by Rosie Somers
I drop into the newly vacated seat.
“We have a new student,” the teacher tells the room. Her voice is strong but friendly. “Class, this is Marisol Flores. Would someone like to get our new student a book?”
My champion is out of his seat almost before she’s finished speaking, and he rushes across the room to the row of bookshelves lining the wall under the window. He picks out a book from the top shelf while I’m settling into the newly vacant desk in front of his seat.
“Here you go, flower,” says the boy who already has my stomach tied in knots just from his proximity, and he sets the book on my desk with a smile. Flower, he called me. A play on my last name, I’m sure. My heart does a ticklish flip-flop behind my rib cage, and all those nervous butterflies hanging out in my stomach swarm into a maelstrom. My face heats. Yep, I should have waited in the office for second period to start. Of course he’d be in this class, because clearly I needed more opportunities to be socially awkward in front of him.
The teacher clears her throat, drawing my attention to her where she still stands behind her podium. “Write your name in the front. First one’s free. You lose it, you pay for it.” I open the front cover and write my name inside as instructed.
He slides into his desk behind me, accidently brushing my ponytail on his way. Outwardly, I ignore him, sinking low in my desk and propping my legs up on the rack under the chair in front of me. Inside, I’m aware of every fraction of an inch between us.
“Now, back to the problem set.” Mrs. Leonard addresses the class as she moves to the board and writes out a series of equations. “All of this will be on the test on Friday.”
I cringe at her words and do my best to tamp down the desire to flee the room, charge back to the office, and beg them to put me in an easier class. I understand French better than I understand calculus, and these equations are way out of my depth.
The rest of the class is a blur. By the end of the period, I’m aware of one thing. I might actually be getting worse at math—if that’s even possible. I wait for the majority of my fellow classmates to trickle out of the room. Then I approach Mrs. Leonard where she sits behind her desk.
She’s focused on her computer monitor, and I’m hesitant to interrupt. So I stand in front of her awkwardly until she looks up at me. “Yes?”
“I think my class at my old school might have been a little behind your class.” Or maybe the fact that I don’t understand the material is because I was a little lax in completing the work in my online classes since well before our botched museum heist and not-so-great escape. I’m hoping she’ll take pity on me and give me a rain check for Friday’s test, let me have a little extra time to acclimate to my new school and new workload.
She narrows her eyes at me, then looks around the near-empty room as if searching for the answer there. Her roaming gaze lands somewhere behind me, and her eyes light up. “Mr. Campbell. You’re doing well in my class.”
“Yes, ma’am,” a familiar voice answers from somewhere over my shoulder. I already know who it is. I don’t need to turn to confirm it’s him. Nervous energy collects in my chest and threatens to force its way out as a flustered giggle. But I manage to bite it back.
“Good, you can help our new friend here catch up.” It’s more a command than a suggestion, and the way she dismisses us both and returns her attention to the computer proves she expects no argument. The case is closed, the matter settled.
“Um, sure,” he answers, but he sounds less than sure.
And I’m not sure I want to turn and face him. I’m suddenly feeling overly awkward and painfully aware of how little practice I’ve had socializing with guys my age. Chances are high, if I spend enough time with him, I will say or do something to embarrass myself. But I can’t refuse the help. After just one class, it’s already clear how woefully behind I am.
“So, how about we meet up after school in the library?” He starts a slow progression toward the hall, and I fall into step.
“Sounds good. Thanks.” I try to sound more grateful than unsure. When we part ways just outside the classroom, it takes everything within my power not to look back over my shoulder at him.
…
I make it through the day without incident after first period. No one even really notices me, and I try not to notice anyone else. I can’t decide if I like the anonymity of near-invisibility or if I wish someone would notice me, speak to me. The day drags on, until meeting Hottie McMathTutor in the library has become the bright spot at the end of my school-day tunnel, and when I finally step through the wide double doors, I scan my surroundings in search of him.
He’s seated at a round table toward the back, past rows upon rows of books but within sight of the doors. And his eyes light on me immediately. Has he been watching the doors for me? And if so, for how long?
“Hey!” His smile is miles wide when he greets me, and he even stands to push out the chair next to him for me.
“Hey,” I return as I settle in and pull out my textbook. “Thanks for agreeing to help me…” I drift off because I don’t know what to call him.
“No problem. Happy to help.”
“I don’t know your name,” I admit.
“I’m Will. Campbell.”
“Thanks…Will.” I test the name and like it. It suits him.
“So, where do you feel like you need the most help?” He opens his book and turns to today’s lesson.
I don’t meet him on the same page in my own book, though. Instead, I start at the beginning and sift through previous lessons until I reach something I don’t know. I’m an entire unit, plus three more lessons, behind. I point to the page. “We definitely have our work cut out for us.”
He smiles sympathetically. “No worries. We’ll get you all caught up in no time.”
For the next hour, he walks me through concepts I don’t know, and I do my best to absorb the information. His proximity is a huge distraction, though, and every time he leans over my scratch paper to check my work, the feel of his radiant body heat sets off a chain reaction of goose bumps down my entire left side.
