Storm

by Brigid Kemmerer

  Her mom was working the night shift again. The sheer irony was that any kid with a normal social life would envy Becca’s freedom.

  Quinn was sitting in the kitchen, but schoolbooks were spread across the table tonight. She looked up at Becca through a fall of blond hair. Her voice was small. “Hey. Your dad called again.”

  Swell. Becca hung her jacket in the hall. “What, you’ll speak to me when you need a place to stay?”

  “You’re the one who didn’t answer my texts.”

  “Maybe if you hadn’t bolted from the lunch table, I could have mentioned that I broke my phone last night.”

  Quinn didn’t say anything for a long moment. Becca grabbed a soda from the fridge and swung into a chair. She glanced down at the notebook on the table. Quinn was struggling with Trigonometry.

  “So you want me to leave?” said Quinn.

  Becca rolled her eyes and popped the can. The storm seemed to be sticking around—thunder still boomed every few minutes and lightning threw silhouettes against the glass. “You are such a drama queen.”

  Quinn flung her textbook closed. “Well, at least it’s better than being a liar.”

  Becca sat up straight. “A liar? What the hell did I lie about?”

  “Self-defense class? You could have just told me you were sleeping with Chris Merrick.”

  “Who said—wait—what the—are you crazy?” Becca couldn’t string a sentence together. “You think I’m sleeping with him? Why on earth would you think that?”

  “Gee, I don’t know.” Her voice dropped to a mocking baritone. “I’m just here to thank Becca for last night.”

  Becca stared at her, unsure whether to laugh or cry. “Quinn—”

  “You could have told me, you know.” Quinn doodled on the margin of her notebook. “I didn’t even know you liked him, Bex... . I mean, after all the stuff with Drew—”

  “I did go to self-defense class. And I didn’t sleep with Chris.” Becca paused, waiting for Quinn to look up. “When I came out, Seth Ramsey and some college guy were beating the crap out of him in the parking lot.”

  “Why?”

  The question made her stop. It was a good one. “I don’t know. But I chased them off with the car.” She told Quinn everything, including what had happened in the pet store and her visit to the Merrick house.

  “You should call the cops,” Quinn said.

  “And tell them what? I don’t even know Tyler’s last name.”

  “You know Seth’s.” Quinn’s voice was careful.

  “I’d rather not get involved, Quinn.”

  “Bex—”

  “Leave it.” Becca glared at her.

  Quinn rocked back in her chair. “So you aren’t interested in Chris?”

  “Please. He doesn’t really want to go out with me.”

  “I think the sixty-dollar thing is kind of adorable.” Quinn chewed on the end of her pencil and glanced up.

  Becca groaned. “You’re not helping.”

  “I’m just saying—maybe people are over the Drew thing.”

  “Tommy Dunleavy’s note today asked me if I give a happy ending.”

  Quinn winced. “Okay, maybe some people are over the Drew thing.”

  Becca replayed her comments to Chris, the way she’d lashed out at him over the lunch table. She frowned, but then scowled. “Still. A soccer game? That can’t be a coincidence.”

  “Yeah, well.” Quinn flipped the textbook open, her eyebrows raised. “Guess you’ll never know now.”

  “You suck.” Becca grinned and shoved her notebook at her.

  Then Quinn shoved it back, a little more pointedly. She tapped her pen where a number was scrawled. “You going to call your dad or what? I can only be a bitch for so long.”

  “You sure about that?”

  Quinn made a face. “You know, that’s a local number.”

  Becca stared. She hadn’t noticed. Did that mean he was in town?

  Did it matter?

  Becca tore the piece of paper from the notebook.

  Then, just like last night, she crumpled it up, shoved it in the trash, and carried it out to the curb.

  CHAPTER 9

  By Friday, Chris still looked like crap, and Becca wanted to call him on it. But in third-period English Lit, he sat across the room and didn’t make eye contact once.

  Fine.

  She must have beaten Chris to World History, because New Kid was sitting in the same seat as the day before—Chris’s usual spot. He’d paired a rust-colored tee shirt with dark jeans and black Vans today. Average, nothing-special clothes that looked striking and exotic just because he was wearing them.

