“Hey! Taking photos is very aerobic,” Jasmine says, snorting. That petition saved her high school experience, seriously. She couldn’t stand another year of being picked last for pointless scrimmage games in sports that confused her.
Bonnie snickers. “Just tell that to Jason and Harry, they were so mad they couldn’t get credits either. It’d start a precedent, apparently.”
“Going to class, ladies,” a voice booms at them. It sounds like it’s supposed to be a question, but it isn’t.
Jasmine looks up. This must be Mr. Harrelson; he’s wearing a sawdust-covered apron and crossing his arms at them.
“Yep!” Bonnie says. “I was just walking her to class and now she’s here. Bye!”
Harrelson looks at Jasmine, and she shrinks back, hoping he isn’t judging her. He probably is. “Well, sit down. We’ve got a lot of safety to cover.”
Jasmine follows him inside, feeling very self-conscious.
The classroom smells like wood and the faint sharp tang of metal, and it’s completely different from any class she’s been in before. The building is older, for one, the window frames rusted over and glass clouded with age. Multiple workbenches line the main classroom area; at the front is Mr. Harrelson’s desk, a chalkboard, and behind it, a locked cage filled with power tools.
It’s funny how many kids here Jasmine knows by name and some random detail about them because of yearbook—she’s never talked to any of them.
Well, here’s your chance, a voice inside her says.
Jasmine tells it to shut up and looks for a seat. There’s an empty one next to a long-haired girl in one of the middle rows. She’s leaning backwards on her chair, chatting away with the two boys behind her. Her baseball cap is nonchalantly flipped backwards on her head, and she laughs, throwing her head back. She looks completely at home in the woodshop class already, unlike a few of the other students, who sit quietly at their desks and look apprehensively at the tools locked away behind Mr. Harrelson.
“Hey,” Jasmine says, her heart leaping into her throat. “Can I sit here?”
The girl touches her hat, adjusting it with a wide grin, balancing effortlessly on one leg of the chair as she sprawls out like the class is her kingdom. “Sure,” she says easily. She squints. “Oh hey, you take the Persimmon Grove bus, right?”
“Yes,” Jasmine says, sitting down. She looks familiar, but Jasmine’s only just started taking the bus. Janet always drove her to school before.
The girl looks at her, biting her lip like she wants to say something, and for a brief moment of panic Jasmine wonders if it’s going to be something like are you a new student or how come I’ve never seen you before and she’d have to explain.
“Sorry about earlier. Sometimes I go way too fast because if I don’t make it to the quad before the warning bell, it’s filled with people and I can’t practice any of my jumps.” She grins, broad and sunny. “I’m Ash, by the way.”
“Jasmine.” She waits for it, for some semblance of recognition, or the inevitable question about Janet, but it doesn’t come.
“Cool. Excited about woodshop?”
Mr. Harrelson coughs and glares at the classroom. “Before anyone asks, no, we’re not building anything today. This class is serious business, and our first week we’ll be covering safety. If you don’t pass the safety test on Friday, you will not be allowed to handle the tools, is that clear?”
The class groans, but there’s a good-natured air of energy in the air. Everyone does seem to be looking forward to this.
“I am, actually,” Jasmine says to Ash, surprised at herself.
She turns to look at Ash, who’s looking at her with some sort of calculated amusement, her lips quirking up in a smile. It’s a nice smile, and she has a nice face and she’s cool and oh no. No. This is not happening.
Jasmine spent the whole summer being independent and confident and she’s going to have a good senior year, none of which involves having a hopeless crush. Jasmine already decided: the life of a wildlife photographer is a lonely one, and she just will be single forever. She doesn’t need anyone.
Ash’s smile lights up her whole heart-shaped face, and she adjusts her baseball cap at a jaunty angle. Heat rushes to Jasmine’s cheeks, and she turns determinedly back to Mr. Harrelson in the front.
It’s not going to be a crush. Nope.
