Kissed

JUST LIKE THE MOVIES

Christine Rees

Copyright © 2018

Chapter One

Sunday

Rainbow colors coat his hand as he cups her cheek, drawing her face toward his. A mischievous smile tugs his lips up as his mouth meets hers. The kiss is soft and sweet. Gentle, even. His brown locks are tied in a small bun at the nape of his neck, exposing his strong jaw and tanned skin. She leans in but he pulls back, breath brushing her cheek to whisper, Go to the prom with me.

Freshly buttered popcorn wafts over, filling the room with its scent as Skylar plops onto the seat next to me, an avalanche of popped kernels landing in my lap.

Hey! I warn. Watch it.

Skylar ignores me. It always starts with a kiss, doesn’t it?

What does? I ask, picking popcorn from my jeans.

A relationship. I mean, look at those two. Skylar waves her dark hand toward the TV. That’s how you know you’re really dating someone.

She’s about to slam a door in his face, I say as Julia Stiles does, leaving a gorgeous Heath Ledger alone on her porch.

Coming from someone who has never been kissed. I don’t think you’re in a position to judge, Brie. Brianna is too long to say, apparently.

It’s a choice I’m happy with. Now, watch the movie. I munch on popcorn from the bowl and lean into the leather sofa, sensing the cool, stiff material sticking to my heated skin.

Skylar giggles and crosses her legs. Mirroring my position, she twists to face me. The leather squeaks as her skin slides across it. More popcorn tumbles to the floor and Luna wolfs down the lost rations before I can save them. The black Labrador licks her chops in triumph and stares at me, expecting more. I scratch her head and let out a breath, knowing Skylar can’t stop herself from saying whatever’s on her mind.

"I know this is your favorite movie, but we’ve seen 10 Things I Hate About You a million times. Badass Heath Ledger gets paid to date Julia Stiles, so some jerk can date her younger sister. Then Heath falls in love with Julia because she’s awesome and he’s awesome. And the younger sister punches the jerk because she realizes he’s a pig. I get it." Skylar lifts a hand as if to let me know she’s had enough. I pause the movie and hand her the controller.

You can change it.

No. Skylar waves the controller away. Sweeping her brown bangs to the side, they clump together from running her fingers through it too often. Her hazel eyes widen and she wiggles up and down excitedly. You are Julia Stiles!

Um… My eyebrows lift and I twirl my shoulder-length, inky black strands.

"Okay, not Julia Stiles but you are Kat Stratford!"

Again. I point at my hair. She’s tall and blonde.

It’s your personality. That’s why this is your favorite movie! I’ve totally figured it out!

I like it because it’s a great movie that has Heath Ledger.

Well, sure, but look at it this way. Skylar starts counting on her slender fingers. "You have an I-don’t-care attitude. You’re passionate about female rock bands. You play soccer. And you have no interest in our upcoming prom or finding a date."

Because I’m not going.

See!

Sky, I love you and I’m flattered you think I’m like Kat, but she is so much cooler than me, okay? I don’t care about boys and parties because I’m genuinely not interested right now. School is priority so I can get good grades and go to—

Saint Lawrence College? Skylar giggles.

Luna sits on my feet, turning her head to get my attention. My hand automatically glides over her soft black fur until she’s content, which is never. She’s an affectionate dog, but needy, and I kind of love that about her. Luna nuzzles my leg when I shift my weight from my foot going numb. Pins and needles take over and I shake it to return its blood flow.

I’m going to NYU, I remind Sky.

Right. Skylar pauses, as if deep in thought. So does this make me Bianca or Mandella?

My head leans into the cushion behind me and I stare at the flat white ceiling, groaning.

Neither.

This movie was based on you. Admit it.

Sky, this movie was filmed in the nineties. I wasn’t even born yet.

She screws her pink-glossed lips to the side. So what? Let’s find your Patrick Verona. She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

It’s futile to argue with Sky when she makes up her mind.

Let’s make a deal. If you find someone as perfect as him—I point at the screen where Heath Ledger stares tragically after Julia Stiles—I’ll give him a chance.

Chapter Two

Monday

Everyone, please take your seats! Mr. Finn shouts above class volume, but it only adds fuel to the bubbling conversations. Nobody’s listening. I slide into my seat next to Skylar.

Did you hear? Sky spins in her orange plastic chair to nudge my arm with the eraser end of her pencil. The new kid got expelled from his last school for starting a fire or pulling the alarm or something like that.

I heard it was an epic fight in the parking lot, Trevor adds, settling in beside Zeke. A new student shouldn’t be a big deal, but one who’s been expelled and transferred here is worth gossiping about, or so it seems. I roll my eyes and open my notebook.

