My phone hums in my pocket. I pull it out. Text from Rosie.
I don’t open it. Hey, I’m at school, and it’s only minutes from the beginning of third hour. For all she knows, because she never bothers to write down my schedule, I could be in the middle of a test.
I meander my way through a crowd of people, and just before I’m about to cut down the math hall, I catch a glimpse of a long, ivory leg.
I do a double take, but she’s still standing there when I glance again. In the flesh.
The girl I shared s’mores with at Aiden’s, Chatham Claiborne, is occupying the same building, breathing the same air as me.
It’s been my experience that when people show up in this town, they’re drawn to the nearest exit ramp and quickly steer their way onto it, but if she’s at school, it can only mean she’s going to stay.
I walk over. “Chatham.”
She doesn’t acknowledge me, just stands there, against the brick wall in the commons.
She’s looking down at the piece of paper in her hand, which I presume to be her class schedule.
“Chatham Claiborne.”
This time, she looks up and sort of smiles. “Hey there.”
My fingertips start to tingle, as if her voice has the power to trigger electrodes in my system.
I’m close enough to her now that the faint smell of her shampoo—something no-nonsense, not fruity or flowery—meets me.
“Where’s one-forty-three?”
“Let’s see.” I take the paper from her hand and give it a look. “Hey, we have English together.”
“Yeah?”
“We’ll be reading Macbeth together after all.” I show her the seventh-period assigned class.
She takes the schedule back. Dried clay rims her cuticles. It doesn’t take a genius to realize she’s just come from the art hall. Sculpture. And she’s headed to—geez—physics. I got a D in chemistry last year, so I’m retaking it.
“Looks like you’ve been playing in the mud.” I give a nod toward her clay-encrusted fingers.
She looks at her nails. “Oh, no matter how many times you wash your hands, the stuff sticks with you.”
“So you admit it. First sand, and now mud.”
“No.” She giggles a little. “Clay. I’m working on a relief.”
“Sounds interesting.” I have no idea what a relief is, but you can bet I’m going to look it up later. “You’re heading toward the science hall, so you’re going to—” I point in the general direction of the labs. “You know what? I’ll just walk you there.”
“Thanks.”
I’m going to be late for class, but I don’t care. For a few feet, we walk in silence. With every step, it grows more and more awkward. I finally speak. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”
“Yeah.”
What else did I expect her to say? Extremely awkward now.
But we’re almost to the science hall, and I can’t let this hang there until seventh-hour English class. So I try again: “Hey, what are you doing tomorrow after school? You should come to the game.”
“Oh.” She hugs the strap of her backpack. “Yeah, maybe. We have to get settled into the new place.”
I guess that answers my question. She’s seen enough of me to know she’s seen enough of me. “Okay. Well, if you change your mind—”
“Can I let you know?”
“Sure.” I point down the next hallway. “One-forty-three will be on your left.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” I turn to hustle my ass to geometry, which I’m also repeating this year.
“Oh, I forgot. Joshua.”
Joshua. Another jolt sends shockwaves to my every nerve ending. I stop.
“Wait. I also . . .” Her backpack is on the floor now, and she’s unzipping the front section of it. “I got my phone hooked up, so . . .”
“Oh. Good.”
“What’s your number? I’ll text you, so you have mine.”
“Okay.” I rattle off my digits.
She inputs them as I say them, then . . . “There.” She hits send.
My phone buzzes.
Her message: Hi.
I look up at her again. “Hi.”
A hint of a smile appears on her lips and then she turns to walk to her room. She doesn’t see the huge grin that lights up my face.
I head toward the math hallway, and while my phone is out of my pocket, I flip to Rosie’s message:
Damien was here.
An arrow of fear pierces me for a split second.
He was in our house?
But then I remember: she did this once before in the middle of one of her freeze-outs. She used Damien to lure me back to her side, and then all hell broke loose between us when I realized the fucker was still in jail and she made it up.
I text back: call the cops.
And let it roll off my shoulders.
Even if he was there, what does she expect me to do about it?