissed.

How on earth could he have gone from totally functional in class to ridiculous in the parking lot? He’d had, at most, ten minutes from when we split up until I walked out here. I can’t believe he made it through senior seminar without anyone catching on. He must have started before class and he must have had practice.

“Tru Dorsey, I swear to God, if you do not give me your keys in the next five seconds, I will castrate you.”

The grin grows as his eyes squeeze shut.

“Right here in this parking lot,” I add, just so there is no confusion about how serious I am, “in front of the entire school.”

He digs into his pocket with his right hand but then swings his left around, dangling the keys in front of me.

“I wasn’t gonna drive,” he says, slapping them into my open palm. “Be gentle with her. She has a sensitive clutch.”

He pushes away, trips around to the passenger side of the car.

Clutch? Oh hell, this is going to suck. Not only do I not have my license—who needs to drive in New York?—but I’ve only ever tried a stick shift one time. It didn’t end well.

I fling my backpack into the back and then slide into the driver’s seat. If I wasn’t so angry I was seeing spots right now, I’d probably appreciate how comfortable and powerful his car is. Sleek controls and serious horsepower—I feel like I’m behind the wheel of a racecar.

It was the same car this morning, but I’d been half asleep. It’s a miracle I even recognized it in the parking lot.

I take a deep breath before I put the key in the ignition and turn. The engine makes a grinding noise.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Tru says, reaching over to turn back the key. “You have to put the clutch in.”

I peer down to the floor.

“The one on the left,” Tru says. His hand reaches across and grabs my left knee. Pure electric sparks race down to my toes. He moves my leg over until my foot is on what must be the clutch pedal, then pushes down.

I’m too stunned to stop him. Even as angry as I am, his touch still gives me goose bumps. Something is definitely wrong with me.

“Now try.” He doesn’t let go of my knee.

The sparks burn a permanent track on my leg.

I turn the key, and this time the car purrs to life.

“I think I’ve got it,” I say, removing his hand.

I need to be able to think clearly if I’m going to get us home.

“Just remember—” He lets his head fall back against the headrest, just like I had done this morning. Only I’d been half asleep, not half passed out. “Put the clutch in to shift, up if she’s whirring, down if she’s groaning.”

Whirring, up. Groaning, down.

I think I’ve got it.

I hope I’ve got it.

My first attempt at movement sends us lurching then dying. Tru snorts but doesn’t give me any further advice. Great. It takes me three circles of the parking lot to feel comfortable enough to head out onto the road without posing a severe danger to other drivers. It only took two circles for Tru to fall asleep.

He and I are going to have words about this. As soon as he’s conscious again.

Who assigns homework the first week of school? Mr. Lufkin, that’s who.

After leaving Tru asleep in his car in the Dorseys’ driveway—as if I was going to help him into the house after that—I grabbed a handful of Twizzlers and then headed upstairs to get my first reading assignment done. Ulysses, chapters one through three. Yay.

I’m only two pages into chapter one when Mom knocks on my door.

And doesn’t wait for an answer before barging in.

My jaw almost drops when I see that she’s wearing yoga pants. I can’t remember the last time Mom wore anything that casual. Or anything casual period. Her entire wardrobe is suits, suits, and more suits.

See, being away from New York is already ruining her sense of style.

“Did I just see you driving Tru’s car?” she demands.

“What?” I ask, caught off guard.

Great. This can’t go badly.

“Just now,” she says. “You were behind the wheel in Tru’s car when it pulled into the driveway next door.”

“What, were you spying on me?”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “Answer the question.”

I have to think quickly. If I’m not careful, if I even hint that I had to drive because he was drunk, I would lose what little freedom I’ve gained by not being at her mercy for transport.

“Yes,” I admit with a huff, because I can’t exactly deny what she saw. “I just took it for a spin around the block.”

“Sloane…”

“What? I wanted to see what it was like.” I shake my head, like she’s totally overreacting. “It’s no big deal.”

“You don’t have a license,” she argues. “You don’t have insurance. If you got caught, it would be a really big deal.”

“Well, I didn’t. So you can just chill.”

“But what if you had—”

“God, Mom, I just wanted to try, okay?” I turn my attention back to my book. “It won’t happen again.”

Because I will leave Tru bleeding on the sidewalk and take the bus home if it does.