Do you think he’ll be in our class? Zeke asks. Sky parts her plum-colored lips, but my words tumble out before I realize I’m the one talking.

Who cares, Ezekiel? I blurt, choosing not to use his nickname. Zeke. He’s a transfer student. No need to make a big deal out of it.

"Well, good morning to you too, princess." Zeke runs a pale hand through fiery red hair, unsurprised by my outburst.

Bite me.

I don’t think Val would appreciate that. Zeke leans in his chair, hands folding behind his head. His athlete’s body shakes from chuckling. Of course, he’s pretty and popular. Girls like him. Guys like him. Hell, even Skylar likes him. Me?

How is the head cheerleader? I respond bitterly, but Zeke’s blue eyes twinkle in amusement. I don’t understand the hype. Zeke’s a jerk.

Ah, you know. She’s perfect as always. Zeke beams, wearing that stupid smile he gives to teachers to get his way. Freckles dot his nose and cheeks.

And how is … oh, wait. Trevor jumps into the conversation, pointing a finger in my direction. You’re not dating anyone.

Having a boyfriend is not my priority, I mutter, facing the blank chalkboard again.

Yeah, because nobody wants to ask out the scary…

I lock eyes with Trevor before he bothers finishing his sentence. His green eyes widen and he looks down so fast Zeke bursts out laughing.

Mr. Finn stands on top of his desk and claps. Quiet down. Please quiet down!

In his late twenties, Mr. Finn is the most relatable teacher at Cullen Bryant High School here in Long Island. His unusual teaching styles are what make this class tolerable.

"Now, do I need to continue the lesson from up here or will everyone stop yapping so I can teach you important mathematical skills for your futures?" Mr. Finn turns back to his unconventional self. I’m sure he’s being sarcastic from the way he says important but we still need to learn it. Oh, joy.

Math is my worst subject, but I like Mr. Finn. He steps down from the desk, a little overweight with a sweater vest that is probably meant to make him look mature. His shaggy brown hair and youthful smile counter the effort. I shake my head with a smirk. Good old Mr. Finn.

I know there is a lot of chatter about this new student. Let me save you all from checking the door every five minutes. He’s not in our class, so can we please continue on with our lives? We’re about to enter the exciting world of quadratic formulas…

Nope. Not exciting. Not exciting at all.

If someone suggests entering the exciting world of quadratic formulas, do yourself a favor and run. I think I understand its application, but then I don’t. I try a new equation and fail horribly at finding its answer.

Now, remember, Mr. Finn adds at the end of class. Each unit is worth ten percent of your grade. The quadratic formulas test will be pushed to three weeks from now. Please keep in mind that if you need help, you may come to me with questions. We’ll find a solution.

I’m already an average student in math. This might totally screw me over for college applications if I fail one unit. Skylar waits by my desk when the bell rings.

I’ll catch up with you, I tell her, tucking a black strand of hair behind my ear. I have a question about quadratics.

Skylar raises an eyebrow.

I normally don’t ask for help. I’m being serious. Do you know what’s going on?

Definitely not.

Neither do I.

Well, let me know if you turn into a math whiz. I’ll see you at lunch. Skylar takes off.

Hey, Mr. Finn? I ask, walking over. Zeke mutters something I don’t quite hear, so I hit his arm with my bag, hearing a muffled ow as I keep going. Everyone else races to their next class or to lunch.

Yes, Miss Brianna Crayn. Right, Mr. Finn does things differently than most teachers.

Dewey. I use his first name instead. I don’t get this unit.

Mr. Finn chuckles and stops erasing the board, letting chalk dust rain down on his navy-blue vest. It’s not meant to be easy, Brianna.

I know. I’m usually okay with this stuff, but I’m worried about quadratics and knowing when to apply the correct formulas.

If it will help, I can pair you with a student who better understands it. Mr. Finn puts down the chalk eraser. You two can work together after school.

That’s not necessary, Mr. Fi… I mean, Dewey. Could you walk me through the formulas? It shouldn’t take long.

We both know this isn’t going to be a fast learning experience, Brianna. In fact, Zeke’s inquired about extra credit and he’s top of the class.

Of course he is.

I’m sure he wouldn’t mind helping a fellow student. Let me ask. Mr. Finn smiles like he knows Zeke and I don’t get along.

This isn’t High School Musical. We’re not about to become friends, Mr. Finn. Zeke and I might end up killing each other.

"Mr. Finn, please. I can figure it out on my own. Don’t involve him. Really, it isn’t necessary. I can watch videos online."

Are you worried this unit will affect your overall grade? Mr. Finn presses.

Of course. I’m trying to get into NYU…

Then let’s make sure that happens. