by McLean, Jay
She’s a goddamn enigma.
I’ve never seen her outside of this class, not even in the cafeteria. Not that I’ve been looking. Lie. Unless she’s conspicuously making a grab for her phone under the desk, she shows no other signs of life. It’s as if she lives in a bubble, and everyone accepts that.
Sometimes, sitting next to her like we are, I wonder what it would be like to burst that bubble.
“One thing I forgot to mention—” Mr. McCallister’s voice booms, pulling me from my thoughts, “the nature versus nurture paper you’re all going to submit will be done in pairs. You have three seconds to choose your partners.”
Across the room, Karen’s eyes widen and zone in on me. Chairs scrape, students move, and panic fills my bloodline. Instantly—stupidly—I reach for Ava’s arm at the same time she stands. Not a second later, Karen’s in front of us, her gaze switching from me to Ava to my hand on Ava’s arm. Ava’s wide-eyed as she looks up at me, then at Karen, then to our touch. Behind me, a throat clears. It’s Rhys, and he’s looking at all three of us with unmasked confusion.
“Ava,” Karen says, motioning to me. Ava’s shoulders rise with her intake of breath, and she pulls her arm from my grasp. My eyes drift shut, embarrassment heating my cheeks. What the hell was I thinking?
“Ava?” Karen repeats. Firmer. Stronger. There’s a hidden question there, one I can’t decipher.
Rhys asks, “You good, A?” It’s the first time I’ve heard a student speak to Ava this way, as if they care, and I sure as shit didn’t expect it from him.
Ava swallows, nervous, her eyes flitting to mine quickly before moving away. “I’d rather work with Rhys,” she says, so quiet I barely hear her. But I do, and there’s a sudden knot in my gut, a flashback to my past. Awkward, anxious, loner. I bite my tongue, physically and metaphorically, and try to push down my insecurities. I feel like I’m being judged, and it sucks that the one person in the entire school who’s paid absolutely no attention to me in the past is the one doing the judging.
“Groups of two, not four,” the teacher yells, waving a hand toward us. “And since none of you can take basic direction, I’ll make the choice for you. Ava and Connor. Rhys and Karen.”
Rhys curses under his breath, his lips pressed tight as he eyes Ava. “You going to be okay?”
“Jesus Christ,” I murmur. “Way to make a guy feel good.”
I watch Ava for a response, but I don’t get one. At least not to me. Rhys does, though, in the form of a painstakingly slow nod from her.
In front of me, Karen stomps her foot, spins and walks back to her seat, Rhys following after her.
I turn to the girl next to me, my insecurities switching to annoyance. “I’m not stupid.”
Her gaze locks on mine, her head shaking slowly. “I’m sor—”
I interrupt because I don’t need her sympathy. “No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry to disappoint you before you even get to know me.” I take a breath, try to regain some composure. “I’m not stupid,” I repeat, calmer. “Just because I’m new and I’m here on an athletic scholarship doesn’t mean I’m a dumbass. I’ll work just as hard as you, if not more, because I have something to prove. I don’t expect you to carry the weight if that’s what you’re thinking.” I keep my eyes trained on her, watching the confusion settle across her face.
“It’s Connor, right?”
“Yeah…?”
“Let’s just get this clear, Connor.” She spits my name. “I have no assumptions about you at all because I haven’t thought of you once. Not even for a second. And I don’t care enough about you to judge you. So, let’s just get to work.” She slaps a sheet of paper between us and scrawls my name and hers across the top, then glares up at me. Daggers upon daggers. “Do you think it’s nature or nurture that has you believing that your woe-is-me attitude isn’t just another form of self-entitlement?”
My head spins, but I can’t come up with a retort. Not even a decent response. All this time I spent wondering what it would be like to burst her bubble, and now here she was… completely obliterating mine.
Chapter 7
Ava
One of the only two friends I have left belongs to my brother. He was there the first day I met Trevor—when I was nothing but a kindergartener in a bright purple dress and rainbow-colored socks. He’s been there pretty much every day since. From grade school to middle school to high school, wherever Trevor Knight was, so was Peter Parker. Yes, that’s his real name.
When he and Trevor graduated, they both took off to Texas A&M. It’s safe to say we all grew up together, but the four-year age difference meant we experienced things at different times. While they hit freshman year of high school, I was in fifth—and back then, I was trying to decide between Harry Styles and Justin Bieber while the Glee soundtrack blasted from my bedroom.
The point is, now that I’m older, wiser, and the experiences of my life have forced me to grow up, the four years between us don’t seem so vast anymore.
Peter comes from the “right” side of town, the same side where Trevor and I grew up before we had to sell the house to cover my mother’s medical bills. The same side with the fancy, big houses and boats in their yards. His parents usually go away for the summer, a new country every year, and every year he’d join them. Until last year. Last year, he spent his summer helping Trevor with his business. Trevor’s offered to pay him what little he can. Peter refuses every cent, knowing we need it more than he does. He’s become a good friend to me, a solid wall of dependency that for so long, I refused to believe I needed.