I sense her hesitate, watching me from the doorway and trying to figure out what to say. How to react. I wish she would just decide and get it over with.

Finally, after what feels like forever, she walks over to the bed and sits on the edge. “Okay,” she says. “Just be sure you’re making smart choices. I don’t want you to find more trouble that will haunt your future.”

What am I supposed to say to that? It’s the same old song. I’m tired of trying to defend myself and my ability to make good decisions.

She fidgets with the edge of my comforter. “So, how was your second day at NextGen?”

Oh, is that how we’re going to play this? Like that’s why she came up here in the first place, to do the mother-daughter check-in conversation.

Good luck with that.

I shrug. “Fine.”

“Make any friends?”

Another shrug.

“Do you like the classes?”

I give her a look that says, They’re classes. What’s to like?

She stares at her hands. With her head angled down, dark circles appear under her eyes. Is that from the lighting?

“Honey,” she begins, “I know this is hard.”

It’s hard not to laugh out loud at that understatement. Hard? Hard? Calculus is hard. Finding the man in Picasso’s The Accordionist is hard. This—the move, the new school, the new life—is torture.

But I just give her another shrug.

Mom sighs, is silent for several long moments.

Rather than sit around waiting for her to figure out what to say to her Troubled Teenager, I focus on my homework. The sooner I finish, the sooner I can get back to Graphic Grrl.

“What’s that you’re reading?”

With a sigh, I hold up the book.

Mom makes a face.

“It’s not bad,” I say. Knowing that she doesn’t like it makes me even more determined to love it.

I keep reading as she watches. Sure, it’s awkward as hell. But I can stand awkward all day and all night if it makes her even half as uncomfortable. Maybe if things between us get bad enough, she’ll give in and move us back to New York just to end the torment.

Before The Incident, I never thought I’d feel this way about Mom. Sure, we had our differences and I had my secrets—what teen doesn’t? But I always used to feel like I could go to her, ask her anything, get honest feedback. Now it’s like we view each other as the enemy.

After a few more beats of silence, she asks, “Have you spoken to your father?”

I shake my head. “I texted him.”

Dad’s never been the most available. He works crazy hours and is usually gone when I get up in the morning and rarely gets home before dinner. A lot of times it’s not until after I’m in bed.

Being halfway across the country doesn’t change too much about our relationship.

Mom nods, as if that’s what she expected me to say.

I’m not sure what makes me ask, “Have you?”

“No, he’s been busy with the Titanium Towers project.” She looks up, smiles. “I’ve talked to Dylan every day, though.”

Her eyes are sad and I can tell—as much as I don’t want to see it—that this move is hurting her, too. She’s halfway across the country from her husband and her son. From her job and her friends and her life, too.

The big difference is that she could make it all go away if she wanted.

Me, I’m just stuck here.

“I’m leaving early for a job interview downtown,” she says, “so I won’t see you before—”

“A job?” I echo.

“Yes,” she says, forcing a laugh. “That’s a thing where you do work and they pay you.”

I glare at her.

“I can’t sit around and do nothing for a year, Sloane,” she says as if it’s the most logical thing in the world.

“It won’t be a whole year,” I argue.

We have a deal and there’s no way I’m screwing it up.

“We can’t get by for long without my income,” she explains. “Between your tuition and Dylan’s, the mortgage in Manhattan and the rent here, we need the second salary.”

I want to argue with that, but what can I say that isn’t a rehash of the same old if-we-went-home-this-wouldn’t-be-a-problem argument? She’s obviously not listening. I just have to keep up my end of the bargain and get us home as soon as possible. Before Mom starts putting down roots.

“Besides,” she says, pushing to her feet, “it’s not in my nature to do nothing but cook and clean.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not in my nature to be in Texas,” I toss back, “so I guess we both have to make concessions here.”

She draws in a deep breath, and I can practically feel her trying to decide if she should rise to the bait. In the end, she doesn’t.

She heads toward the door. “I’ll leave you money for lunch on the counter.”

I want to shout that I don’t want her money. I don’t want anything from her except a ticket back to New York.

Of course the only things Mom has given me recently are disapproving looks and lectures on my irresponsible behavior. I screwed up. I admit that. I accept full responsibility for what happened. She acts like I set out to intentionally betray her.

I’ll never forget what she said to me the morning after The Incident, as we walked out of the police station.

“I don’t even know you.”