“So, your math is good. No problems there,” Will says as he closes his book at the end of our little tutoring session. “I think it’s just that Mrs. Leonard likes to teach an advanced class, and your old school must have gone at the normal pace.”
Something like that. I definitely feel more confident now that he’s run me through a few lessons. But I’m not quite caught up yet. “Yeah, it’s not as bad as I thought it was going to be.”
“I do think we should keep working together, at least until you’re all caught up.”
My insides warm at the idea of spending more time with Will, and my brain briefly flashes through the possibility of pretending I’m not picking up the material as quickly as I am so I can stretch out our tutoring. But I’m not that type of girl. That kind of artifice isn’t my thing.
I duck my head so he won’t see me blushing while I pack up my things, and when I’m all done, I follow him out of the library. “I need to stop by my locker,” I say and half turn in that direction. We’ll probably part ways here, since my locker is in the opposite direction from the front of the school.
“Okay, cool.” He steps forward to fill the space next to me and waits. “Which way?”
He’s coming with me? The idea that he’s not ready to go our separate ways yet sets a little flutter in the pit of my stomach, but I’m not sure I understand why he’s sticking around. Maybe he doesn’t have anything better to do.
My locker is basically within throwing distance of the library, and when we get there, I get down to the business of spinning my combination. But the lock doesn’t open when I pull it. I try again, with the same result. By the fifth unsuccessful try, it’s pretty obvious I’m not completely clear on my actual combination. I shoot a sheepish look in Will’s direction and mentally run through my options: carry eleventy billion books I don’t need all the way home with me only to turn around and lug them
all back to school in the morning, sit here and try every variation of what I think my combination might be, or hack the lock.
I shoot a side glance in Will’s direction to size up the situation. He’s leaning casually against the row of lockers a few feet away and looking down the hallway in the opposite direction.
I can’t pop the padlock without him noticing. “Hey, you don’t need to wait with me. This could take a while,” I tell him.
He considers me for a long moment, then says, “Okay. See you later.” His voice is flat, and for the briefest moment as he turns and strolls away, I feel a twinge of guilt. The poor guy probably thinks I’m giving him the brush-off, when really I just want to break into my own locker without him seeing.
As soon as he’s out of sight, I head for the nearest vending machine and buy a can of soda. I take a hearty swig, but the carbonation rolling down my throat is like swallowing a golf ball covered in fire ants. Big gulps are out and small sips won’t get me an empty can quick enough, so I dump the rest into the nearest garbage can and dig out my key ring. I find my little pocketknife disguised as a regular key and flick it open, then set to work on the can, cutting a smallish rectangle from the metal and shaping it into an M. Then I fold it into a quasi-sturdy strip with a point in the middle.
Back at my locker, I wrap my makeshift tool around the lock’s shackle and slip the point down into the locking mechanism. A quick jimmy and I’m able to pull the lock open. And just like that, I have access to my locker again. Who needs a combination anyway?
I drop my bag at my feet and bend to get my books out of it. On my way back up to put them in my locker, movement in my periphery catches my eye. Will is standing not twenty feet away, and I never heard him approach. My heart hammers against my ribs. Did he see what I just did? What will he think of me now? Probably peg me for some kind of delinquent.
But maybe it’s not a bad thing if he thinks I have a rebellious streak, as long as it keeps him from figuring out that rebellion in my family would mean not breaking into locked things.
I shrug off his shocked stare and throw my books into my locker, then shut it and relock it, making sure to pocket my little makeshift pick. “I thought you left,” I say as I head toward Will, only because he’s between the way home and me.
“Yeah, somehow, I ended up with your English folder.” Sure enough, he’s holding the dark-blue, three-prong folder I tucked my English notes and assignment into during class today. I would have missed that at home when I went to do my homework.
“Thanks.” I take it from him carefully, almost like I expect a jolt of electricity to course through it from him to me. But I remain un-shocked and slip the folder into my backpack before continuing on my way. Will stays where he is, and I do my best not to take it personally. I only just met the guy today, after all, and he just caught me breaking into my own locker. If I were him, I’d probably have stayed behind, too.
Chapter Four
February 7th,
The worst thing I ever lost was my virginity. No, I’m just playing; I still have that. Seriously, though, it was the opal ring my mom gave me when I turned eleven. It was my grandmother’s, the ring my grandfather gave her when he proposed, and Mom thought I was mature enough to wear it. Turns out she was wrong.
I didn’t even have it a month before I lost it at school one day. It was my first year in Italy, and I had just switched schools the week before. Considering the language barrier between English and Italian and the cultural gap, I was almost desperate for a friend, any friend. So when Ana, one of the most popular girls in my class, oohed and aahed over it, I couldn’t get it off my finger fast enough in my attempt to let her try it on. She had no trouble getting it on her finger, but when she tried to get it off, it was stuck.
We tried everything. She pulled; I pulled. Even the teacher gave it a go. She tried soap and cold water at the bathroom sink, and even that didn’t work. We were sent to the school office.