* * *
Lunch in the yearbook room is pretty nice, actually; Jasmine’s never done it before. She’d always poked awkwardly at her food while Janet and her friends chatted about student government policies or volunteer activities or whatever it was that Janet was organizing. No one talked to Jasmine at all; she was just there.
Bonnie’s looking at her with a strange expression and Jasmine realize she’s been staring off into space.
“You can ask me, it’s okay,” Jasmine offers.
Bonnie shrugs. “I figured you knew that I knew. The whole school knows. Janet was telling Priscilla this morning it was a—” and she does finger quotes—“‘mutually amicable thing at the end of junior year, and we both agreed to go our separate ways, of course we’re still friends’, which everyone is taking to mean that she dumped your sorry ass by the side of the road. No offense.” She pats Jasmine on the shoulder. “Are you okay?”
Something inside Jasmine splinters, a hard, angry thing rising inside her. Of course. Of course, Janet would spin it the way she wanted to in front of her friends.
Oh.
Something actually broke.
“If you need a new pencil for class, I can give you one,” Bonnie says, taking the broken pieces of the pencil out of Jasmine’s hand gently. “I take it that it wasn’t exactly mutual?”
“Last year—wasn’t good,” Jasmine says. It feels strange to admit it out loud, that their picture-perfect relationship was anything but. “And I was telling myself for months to get out and I finally did and I still can’t—she’s everywhere,” she admits miserably.
Bonnie takes a thoughtful bite of her pizza. “Well, I’m glad you did. You’re doing your best, don’t be too hard on yourself,” she says with a small smile.
“Thanks,” Jasmine says, grateful.
A few other students sit down with their lunches, and Bonnie changes the subject. “Anyway, so Harry says he’s afraid of water, can you cover the swim meet next Tuesday?”
“I am not afraid of water!” Harry insists. “I just am creeped out by those plastic floaty things—”
“You mean the lanes?” Jasmine teases.
The yearbook room erupts into laughter. Harry rolls his eyes as Preston elbows him good-naturedly.
The rest of lunch should be forgettable—Bonnie and Harry discuss the finer points of pool equipment; Preston asks her—Jasmine, of all people!—for advice on how to ask out Jimmy Veracruz; Ms. Park surprises them with Halloween candy. But it’s so nice, laughing and joking with her friends, that Jasmine wonders why she wasted so much time being someone else’s shadow.
* * *
Woodshop becomes, surprisingly, the one place she can relax and have fun. Jasmine’s other classes start piling on the homework and yearbook is starting to ramp up in intensity; she’s often out every afternoon taking photos for features and interviews.
Mr. Harrelson is finishing a long-winded story that Jasmine lost track of ten minutes ago. “And that’s how I lost my finger. Not fighting the bear, but because I didn’t read the safety manual properly and wasn’t watching the saw.”
“Do you really think Mr. Harrelson did all those things?” Jasmine whispers to Ash. “He keeps talking about the war, but which one? How old is he?”
Ash chuckles. “He could be immortal.”
“Getting lost in a snowstorm in Russia? Losing a bet in Spain? He’s like, traveled the world. He just might be.” Jasmine laughs. “Or maybe he is part of a secret underground crime ring. I wonder if he has
anything to do with that fake wig shop.”
Ash tilts her head at her. “That one on Persimmon and Walnut? I always thought that place was creepy!”
Jasmine’s never been inside, but the dusty storefront has always seemed strange to her. She turns and grins at Ash. “Wanna go check it out with me? There’s also a boba shop a block away, we could go get some boba and then do some reconnaissance.” The words fly out of her before she realizes it sounds suspiciously like a date.
No, no, she and Ash are friends now—they make jokes about Mr. Harrelson’s mustache and study the safety manual together, draw blueprints for ideas and designs of stuff they could build for their project when they actually get drawing. Ash rips out pages from her notebook and shares them with Jasmine before she can even ask, and always saves the seat next to her for class.
It’s always on the tip of her tongue to ask if Ash wants to eat lunch together, since their class is right before, but Ash always waves at her goodbye and speeds off on her skateboard.
Jasmine has seen her a few mornings, walking to the bus as well, but she hasn’t struck up the courage to say hi or even sit next to her.