Does one misstep mean my entire life has been a lie?

I’m still the same me. Why can’t she see that?

She closes the door behind her, and I go back to reading. But I can’t get past the first page. My focus is blown.

I grab my phone off the charger.

Dylan picks up after three rings. “Yo, Sloaner.”

“Dyl-dog.” I didn’t realize how much I missed the sound of his voice.

We get along better than a lot of siblings, probably because of the age difference. He’s just going into sixth grade this year. And although he has the attention span of a grasshopper on crack, and sometimes he says the grossest things ever imagined, he’s pretty great.

The suckiest part of the suckfest that is me in Texas is the fact that Dylan is still in New York. I’m jealous, sure. But also I miss him. He’s my best bud.

“Whatchya up to, fartface?” I tease.

He snort-laughs. Eleven-year-old boy humor achieved. “Just watching VGHS.”

“Haven’t you seen that like eighty times?”

“No,” he says in all seriousness. “Only seventeen.”

His school doesn’t start until next week—I’m the only lucky one with an early matriculation date—so he’s probably stuffing in as many late nights as he can manage before Dad Law, aka a ten o’clock lights out curfew, goes into effect. Dylan attends a super rigorous math-science-engineering magnet school, and his homework schedule tends to get insane. I could never take it.

Academically, we could not be more opposite. It’s still a complete mystery to me that we share a gene pool. I’m fully aware that I’m the anomaly here.

“Well lucky you,” I say. “I’m doing homework.”

He groans dramatically. “What kind?”

“Reading.”

His groan rises to epic levels.

“I know,” I say. “Almost makes me wish for some math homework.”

Not really. For the most part I actually like reading—with notable exceptions like Johnny Tremain, The Old Man and the Sea, and anything by Nathaniel Hawthorne—but to Dylan it’s like Brussels sprouts.

Come to think of it, I actually like Brussels sprouts. Maybe we aren’t related. Some nights I really think I must be adopted.

“I don’t want to keep you from your marathon,” I say. “Can I talk to Dad?”

There is a sound that I recognize as Honeycombs clattering into a bowl. His favorite treat. Who is there making sure he eats right if Mom and I are here? Certainly not Dad.

“Still at work,” Dylan says.

Beep, beep.

I hold my phone away and see an unknown Austin number on the screen.

“Hey, Dyl, someone’s buzzing in,” I tell him. “Can you leave Dad a note to call me?”

He says, “Okay,” around the crunch of cereal.

“Love you,” I say. “Eat some vegetables.”

“Love you,” he says back, “and no thanks.”

I’m laughing as I click over to the other call. “Hello?”

There is a pause and then, “It’s Tru.”

My humor fades. My first instinct is to fling my phone out the window. Enough time has passed that I’m not quite raging with the fire of a thousand suns. But I’m still plenty pissed.

“Please,” he says. “Don’t hang up.”

There is a long silence.

“How did you get my number?” I finally ask.

“Your mom gave it to my mom. So we can coordinate transport to and from school.”

Another silence.

Maybe it’s a good sign that he’s calling, but I’m not going to make it easy on him. I made my opinion clear in the parking lot. The ball is in his court.

After a while, he sighs. “I fucked up, okay?”

“You think?”

“I know, I just…” He trails off, like he doesn’t know what to say. Or maybe like he doesn’t want to say it. “I was an ass.”

“A dumb ass.” I climb off my bed and pace to the window.

And I should know. I’m the queen of dumb actions with enduring repercussions. Case in point: The Incident. It’s also a prime example of letting your friends convince you that something epically stupid is actually pure genius, but that’s not quite as relevant at the moment.

“My mom saw me driving,” I tell him. “I don’t have a license, so she immediately assumed I’ll get arrested. She grilled me for twenty minutes.”

An exaggeration, but he doesn’t know that.

“Shit,” he mutters.

Good. At least he knows how much he almost screwed me today. I think I got out of it okay, but the driving is only part of the issue.

“If you get caught drinking,” I explain, “she’ll assume I am, too. I’ll be under house arrest for eternity. I won’t let you screw up my plans to get home.”

“I’ve never done that before,” he says. “Gotten drunk at school.”

There is something in the way he says it, almost…sad. It drains a lot of my anger and I find myself wanting to know more than what he’s telling me. “Then why did you?”