And that’s the difference between Trevor’s friends and mine: when our worlds came crashing down, Peter stood by our sides. My so-called friends stopped coming around, too afraid of the woman with the half face and stub for an arm.
Soon enough, they stopped calling altogether.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Peter jokes, throwing his entire weight on the couch next to me. “It’s very—”
“Thrift store chic?” I finish for him.
He shakes his head, placing the bowl of popcorn on my lap. He’s home for the week, and when he found out Trevor was out quoting jobs after hours, he offered to come over so I wouldn’t be home alone. “No,” he says, “It’s got bits of your personality all over the place.” He grabs a blanket from behind us and places it over his lap. “Like this.” He rubs the blanket between his fingers. “It’s very… boho.”
“You mean homeless?”
With a chuckle, he throws his arm on the couch behind me and gets comfortable. “So, Ava. Tell me everything. What’s been going on with you?”
“Same old, really. Just counting down the days until school’s over.” I hit play on the remote, but keep the volume muted.
“You’ll miss high school when it’s over,” he tries to assure.
I scoff. “I think your version of high school and mine are very different, Peter.”
“Yeah, I guess.” After grabbing a handful of popcorn, he asks, “You still friends with that Rhys kid?”
Nodding, I stare at the opening scene of the horror movie he’s got us watching.
“Is he still helping you out at school? Getting you notes for your missed classes?”
“Yeah,” I reply through a slow exhale.
On TV, a blonde girl climbs the stairs toward the killer.
“Good,” Peter says, nodding. Then adds, “He’s a good guy, Ava. He’s just not good enough for you.”
“Okay,” I mumble because it doesn’t really matter what he thinks.
“Ava?” Peter asks, his leg brushing against mine. He’s closer than he was only minutes ago, and discomfort swarms in my veins, beating against my flesh.
I manage a “Yeah?”
The warmth of his breath floats against my cheek as his heated fingers brush along the skin of my shoulder. It’s not the first time he’s acted like this. It won’t be the last. And it would be so easy to use him this way, to be with someone who understands wi
thout explanations, who forgives without excuses.
I swallow, nervous. “If Trevor knew what you were thinking right now, he’d kill you with his bare hands.”
Chapter 8
Connor
The way Stephen Curry puts his defenders off balance with a simple behind-the-back crossover is history-making. He’s proven that a killer jump shot can make or break a team’s final score, making him arguably the best ball handler in the NBA.
Me?
I can’t even catch the fucking ball when it’s thrown directly at my chest.
It’s the day after Ava tore me to shreds, and I’m in the locker room following another pathetic practice, staring down at my hands trying to reason with them. For years, I’ve lived and breathed this sport. I dreamed about it even when I was awake. The amount of shit I’ve broken in the house because I couldn’t stop thinking about it is enough to fill a whole other house. Every lawn I mowed to earn money to replace those things—worth it. Every grounding—worth it. Every single hour I spent watching game tape or studying plays or fantasizing about what it would be like to play at Madison Square Garden was worth it.
But here? Now? I’m second-guessing it all.
“You ever watch that movie Little Giants?” Rhys asks, flopping down on the bench next to me. I thought I was the only one left in the locker room, but apparently, I was wrong.
I slam my locker shut and face him. “That one with the reject kids playing football?”
He nods. “There’s this line in it that I always think about whenever I have bad days. Football is 80% mental and 40% physical.”
I glare at him, my brow bunched in confusion. “That makes no sense.”
He taps at his temple. “Get out of your head,” he says, squeezing my shoulder. “The rest will follow.” I force out a breath as he comes to a stand. He adds, “You know Miss Turner?”
“No.”
“She’s the school psychologist.”
I shake my head. Is this kid serious? “I’m fine.”
“I’ve made an appointment for you after school tomorrow.”
Frustration knocks on my flesh from the inside. “Dude, I don’t need—”
“Trust in the process,” he cuts in, and I’m reminded of Ross, of my dad, of the weight of expectation balancing on my shoulders.
He starts to walk away but stops just by the door. “And hey. Not that I’m assuming this has anything to do with you sucking—because you might just be a shitshow—but the whole Ava thing? Try not to take it personally, okay?”
* * *
Try not to take it personally.
It’s 3:00 a.m., and Rhys’s final words are plaguing my mind. Like a scratched record stuck on repeat. Over and over. Again, and again.
The thing is, I did try.
Just like I tried to forget what Dad had said.
And just like I tried to ignore the fact that I’ve made zero connection whatsoever with my new life.
* * *
The next day drags, every second filled with anxiety. By the time I sit my ass outside the psych office, I’m a ball of nerves. My knee bounces, my palms sweat, and there’s a throbbing between my eyes that won’t fucking quit. Elbows on my knees, I lower my head and pinch the bridge of my nose for some form of reprieve. I try to blame it on the lack of sleep, but I know the truth. I’ve been here too many times not to know.
The door opens, and I look up just in time to see Ava standing in the doorway.
“My door is always open,” a younger woman who I assume is Miss Turner tells Ava. “Whatever you need.”
Ava doesn’t respond to her because she’s too focused on me, her head cocked, eyes narrowed.