She doesn’t want to admit it, but she’s been enjoying it, getting to know someone on her own, as herself.
“That sounds like fun!” Ash says, grinning at her. “You take the Persimmon bus home, right? I see you sometimes in the morning but I never see you on the three o’clock bus going back.”
“Oh, I usually stay after for yearbook. I’m covering all the fall sports so I have to get good shots of the home games this year,” Jasmine says. “But uh, this Thursday I don’t have anything.”
“Thursday it is,” Ash says.
* * *
Thursday comes too soon and not soon enough. Jasmine tries three different outfits before settling on a floral-print sundress and high-top sneakers. She stares at herself in the mirror, wondering if it’s too much. No, plenty of girls wear dresses to school. It’s cute. She’s cute. She’s hanging out with Ash, who she likes.
Like like? a small annoying voice in her head pops up.
“Shut up,” Jasmine says aloud.
She walks to school, lingering on the corner of Persimmon until she sees Ash skateboarding toward her.
“Hey!” Ash says brightly. She slows to a graceful stop, kicking her board up and holding it nonchalantly. “Guess what, I was watching the History Channel last night and I swear in the documentary on cryptids there was a guy who looked just like Mr. Harrelson.”
“Why is a documentary on cryptids on the History Channel?” Jasmine asks. She also can’t stop smiling at Ash, she can’t help it.
Ash usually wears her baseball cap over her hair down, but today her brown hair is pulled up into a high ponytail. A few wisps frame her face, falling around her dark skin in soft curls. It’s cute, she’s always cute, why is Jasmine even thinking about this—
“Wanna sit with me?”
“Yeah, sure,” Jasmine says, following behind her onto the crowded bus. They get a seat near the back, and for all that Jasmine thought it’d be awkward, it isn’t. It’s just like woodshop, conversation flowing easily.
Ash points to the enamel pins on Jasmine’s backpack. “These are cool! I like this one the best.” She chuckles, flicking a cat riding a Roomba.
“That’s one of my favorites,” Jasmine says, catching her breath. Ash is leaning close, close enough for her to smell her hair. Jasmine freezes, going unnaturally still.
“These are all awesome,” Ash says, flicking a rainbow pin with the slogan SOUNDS GAY, I’M IN.
Jasmine blushes. “Thanks. Do you have any?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a few on one of my jackets, but I like how you have all of yours here.”
Ash’s knee knocks against Jasmine’s own, their thighs brushing together the entire ride to school.
* * *
“Today, we will practice hammering nails into these boards. Remember to be aware at all times. Got it?” Mr. Harrelson glares at the class before passing out hammers to everyone.
“The mythical Cage of Tools is finally open,” Ash says, in a deep dramatic voice.
Jasmine chuckles, marking her board with a row of neat dots, matching the diagram on the board precisely.
“No loose clothing, Miss Rodriguez,” Mr. Harrelson says, his face twitching at Ash’s plaid overshirt.
“We’re not using any power tools, I don’t think it’d be a problem.” Ash rolls her eyes.
“Safety first!”
“Fine, fine,” Ash mutters, taking off the flannel. She’s wearing a tight black t-shirt underneath, stretched tight over her toned arms and—
Oh no.
Jasmine blinks and misses with her marker, messing up her row. She grits her teeth and tries again, holding a nail still. She grips the hammer in her hand, concentrating as she aims for the head of the nail, tapping it lightly.
She looks up to find Harrelson watching her. “You’ll have to use a bit more force, Ms. Chau,” he says. “Try again.”
Jasmine raises the hammer back up and bites back a laugh; Ash is holding her hammer up to her face in the semblance of a mustache, and is wobbling around, doing an impression of Mr. Harrelson.
Harrelson narrows his eyes at her. “Something funny?”
“No, just uh—I’ll try to use more force, thanks.” Jasmine bursts into giggles as soon as Harrelson leaves their workbench and continues his walk around the class.
“Yeah, Jasmine, use the Force to draw a straight line,” Ash teases.