Signora Di Cicco, the office administrator, called the maintenance guy, who brought, like, tin snips or something. He cut it off, and I almost cried. I was happy to have the ring back, but it was damaged, no longer wearable, and I was sure my mom’s heart was going to be broken over the fact that I’d taken it off in the first place. I tucked it into the little zipper pocket in the front of my backpack and prayed my mom wouldn’t notice it wasn’t on my finger.
She noticed at dinner that night. I tried hard to keep my hand in my lap under the table, but I slipped up and reached for my drink with the wrong one. My mom has eyes like a hawk, and she zeroed in on my bare index finger immediately.
“Where’s Abuela’s ring?” Her tone was accusatory, and I immediately gave up any idea I’d had about hiding the broken ring from her. I told her the whole story, start to finish, and when I was done, even though I expected her to be furious with me, she smiled. It was a sad smile, but it was still a smile.
She told me, “Mija, you never have to hide things from me. I love you. Yes, the ring was special, but you are more special. Besides, we can always have it repaired. Go and get it; let’s take a look.”
But when I went to get it out of my backpack, it was gone. I’m almost positive Ana took it. The pouch was zipped tight, and she was the only other person who knew it was in there. So my grandmother’s ring wasn’t just broken; it was gone. There were tears in my mom’s eyes when I told her, and I know it was because that ring was one of the few things left of my grandmother’s. But my mom stood by her word and didn’t get mad at me. She told me she knew I didn’t lose it on purpose, but still, to this day, I feel like I let her down in a big way. I feel like I’m letting my mom down again now by not acclimating well enough to the new home I begged to move to.
She was waiting at the door for me when I got home from school. For the second day in a row. She looked for all the world as if she were barely restraining herself from asking how my day was. Somehow, she must have sensed the aching loneliness I was feeling when I got home. The only person who’s even spoken to me in two days is Will, my sidewalk Romeo. He’s killer hot, but I’ve been a loner for so long—by necessity, never by desire—that I’m not even sure where to begin.
…
I put down my pen, close my journal, and lean back on my bed, resting my weight against the headboard. That’s enough touchy-feely for now. I didn’t mean to pour my heart out on the page, and I certainly didn’t intend to write about that particular experience, but something about the way I felt when I lost that ring reminds me of the way I feel now.
I mentally replay my first two days of school, of floating through the hallways filled with other students, of sitting in the office waiting for my schedule. I could easily have connected with any one of those other students. If I’d only known how. Besides Will, the closest I’ve come to making a new friend is Jamie, and I didn’t see him again at all after he showed me to my class. My brain hitches on the flyer I saw for drama club tryouts, and I have a lightbulb-over-the-head kind of moment. I’m not into drama, or anything that would put me in the spotlight, really, but surely there’s another club. One where I could meet people, feel normal, and still be inconspicuous.
I set my journal on my bedside table, not bothering to hide it. Maybe I’m hoping my mom will find it and read it. Maybe I just don’t care anymore. I’m suddenly looking forward to school. First thing tomorrow morning, I’m going to find an after-school club to join, and I’m going to make friends. I practically bounce off my bed, invigorated by anticipation, and head downstairs in search of dinner.
…
By the time I’m halfway to school the next day, I’m doubting my plan. What if I find a club and hate it? I could stay just to make friends. Or what if I find a club I like and it’s the one and only thing I have in common with any of the other members? I try to shake the doubt away. I’m probably way overthinking this. It can’t be that hard to make friends; people do it all the time. I’ve met people before, made friends before. Right? At this moment, I can�
�t call to memory a single time I’ve put myself out there to make a human connection. I mentally recount the friendships I’ve valued over the years, and they all have one thing in common: the other person made the effort, and I let them. Am I so guarded that I’ve never purposely made a single friend?
I’m so lost in my own musings, I don’t give it a thought when someone falls into step beside me. Until I realize he’s keeping perfect pace with me.
“Hey, flower!” The rich timbre of the familiar voice snaps me out of my thoughts. I stop walking and whirl to face Will. His expression is warm, and his look is clean-cut: white-as-snow sneakers, dark jeans, and a blue polo under a bomber jacket. His dark hair is parted slightly to one side and hangs over his forehead in a way that almost makes me want to reach out and brush it back. Almost.
“What’s up?” My voice is louder than I’d intended, and I bite my tongue against the urge to immediately apologize.
The grin on his face is friendly and genuine and doesn’t falter in the slightest at my hard tone. “I saw you here and thought maybe we could walk together. You know, since we’re headed to the same place and all.”
He wants to walk with me to school? My cheeks heat, and I hope he attributes my flushing to the cold.
“Sure.” It’s stupid, but it’s all I’ve got. Besides, what am I going to do, tell him no, he can’t walk with me, and make him stay ten paces behind me for the next hundred or so yards? I resume my trudging pace toward the school, and he falls into step beside me once again.
“It’s a nice day, huh?”
I look up at the sky and chuckle before I realize he’s serious. He’s enjoying the overcast, cold morning far more than I am. I’m all but shivering inside my winter coat, and I’ve had my hands balled up in my sleeves since I left the warmth of my apartment building. I shoot him a sideways glance, like that’s somehow going to help me figure him out, but drop my attention to the pavement when our gazes meet. “Sure, it’s okay.”
