CHAPTER

2

I want to think I don’t ask for Zach’s help again during class. That when he reaches over to my drawing pad, I don’t smell his delicious arm again. That while Mr. Spencer lectures, I don’t keep glancing at Zach, imagining what his biceps look like with his shirt off. But I do.

When Mr. Spencer says, “Okay, time to clean up,” I’m confused. Like I’m waking up from an hour-long daydream. I sit on my stool, listening to pencils clattering on wooden trays. Paper rustling. Kids chattering. Then the bell rings. Like a slap to my face, the ugly noise jolts me back to reality.

What am I doing?

I jump off of my stool. I have to get out of here. Now. I quickly rip the page from my easel. Crumple it in a ball.

“Hey, didn’t you hear?” Zach says. “We’re supposed to sign our pages and turn them in.”

“No. I didn’t hear,” I say without looking at him. My face is burning.

“O-kay. See you tomorrow.”

I run out of the art building. Throw my drawing in a trash can outside the door. I barrel through the main hallway. I can’t get the embarrassed heat out of my face. The jittery, disgusted feeling out of my stomach. I was lusting after a guy! I shove through a crowd of gossiping freshmen.

“Hey!” one of the girls yells at me.

I slam into a kid who’s texting.

“Watch it, dude!” he whines.

I reach my locker. Turn my combination. Pull up on the latch. It doesn’t open. I try again. It still doesn’t open. “Crap!” I take a deep breath. Press my forehead against the locker. Cool it, I command myself. Just cool it. I try my combination again, slower this time. The door opens. I grab a textbook. Slam my locker shut.

By now the hallway is less crowded. The commute between my first and second period classes is way too long. I barely have enough time to get to English.

“Hey, Miller.” It’s Aguilar, fast-walking next to me. He’s on the football team. He’s also in my next class.

“Hey, Aggie,” I mumble.

“Did you write that essay?” he asks.

My mind is so whacked, it takes me a second to figure out what he’s talking about—this morning, the computer, my pushy sister. “Um, yeah.”

“I didn’t. Not a good way to start the semester, right?”

“Right, I guess not.”

Aggie talks. I listen. I’m glad for the distraction. By the time we reach English, I’m feeling a little better. The weird art room is behind me. My English class, with its identical desks in nice, neat rows, calms me. Everything is as it should be. I’m as I should be. Whatever happened in art class, that wasn’t me. I don’t know who that was.

That afternoon, I’m halfway to the softball field. I shove my hands in my hoodie pockets. It’s a typical overcast day in Elkhead Beach, Oregon. I see Fermio walking up ahead. “Fermio, wait up!” I yell.

“Going to softball practice?” I ask when I catch up. The bruise on his cheek has broadened out. It’s gotta hurt. I won’t ask what happened. If he got stung by his drunken dad, he’ll just get all pissy. Claim he walked into a door.

“Of course.” He smiles. “It’s cold today. You know what that means.”

“Um, rack-hugging jerseys?”

“Yeah, dude.”

“Anyone’s rack in particular?” I’m smiling too. Talking about girls is, well, comforting.

“I may have my eye on a certain outfielder.”

He must be talking about mega-hot Angela Cornish. “You and every guy in school. And she’s a junior.”

Fermio shrugs. “I can try.” Then he says, “You are so lucky to have the gorillia. Which I completely don’t get. You’re butt fugly. And totally gay.”

I stare at him.

“I mean, what is with your shoes?” he says.

My shoes? I look down. He whacks the underside of my nose with his fingers. “Gotcha.”

“Fermio, you dickwad!” I can’t believe I fell for that first-grade prank. I slug his shoulder. Hard.

“Hey!” He stops walking and rubs his arm. “Joke, okay? It was just a joke.”

“Fine. Whatever.” I’m suddenly not in such a great mood.

He grabs my elbow. “Ooh, lookee, lookee.” He points toward the bleachers.

We’re a few yards from the softball field. At first I don’t see what he’s so fired up about. Then I notice Nate and Ryan climbing into the stands.

Fermio holds out his fist. I bump it. Game on.

We climb into the metal bleachers. When Ryan sees us, his eyes widen. He turns pale. He taps Nate’s forearm. Nate looks up. But instead of turning pale, his jaw clenches when he recognizes us. He sits straighter.

It’s just a practice, and the stands are almost empty. But Fermio sits right behind Nate, me behind Ryan. We don’t say or do anything. Just let our hulking presence sink in. Jillia trots onto the field.

“Yo, Jillia!” I scream.

She sees me and waves. Sends me a beaming smile. Man, she’s beautiful. Even her ponytail is sexy.

“Dude, your girlfriend is hot,” Fermio says. He presses his knee into Nate’s back. “Don’t you think she’s hot? Don’t you wish Jillia was your girlfriend?”

I don’t think it’s possible for Nate to sit any straighter. But his back stiffens like he’s got a metal rod for a spine.

“So why are you here?” Fermio asks, his knee still pressed into Nate’s back. “Cheering for Coach Ferguson?”

I snort a laugh. Coach Ferguson is bald and potbellied and must be close to a hundred. Though it feels a little like I’m torturing a rabbit, I push my knee into Ryan. “What about you? You got the hots for Coach Ferguson?”

Ryan twists around. Glares at me. “We happen to like baseball, okay?”

“Except this isn’t baseball, dweeb,” I say. “It’s softball.”

“Or maybe you guys don’t know the difference between boy sports and girl sports,” Fermio says. His eyes widen, and he hits his forehead. “Dude,” he says to me. “That’s what their problem is. They don’t know the difference between boys and girls.”

“You’re the ones with the problem,” Ryan says. His face is bright red. “Your pricks are bigger than your brains.”

Fermio grabs a handful of Ryan’s shirt and yanks him backward. “You stupid faggot.”

Next to Ryan, Nate jumps up and faces us. The motion is so sudden, Fermio lets Ryan go. “Come on,” Nate says to his friend.

“No!” Ryan scrambles to his feet. He’s shaking, balling his hands into fists. “They can’t get away with this.”

Nate looks Ryan in the eyes. “Don’t sink to their level,” he says calmly.

Ryan takes a deep breath. Flexes his fingers. Nods. They climb up the steps without looking back.

“Was it something we said?” Fermio calls sadly after them. Then he waves with a limp wrist. “You boys are so sensitive.”

Ryan and Nate sit in the opposite corner of the stands, as far from us as they can get.

Fermio laughs. “Excellent.” He holds out his hand. I slap it.

I glance out at the field. Jillia is looking back at me. She’s frowning, shaking her head. I shrug my shoulders. Then I notice Angela Cornish in center field. She’s staring into the stands at Ryan and Nate, a worried look on her face.