  Monica Lawrence was sitting at the desk next to him, leaning into him, giggling at something he’d said. She called Tommy Dunleavy her boyfriend, but you wouldn’t know it from the way she was putting her assets front and center.

  Not that New Kid seemed to mind.

  Guess he doesn’t need the dog to pick up chicks after all.

  Becca swung her bag higher on her shoulder and moved down the aisle to her seat, carefully avoiding Monica’s eyes.

  New Kid looked up when she passed. “Hey—”

  “Ohmigod, no,” said Monica. Her manicured hand latched onto his arm and a spill of blond hair pooled on his desk. Her boobs were going to explode from the neckline of her shirt in a minute.

  Then she leaned in close and whispered into his ear, breaking off to glance at Becca more than once.

  Yup, that had lasted about five minutes.

  “Grow up,” Becca muttered. She dropped into her chair, busying herself with pulling a textbook from her backpack, finding a pen, and establishing the mental fortitude for the abuse that would start when Tommy sat down.

  “Hey.”

  It was Chris Merrick’s voice, his tone almost aggressive—and so startling that she jerked her head up, sure he was talking to her.

  But he was standing next to New Kid, a hand braced on the nylon strap of his backpack. “You’re in my seat.”

  New Kid lifted his head, a slow, deliberate movement. Becca watched him size up Chris—but his eyes widened fractionally when they got to Chris’s face. The bruising along his cheekbone and jaw had lightened, turning a mottled yellowish blue. His lip was healing, but you could still see a split.

  Monica was staring, her lips slightly parted. “What happened?” she said, her voice soft with awe.

  “Wow. Yeah.” New Kid settled back in his chair—a clear refusal to move. One eyebrow lifted, and his voice was dry. “Someone sit in your seat?”

  Monica snorted with laughter and giggled behind her hand.

  Chris leaned down, his blue eyes dark, like the ocean at night. The bag slipped off his shoulder to hit the floor.

  Mr. Beamis chose that moment to step into the classroom. He cleared his throat. “Mr. Merrick. I presume you’re welcoming our new student?”

  Chris put a hand on New Kid’s desk. “Welcome. Move.”

  “Keep moving, Mr. Merrick,” said Beamis. His tone drew the attention of the rest of the class, and conversation died. “There’s a seat farther down. I suggest you find it.”

  Chris didn’t move. Neither did New Kid.

  Beamis dropped his briefcase on the top of his desk and snapped the latches. “Or would you prefer to find a seat in the office?”

  Half the class did that stupid “Oooh” thing. Then laughed. Chris grabbed his bag and sighed, then walked six feet to drop into the next empty seat in the row.

  Right next to Becca.

  He didn’t even glance at her, just pulled a textbook from his bag.

  “That’s Jocelyn Kanter’s seat,” she said under her breath. “You gonna make her fight you for it later?”

  He stopped, turned his head, and looked at her from under his bangs. “You too?”

  “I’m not the one who picked a fight over a chair.”

  He looked away, so she did, too, staring down at the glossy pages of her textbook. From the corner of her eye,
she saw New Kid glance her way, but she kept her gaze down and flipped a page, not wanting to make eye contact.

  Furniture scraped along the tile floor. Students were moving desks, shifting the writing surfaces together. Becca threw her head up. What had she missed?

  They seemed to be turning six rows of desks into three. She started pushing her desk to the right, watching the others to make sure she was following instructions she hadn’t heard.

  “What are we doing?” she whispered to Chris.

  “Succumbing to the whims of a bitter old man.” He shoved his desk the rest of the way, until it was up against hers.

  She sighed. “I meant—”

  “Rewriting a peace treaty,” he said. “Semester project.”

  Talk about a thrill-a-minute. “Why are we moving the desks?”

  He snorted. “Who the hell knows. He probably read about this in a teachers’ magazine.”

  “Quickly, everyone,” said Beamis. “Quickly. Now that you’re partnered, you will work together over the next six weeks—”

  The class erupted in groans, and several girls scrambled to change seats so they could be together.