Great, now I’m the “self-entitled” new guy with issues. But she’s here, too, which means…
I try to offer a smile.
She returns it with a scowl.
Awesome.
* * *
“Tell me why you’re here,” Miss Turner asks.
I settle my hands on my knees to stop the shaking and take a breath. Her office is nothing but white walls and empty bookshelves. I squirm in my seat, unease filling my bloodlines.
“Sorry,” she says. “The seats aren’t very comfortable.” She waves a hand around the room. “As you can tell, I’m waiting on more funding to get my office up to scratch.”
“I’m sure the parents of a few kids here could throw you some loose change,” I remark, my gaze catching the files on the desk in front of her.
Connor Ledger. Beneath that: Ava Diaz.
“Sure,” she says, swiping both files together and placing them roughly in a draw. “But the parents here aren’t as interested in their kids’ mental health so much as their grades, or in some cases their triple-double stats.”
My eyes lift to hers.
She smirks. “So why are you here?”
I shrug. “My stats suck, and I guess my team captain wants to figure out why the hell I’m at this school.”
“Do you ever wonder why you’re here, Connor?”
Every damn minute of every day. “Nope. I know why I’m here.”
“Enlighten me then.”
“Because some people think I’m good enough.”
“And you don’t?”
Another shrug.
Her sigh echoes off the empty walls. “Let’s start from the beginning,” she says, grabbing a pen from a cup in the shape of a unicorn. “Tell me about your home life.”
Here we go…
* * *
The time with Miss Turner did nothing for my nerves. If anything, it just made things worse. By the time I finally make it out of the damn building, my heart is racing, sinking, and my mind? My mind is questioning what all she had to say about me in her too-messy-to-make-out notes that went on for five goddamn pages. I’m almost positive it’ll be the same generic diagnosis of everyone else before her.
Connor Ledger has a good head on him, but he lacks self-confidence due to his fear of abandonment.
At the end, she asked if I wanted to schedule another appointment. I imagined getting out of my chair and throwing it out the window, I was that exasperated. Instead, I politely declined, told her I’d do “better.” I don’t even know what I meant by “better,” but it sure as shit seemed to suffice.
In the student parking lot, my car is the only one left. By now, every single person knows who it belongs to, so there’s no shame left, and even if there was, I have absolutely zero fucks left to give.
I make it halfway to my car before I hear a “Hey!” from somewhere behind me. I assume it’s Miss Turner, but it’s not.
It’s Ava.
She’s standing a few feet away, her hands gripping the straps of her bag. I stop in my tracks as I watch her approach. And I mean watch in every sense because as much as she might despise me, goddamn, there’s still an attraction to her I can’t seem to shake, and maybe…
Maybe Rhys is onto something. Because as hard as I’ve tried to deny it, what Ava said affected me in ways I don’t truly understand.
“Is that your car?” she asks, looking over my shoulder.
So those fucks that had disappeared? They’re back, and they’re plentiful, and they’re causing the heat forming in my face.
“Yes,” I answer, but it comes out a whisper. Jesus. I clear my throat, try again. “Yeah, it’s mine.”
“Cool…”
Then I pull out the last remaining semblance of confidence I have left. “Do you… I mean, do you need a ride somewhere?”
* * *
Sitting next to Ava in class is one thing. Having her sit in the tiny space of my car? Whole other story. Besides giving me directions, she doesn’t speak, but I hear every sound. Every breath, every swallow, every shift of her skirt against her thighs…
And my eyes… my eyes can’t seem to focus on the road because they’re too busy focusing on her.
“Just here,” she says, her voice pulling me back to reality.
I pull over in front of a diner
and watch her looking out the window, her index finger flicking the ring around her thumb. It’s too big for such small, delicate fingers, and I wonder who it belongs to. The sun reflects off the bright red stone, and when I look closer, I see the words United States—She closes her fingers around her thumb, blocking the ring entirely. With her other hand, she reaches into the pocket of her skirt and pulls out her phone. Her thumb moves swiftly across the screen as she types out a text, but she doesn’t make a move to get out.
I strum my fingers on the steering wheel.
“You got somewhere you need to be?” she asks, not looking up.
“I’m good,” I tell her, then swallow my nerves. “Listen, about yesterday…” I wait for her to say something, and when nothing comes, I continue, “I think we got off to a bad start. I shouldn’t have snapped at you the way I did, and I guess I just wanted to apologize.” There. I said it. And as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I feel the tension lift off of my shoulders.
“We all say things we don’t mean,” she mumbles, shrugging, and it’s as genuine as the slight smile she offers me. A smile that has my stomach twisting. She adds, “That includes me. I shouldn’t have said what I did, either.”
I bite my lip, contain my grin, and take the apology one step further. “So… friends?”
She turns to me, and the corner of her lips lift just a tad. ”I’d make a horrible friend.”
I settle in my seat, my back against the door to give her my full attention. “To be honest, you could be the absolute worst friend in the world, and you’d still be the best one I have.”
Her smile fades, concern dripping in her words. “But you have the team, right?”