Silence stretches through the phone, across the short distance between our two houses. I stare up at the night sky, clear of this afternoon’s gloomy clouds. I wonder if Tru is staring out his own window.

Finally, he huffs a derisive laugh. “No good reason,” he says. “It seemed like a good idea.”

It’s a lie. I know it is.

And just like that, the moment of connection is over. I don’t know him well enough to call him on the bullshit. I’m not sure I even know him well enough to care. We barely met two nights ago.

The only reason I’m concerned at all is that Mom would have judged me guilty by association.

No, that’s a lie, too. I would feel terrible if anything bad happened to him. We’re…I don’t know, starting to be friends maybe.

Maybe. If neither of us screws it up.

“Is it going to happen again?” I ask.

“Never,” he says. “Not at school. Not anywhere near a car.”

I don’t miss the subtext. Not no drinking again ever. Just…not at school or when he might be driving. That bothers me.

It’s not that I have anything against the drinking. I’m not some teetotaler who brings pamphlets to parties or who’s taken a Straight Edge pledge, but I have a feeling there’s something more going on here than just having a good time.

But, like I said, I don’t know him well enough to play therapist.

I trace my fingers along the window frame, sighing loudly enough for him to hear. “Okay.”

“Yeah?” he says, sounding relieved.

“Yeah,” I reply. “Just know that if it ever happens again—”

“It won’t.”

“If it does.” I lean forward, press my forehead against the cool glass. “You will regret it.”

He laughs. “I have no doubt.”

There’s kind of a long silence, and I expect him to say a quick good-bye. I’m not sure why I’m not saying a quick good-bye. But it’s almost like neither of us is ready to go yet.

Suddenly my room feels too small, too confined. I open my window and climb out onto the roof.

“So,” he finally says, like he’s buying time, “things are cool with your mom?”

“Yeah.” Barely. “I handled it.”

Another pause. Then, “Have you thought about it?”

“About what?”

“Getting your license,” he says. “From what I remember, you did a decent job driving stick. I could…teach you, or something.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

There is something easy—too easy—about talking on the phone with him. Almost as if I’ve forgotten how much he bugs and bothers me the rest of the time. But I can’t forget it. I can’t forget that, barring any repeats of the getting-caught-driving-without-a-license situation, I’ll be out of Austin soon. With no looking back.

“We could start—”

“But what’s the point?” I cut him off before he begins making plans for driving lessons. “I’ll be back in New York when the quarter’s over, and I won’t need a license there.”

“Right,” he says, his voice a little tighter. “I forgot.”

The long pause this time is laced with a hint of tension. I don’t know exactly what his game is here, but I know I just shot it down. I had to.

Still, I don’t like how this tension feels.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” I say as I lay back on the roof.

“’Night Sloan.”

“’Night Tru.”

I slip my phone into my pocket and stare up into the starry sky.

There are forty-five school days in this quarter. Two down, forty-three to go. It’s starting to feel like maybe, just maybe, I might survive my time in Texas after all.

Chapter Eight

“We are definitely going to blow up the school.” Aimeigh sets her brown-bag lunch down on the picnic table we’ve been eating at all week, the one with the best view of the Pokémon sculpture. “Art students should not be allowed to play with dangerous chemicals.”

“I think the key is actually following the instructions,” I argue. “Winging it leads to…”

“Explosions! Exactly my point,” she says, swinging her long legs—clad today in a pair of rainbow unicorn leggings—over the bench. “I’m an artist. I can’t be expected to follow rules.”

I open the boxed salad I grabbed from the cafeteria and pour the dressing onto the baby spinach.

One thing NextGen definitely has over SODA is the food choices. As a vegetarian, my options back home usually consisted of rice or pasta, dressing on wilted iceberg, and steamed broccoli. I love grains and veggies, but even I have my limits.

The dining spread at NextGen is inspired. It’s not the cheapest school lunch, but I guess they figure anyone who can afford to attend can afford to eat well. There are at least a dozen different tasty meals I can choose from.

I’m not saying that’s enough of a reason to make me like it here, but between that and the early-stages friendship between Aimeigh and me and the early-stages whatever with Tru, I’m getting by.

“My two favorite ladies in the entire school.” Speak of the devil. Tru has a huge smile on his face as he drops onto the bench next to me.