  She and Chris didn’t move for the longest moment.

  “Great,” said Chris, his tone flat.

  “Sorry,” she snapped. “I’m sure you’d rather be with Monica.”

  But Monica looked all too pleased to be partnered with New Kid. Two rows over, Tommy was fuming, sprawled in his chair, completely ignoring his partner Anthony Denton, the scrawny boy who was two years younger than everyone else because he’d skipped a couple grades in elementary school.

  “Do you know the new guy?” said Chris. “He keeps looking at you.”

  She glanced up in surprise. New Kid was writing in his notebook, not looking anywhere near her.

  Chris leaned in. “Earlier.”

  Becca looked down and doodled on the corner of her paper, feeling warm. Chris was so close, his voice dark and intimate like it had been in his bedroom the night before.

  Her tongue felt tied in knots, so she just shrugged. “Not really.”

  He went silent for a while, every now and again copying instructions from the assignment as Beamis outlined the structure of the grading.

  He kept his eyes on his paper and said, “Look. If you want to partner with someone else, I get it.”

  Did he not want to be with her? “It’s fine,” she said quickly. Then she added, “It’s only six weeks.”

  He gave a short, humorless laugh. “I’ll try to suffer through it, too.”

  She had no idea what that meant.

  A folded piece of paper flew through the air and landed on the center of her book. She jumped.

  Tommy Dunleavy was hiding a smirk. Her throat felt tight. Now? Really?

  Chris reached out and grabbed it.

  “No!” she hissed, trying to take it back. “Give that to—”

  Then he had it open in front of him. With their seats so close together, she could read it over his arm.

  $5 Sucky sucky?

  Gross. She snatched it out of his hands and crumpled it up.

  Her cheeks burned. Her eyes weren’t far behind. Seeing the notes privately was bad enough. Having a guy like Chris Merrick read them—right in front of her—was a million times worse.

  “Hey. Dunleavy.” Chris’s voice carried a shred of wicked humor.

  Tommy looked over his shoulder. His eyes were amused, and a dark smile still hung on the edge of his lips. He sat ready for his efforts to be appreciated. “Yeah?”

  Chris took the crumpled ball of paper out of her hands and flung it. “Fuck off.”

  Tommy came halfway out of his seat, his hands balled into fists.

  Chris came halfway out of his.

  “Gentlemen!” Beamis was knocking on his desk, though Becca couldn’t imagine what he expected that to do. Chris hadn’t moved farther; his glare locked on Tommy now.

  The class sat frozen, Becca included.

  “Christopher,” said Mr. Beamis. “Take a visit to the office.”

  And though she was staring at him, Chris didn’t look at her. He just shoved his books into his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and strode out of the classroom.

  “So let me get this straight,” said Quinn, spinning her water bottle in her hands. The rain seemed to be holding off, so they had the lunch table to themselves again. “He threw the note at Tommy and then told him to fuck off? Or do I have it backwards?”

  “I’m detecting some sarcasm.”

  “And then got himself sent to the principal’s office because he was ready to defend your honor?”

  “Quinn.”

  Her friend waved a hand. “No, I think you might be on to something. This is clearly an elaborate plot to screw with you. He asks you out, he defends you from that meathead—what next?” Quinn’s eyes flashed wide in mock surprise. “Crap, Bex, do you think he’ll do something truly horrible like buy you flowers?”

  Becca gave her a look. “So you think I should apologize.”

  “No. I think you should give him a shot.” Quinn rolled her eyes and dropped her voice. “I think you should give someone a shot.”

  Becca chewed on her lip and peeled at the label of her water bottle.

  A shadow fell across the table and a lunch tray slapped down next to Quinn.

  Becca jerked her head up, surprised by the quick flutter in her chest.

  But it wasn’t Chris—it was New Kid.

  She stared up at him. It took her brain a second to get it together.

  “Hey,” he said, dropping onto the bench beside Quinn. “Why do you sit all the way back here?”