“I can’t do anything straight,” Jasmine says.
Ash stares at her for a long moment before she bursts into laughter, throwing her head back with bright, joyful chortles.
“That was a good one,” she gasps, reaching up to wipe her eyes. “Am I crying? I’m crying. You’re too funny.”
Jasmine’s never been called funny before, and she feels hot all of a sudden, all her blood rushing to her face with pleased surprise. “Not as funny as you. That Harrelson impression was spot-on. I’m going to forever remember your hammer mustache.”
Ash grins, turning to her board with intense focus as she starts to hammer all her nails in a neat row.
Mr. Harrelson’s voice booms from the front of the room. “Now, once we finish with this, we’ll move on to handsaws, but we can’t until everyone has demonstrated their ability to complete the first task.”
Oh, right. Jasmine’s been too busy laughing with Ash to do any sort of hammering. She swings it again, getting the first one to go in, albeit a bit crookedly. Four more to go. Jasmine tries to settle into a rhythm of it, and then looks up to see how Ash is doing.
Ash’s arms are built up, her biceps high and rounded, tight with muscle, and she looks so capable and beautiful, her hair gathered up at the top of her head, her ponytail bobbing with every swing. A few strands of hair have escaped her ponytail, falling down to the nape of her neck in soft, delicate curls that Jasmine wants to touch—
A white-hot searing pain suddenly blossoms from her thumb and forefinger and Jasmine lets out a high-pitched scream. Tears spring to her eyes, and the pain is so sharp and intense that it’s all she can do to just hold her hand there, lip wobbling. She’s vaguely aware of Mr. Harrelson shouting and classmates gathering around her, and Ash stepping forward with a worried expression.
“Jasmine! Are you okay?”
“Hold your arm up to the ceiling, Ms. Chau—”
Jasmine doesn’t want to cry in front of everyone in class, and she knows tears are already falling down her face, it hurts so much—
Mr. Harrelson is saying something, and there’s pressure on her hand, but it feels like it’s pulsing, like she’s got a whole new heartbeat just in her hand and it’s radiating red-hot pain.
Jasmine squints at her hand. Mr. Harrelson’s pressed a wad of paper towels to it,
and he instructs for her to hold it steady. “Now keep your arm raised and pressure on this.” He shakes his head. “You better head down to the nurse’s office.” He scribbles a note and hands it to Jasmine.
“I’ll go with you,” Ash offers. She grabs Jasmine’s backpack and her own, and the plaid shirt. “Come on.” She grabs the other wad of paper towels Harrelson offers them and gently leads Jasmine out the door.
The hallways seem strangely empty and quiet, in this in-between, and Ash babbles to fill the silence. “One time, I was trying a flip and landed on the edge of the ramp. I did the thing where I tried to break the fall with my face, ended up with this. It bled like a river and hurt so badly.” Ash points to her right eyebrow, where a long, thin scar streaks down from her forehead.
“I don’t think I’ll get a cool scar, though,” Jasmine mutters.
Ash laughs. “That’s okay, you’re plenty cool enough.”
Jasmine blushes.
* * *
Ms. Sugihara, the school nurse, tuts appropriately as she undoes the makeshift paper towel bandage and tosses it in the trash. “Did Mr. Harrelson do this? I swear, just because that man took a few first aid courses doesn’t mean he knows everything.” She squints as she cleans the small cut on Jasmine’s hand with an alcohol swab. “Well, I’ve certainly seen worse.”
It’s not as bad as Jasmine thought it would be, now that her hand has stopped bleeding. There’s a small tear in her skin where the hammer struck her hand, and it still hurts, but it’s more of an angry throbbing now.
Ms. Sugihara bandages her cut neatly with gauze and medical tape, and gives Jasmine an ice pack, instructing her to press it in place. The cold relief is immediate.
“I don’t think anything’s broken, but you’re welcome to call your parents and have them take you to the doctor if you like.” Ms. Sugihara smiles at them both.
“I think I’ll be okay,” Jasmine says.
Out Now Page 5
