Chapter Eighteen

WE RECEIVE OUR PROGRESS REPORTS IN final period on Friday. I’m picturing city lights and studying with real journalists and—I frown.

AP English: 100.

Honors Calculus: 97.

Chemistry: 96.

Art I: 79.

I have a C. In art class. I buzz through the crowded hallways, hell-bent on getting out of school as fast as possible. I’m a drone bee, and the honey that calls me is a book and Lorde’s new album and pulling the curtains closed and lying on the shaggy carpet in my room. Art class. That was supposed to be my easy class. My break in the day so I could put more time into Newspaper and college applications. Dammit.

I shove my books around in my locker, trying to remember homework assignments for the weekend in the haze of frustration. I finally give up and start putting all of my books into my bag. Better to have them and not need them. I can always work ahead. Except for art. I can’t work ahead in art.

I slam my locker shut with all the force I can use without being called out by a hall monitor for “exhibiting aggression” and sent to the school counselor.

“Hey, Peyton Manning,” says a voice behind me.

“Cute,” I say, sarcasm ringing like a bell. I don’t even turn my head. I’m eager for my weekend. It isn’t official until I step through the doors.

“What’s up with you?” Liam asks, reaching out to take my backpack. With the weight gone, I buoy upright, unaware until that moment that I’d been walking at a tilt.

“Thanks,” I say, rubbing my shoulder and dropping the sarcasm this time.

“Sorry, Leighton, I didn’t mean anything—”

“It wasn’t you.” I fall into step beside him. His height advantage makes our paces hard to match. My shorter legs have to take several little steps to keep stride with his long ones.

“Progress report troubles?” he asks, and I grimace.

“Wait, really?” He laughs, then catches himself. “Sorry. I’m not making fun of you. I’m just surprised.”

“It’s nothing,” I say, glancing around. Someone could hear him.

He extends his hand, palm up. I hesitate for a moment, and then decide to humor him. I hand over the report.

“Tsk-tsk,” he says, shaking his head as he reads. “Looks like you might even need—” Liam stops walking and looks around, his eyes darting to the classmates filing past us. “A tutor!”

He whispers the words, but it’s an obnoxiously loud whisper.

“Okay, okay, enough,” I say, tugging on his arm to make him start walking again. “I don’t need a tutor.”

“I’m just teasing you, Leighton. You have time to get your grade up. It’s gonna be fine. It’s just art.”

“I’m terrible at art,” I say. “It was meant to be fun.”

“Maybe I could be your tutor,” he says.

We’ve reached my bus outside.

“You can’t be my tutor, Liam.”

“Sure I can,” he argues. “I can draw.”

“No, you can’t.” Liam McNamara acts like he’s good at everything. But I’m starting to smile. Why do I like this about him?

“Seriously, Leighton. I like art. I’m good at it. Like really good.”

“You aren’t even taking art,” I accuse, pivoting on my foot at the edge of the sidewalk, facing him head-on while my bus idles next to us.

“I’m taking Art IV,” he counters.

Oh. Maybe he is good at everything. How annoying.

“I can help, really.”

“Um, okay,” I say. I don’t know why I’ve said yes. Or maybe I do know why: because I wanted to. I want to see Liam outside of school. I’ve wanted to for a while. Art feels a lot safer than a date.

“Great.”

“Um . . . tonight?”

“Tonight’s the football game. Versus Eagleville. Our sworn rivals. And I don’t know if you heard, but we are undefeated.”

“Oh, right.” Since they’ve been winning, I’ve had to make the conscious choice to not follow the team news.

I’m feeling a little rejected, which is stupid. It isn’t even a date. It’s an art-tutoring session. It might even qualify as the exact opposite of a date.

“You should come to the game. There’s gonna be a bonfire at James’s place afterward. We could hang out . . . find another time this weekend for art?”

“I don’t really go to parties . . .” I begin, reaching for my bag. The first bus is pulling away, and I’ve got to go.

“Come with me,” he says, releasing my bag. “It’ll be—”

“Wild? Cool? We’ll get wasted?” I supply some of the words I’ve heard used to describe their parties.

“Fun,” Liam says. “It’ll be fun.”

Stop being such a buzzkill, Leighton. Maybe you’ll actually make a second friend before you leave this school. The bus driver adjusts her mirror and places her hand on the gear. Move along, ducklings, her expression says. I feel put on the spot, and I just know that Campbell is watching every moment of this from the bus window. Too much pressure, and I falter.

“Sorry, I just can’t.” Cool, Barnes. You are super cool. Keep turning down this super-cute, terribly nice guy who is interested in you. But Liam doesn’t call me on it. He tries one last time.

“No party. But maybe I’ll see ya at the game. And maybe we can work on art at my house Sunday?”

Heavy sigh from the bus driver.

“I’ve gotta go.” I climb onto the bus, doing my best to ignore the glare I get from the driver as she shifts the gear and closes the door behind me. I squish in beside Campbell and reach over her to pinch the releases on the window, lowering the top.

Liam is still on the sidewalk outside.

“Okay. Maybe I’ll see you tonight. And art on Sunday sounds good.”

His smile is the best thing. I feel like I could act stupid for that smile. The thought is sobering. I’m not that girl. I’m not going to forget myself over a boy.

“But it’s still not a date,” I add, my voice harsher than necessary.

“I’ll call you Sunday,” he says, unfazed. Still smiling.

When the bus lurches forward, I whip around and sit in my seat before I can call out and cancel our just barely made plans.

“Who is that?” Campbell demands as soon as I’m sitting.

“Just a friend,” I answer. “Barely even a friend. He’s going to tutor me.”

“He’s tutoring you?” Campbell asks. Clearly, she doesn’t believe me, so I hand her my slightly crumpled progress report.

Campbell reads it.

“Oh my God, you have a C. This is a first.”

“I know,” I groan. I rest my head on Campbell’s shoulder. “In freaking art.”

“New York University isn’t gonna take a student who gets C’s, Leighton.”

I purse my lips. “How’d you know about NYU?”

“I know everything,” Cammy says, carefully folding my progress report.

“Don’t tell him,” I say, meaning Dad, but of course she knows not to.

“Duh,” Campbell says. “Not that it matters anyway. Grades like this and you’ll be stuck here with me after all.”

Her comment is like barbed wire. It isn’t meant to hurt me. It’s meant to protect her.

“You’d just love that,” I say.

Campbell doesn’t answer, but she rests her head on mine in a silent kind of apology. I sneak my hand over one of hers and squeeze it. I don’t want to ever leave her. But I don’t know how to stay in this town one second longer than I have to, either.

How big is your brave? I think.

It isn’t very big. It’s small, and it’s shrinking.

What will it take to leave them: courage or cowardice?