  Quinn looked at him for a moment, then back at Becca. Her expression was some combination of bemused and incredulous. “Did you save his life, too?”

  New Kid picked up his fork and looked over. “Whose life did you save?”

  Becca opened her mouth, then closed it. Her brain was refusing to engage. She couldn’t figure out how to play this without knowing what his motives were. The quick and easy intimacy of discussing death in the aisle of Pets Plus didn’t exist here—especially since she’d seen him sit head-to-head with Monica for fifty minutes.

  “Quinn’s just being silly.” She kept her voice disinterested. “You ... ah, you’re eating with us?”

  His whole tray was full of healthy food—grilled chicken, steamed vegetables, brown rice. No wonder he’d gotten through the line so quickly. He went for the stuff most kids wouldn’t touch.

  He peeled the lid off something that looked like sliced fruit. “That all right?”

  Quinn put an elbow on the table and gave him a level look. “She wants to know why.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I’m hungry and I don’t know anyone else?”

  Becca wasn’t going to buy any poor-little-new-kid crap now. “You seemed to be getting to know Monica Lawrence pretty well.”

  He met her gaze head on, a spark of boldness in his green eyes. “Oh,” he said, his voice flat. “You mean instead of sitting here, I could hear all about Monica’s badass cheer routine and where she gets her highlights done and how some girl named Claire, who’s a total whore by the way—”

  “Okay, okay.” Becca couldn’t help the smile.

  “No, wait. I’m just getting going.” He sliced into his chicken.

  “Claire is a total whore,” said Quinn. “She and Monica sit behind me in Trig.”

  Becca watched New Kid work the cutlery. “Bet you wish you’d given up your seat now, huh?”

  “Oh.” Quinn settled back on the bench and gave him a more appraising look. “This is that guy.”

  He looked thrown for a second. “That guy?”

  Quinn nodded. “Pet store hero, ex-police-dog owner, seat stealer.”

  Trust her best friend to be absolutely direct. Becca glanced away and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I might have mentioned you.”

  “She spilled all your secrets,” said Quinn.

  “Yeah?�
� He sliced off a piece of chicken and glanced across the table. “What’s my name, Becca?”

  Busted. Becca wanted to melt into a puddle.

  Quinn grinned. “You mean it’s not really New Kid?”

  Becca kicked her under the table. “That’s not fair. I was wearing a name tag.”

  “It’s Hunter.” His fork went still as he held her eyes. “Want me to write it down?”

  Yeah, with your number. Talking to him felt entirely different from sitting with Chris, exhilarating and challenging and breathless all at once—like running a race.

  “Nah, I’ve got it,” she said.

  He picked up a forkful of broccoli. “Was Chris the same one those guys were looking for last night?”

  She lost the smile. “Yeah.”

  “I shouldn’t have been a dick about the seat. I didn’t realize you’d get stuck with him.”

  There was a thread of disdain woven through his voice. She frowned. “He’s okay.”

  “He looks like a thug.”

  “Those guys did that to him.”

  Hunter must have heard the tone in her voice, but he didn’t back off. “Somehow I get the impression it might have been deserved.”

  Becca stared at him for a moment, torn over whether to defend Chris. Hunter didn’t help, either, just looking at her across the table as if he could hear her thoughts fighting it out.

  “What’s with the white hair?” said Quinn.

  He broke the eye contact with Becca and smiled at her friend. “I thought you knew all my secrets.”

  Now Quinn blushed.

  His smile turned into a grin. He looked down at his tray and shoveled rice onto his fork. “You guys hitting that party tonight?”

  “Which one?” Becca said drily. “We try to make the circuit.”

  He smiled in a way that said he saw right through her. “Well—and I want to make sure I get this straight—Monica said Claire said her boyfriend’s best friend’s brother was home from college with that skank Melissa—”

  “No,” said Becca sharply. “We’re not.”

  His eyebrows went up.

  “Jesus,” said Quinn. “You followed that?”

  Becca faltered, knowing she sounded like a freak. But Claire’s boyfriend was Matt Carpenter. The goalie of the soccer team.