“What do you want, Dorsey?” Aimeigh asks as she unwraps a soggy-looking sandwich, like she’s trying to sound tough, but I know it’s just talk. She adores him.

“Can’t a guy want nothing more than to eat with the prettiest girls in school?”

Aimeigh and I exchange a look. Aimeigh rolls her eyes. I ignore him and swirl the dressing into my salad.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” he says, leaning in. “ArtSquad team gets passes out of class. I want in.”

Well, he’s nothing if not to the point. Where most people would feign interest in ArtSquad, disguise their true motives, Tru just lays it all on the line. It’s a ballsy move. I admire that.

“I’ve been trying to get you to bring your epic film knowledge to the team for three years,” Aimeigh says, sounding skeptical. “What’s changed?”

Tru clasps his hands together on the table. “Grandig.”

“Ahhh.” She nods in understanding.

“What’s a Grandig?” I ask.

Tru turns his dark eyes on me. “Who’s a Grandig,” he corrects. “Calculus teacher. He makes the Puritans look like a bunch of free-love hippies.”

“Yikes.” I stab my fork into my salad.

“His failure rate is the highest in the school,” Aimeigh adds.

“And his boredom rate is even higher.” Tru leans across the table, closer to Aimeigh. “What do you say?”

Aimeigh tilts her head, gives him a considering look. I’m amused by the exchange between them. If I were making bets, I would say that she is just messing with him. From the start it’s been pretty clear that Aimeigh has a soft spot for Tru. I’m not sure if it’s a full-on crush, or if they’re just kindred spirits. Either way, he could ask her to burn down Building D—the math and science hall—and she would totally consider it. Especially on chemistry day.

But she’s also clever—or evil—enough to make him sweat it out.

She takes a bite of sandwich, chews, and swallows before responding.

“Okay,” she finally says, but before he can get too excited, she adds, “on one condition.”

He spreads his arms dramatically over the table. “Anything.”

I bite my lips to keep from smiling. What will she ask for? Will she ask for homework help in another class, so she can spend more time with him under the guise of school? Or will she be bold enough to ask for a date? Maybe to a school dance—if NextGen even has dances…

She jerks her head at me. “Help me sweet-talk someone into taking Ziggy’s place.”

Well that kills any questions about a crush. If Aimeigh were interested in Tru that way, she totally blew her advantage there.

“What am I?” Tru demands, acting insulted. “A body double?”

“I only want you for your cinematic skills.” She bats her eyes flirtatiously. “If we’re going to have a chance at winning the tournament we need someone to fill in the void on graphic design.”

Her big blue eyes focus on me as she takes a huge bite of her sandwich.

Wait, what? No, I already told her I wasn’t interested. I’m shaking my head when Tru turns his attention back to me.

“Huh-uh,” I hum around a mouthful of salad.

“Sloane, babe,” he says, turning up the charm to blinding, “come on. Take one for the team.”

He slings an arm around my shoulders, hugging me close. He means it as a joke. Nothing more than a tease. But between the touch of his hand and the heat of his body where it’s pulled tight against mine, I have the completely absurd urge to lean in to him. To press myself even closer. To turn my head so we’re face-to-face, so his mouth is only inches away from mine.

Something is definitely wrong with me.

I finish chewing and carefully swallow my salad before I elbow him in the ribs. “Not interested.”

“You’d be saving my life,” he says, rubbing at what is hopefully a bruised rib. “I literally will not survive a year with Grandig.”

“I won’t be here that long,” I explain. “I’m out at the end of the quarter.”

He frowns. “That’s not what my mom says.”

I don’t care what Mrs. Dorsey says. Mom promised.

“My mom and I have a deal.” And she doesn’t back out of deals. “I keep my nose clean this quarter and I can go home for the rest of senior year.”

“Why?” Aimeigh asks.

Why what? Why return to New York? What kind of obvious question is that?

“Because it’s my home,” I say. “It’s where I belong.”

“No.” She breaks off a piece of her breadstick. “Why do you have to keep your nose clean?”

I open my mouth, ready to give some bratty answer about Mom being strict for no reason, but something about the earnest look in her eyes and Tru’s makes me want to tell the truth. These two are the closest things I have to friends in this town. For however long I’m here. I can’t just outright lie to them.

“I screwed up,” I say, hedging. “Big time.”

“How big?” she asks.

“Five hundred hours of community service.”

Basically my entire summer vacation.

Tru whistles, and I’m not sure if it’s shock or respect. Despite all of his supposed delinquent tendencies, as far as I know he hasn’t actually been arrested yet.

I win the blue ribbon for that one. Yay me.

Everyone eats quietly for a few minutes. I chomp on my salad, the crunch of lettuce and croutons deafening in my own ears. Maybe they’re going to let it go at that, without any of the juicy details.

It’s not that I’m not supposed to tell anyone about The Incident—that’s Rule Two. But more that I’m… What, embarrassed? Ashamed? Maybe both.

I’d gladly trade the blue ribbon for a time machine. But unlike my drawing app, life has no undo button.

I’m just downing the last of my juice when Aimeigh drops her fork.

“Oh my God,” she says. “It was the Midtown Tower, wasn’t it?”

My breath catches in my throat.

“The what?” Tru asks.

Aimeigh turns to him. “It was in all the papers last year. That teenager in New York broke into a construction site and spelled out the words Art Saves Lives in red sheet plastic.”

“That was epic,” Tru says. “That was you?”

My eyes are on my now-empty salad box as I push one soggy piece of carrot around in a circle. My heart rate speeds up, and I have to force myself to keep my breathing calm.

“Well,” Aimeigh prods, “was it?”

I take a deep breath, look her straight in the eye as I say, “Yes.”

“I knew it!” She gives herself a high-five.

“New York,” Tru says with a smile in his voice. “I have new respect.”

I drop my gaze to my salad.

I haven’t talked about The Incident with anyone. I haven’t even told anyone before now. And despite the thrill in Aimeigh’s eyes and the respect in Tru’s, I can’t help but feel a wave of embarrassment wash over me.

They only read the headlines, so they don’t know the full story. They don’t know about the lives that have been affected in the aftermath. Not just mine and my family’s, but people who had nothing to do with The Incident. Innocent bystanders.

Mom may not think that I’ve learned anything from the mistake, but I have. I think about those consequences every day.

“I had respect before,” Tru argues, as if I were reacting to his words and not my shame. “I just have more now.”

Aimeigh pushes the remains of her lunch aside. “Look, ArtSquad doesn’t have to be a full-time commitment,” she says. “Even if you only practice with us for the rest of the quarter, your experience will help the team a lot.”

And just like that, they’re back to normal. I wish my life could switch back so easily.

Tru presses his palms together, begging. “Please. Save me from Grandig.”

Between the two of them, even my steel-coated heart softens.

“Okay, okay,” I finally relent. “I’ll do it.”

“Awesome,” Aimeigh cheers.

Tru grins. “My savior.”

Then, before I can even react, he leans forward a presses a kiss to my cheek. Lips that I had once described as too full brand a perfect pucker into my skin. It feels…just right.

I’m not used to being around a guy who is so comfortable flirting and touching. I like it more than I should.

“My mission here is done.” He climbs to his feet. “See you lovelies in seminar.”

“Don’t forget,” Aimeigh calls out to him as he struts away, “we meet before school on art days. First practice is on Tuesday!”

He waves at her over his shoulder.

My cheek is still warm from his kiss, and I have the strangest urge to reach up and cover it with my palm. I force myself to gather my trash instead.

“On the plus side,” I say to Aimeigh as we head for the recycle bins, “this will probably make the time I’m stuck here go by faster.”

Aimeigh smiles. “It’s not so bad, you know. There are actually a lot of really cool people—”

Jenna steps out of nowhere into our path. “Mrs. K wants to see us.”

She turns awkwardly and starts for Building C. Aimeigh leans over to me, whispers, “She isn’t one of them.”

There is definitely something off about Jenna. Maybe I’m being generous, but I’m just chalking it up to social awkwardness or maybe mild Asperger’s. I’m not going to judge.

I’ve known way weirder people than her.

When we get into the AGD classroom, there are several other girls from our class standing around Mrs. K’s desk.

“Oh good, you found them,” she says to Jenna.

“What’s up, Mrs. K?” Aimeigh asks.

“I’ve just received an email about a new scholarship opportunity,” she explains, “specifically for women in graphic arts and design. Because they are short on entries, they have opened it up to a wider applicant pool.”

“Cool.”

“Great.”

Aimeigh moves closer to the desk so she can read over Mrs. K’s shoulder.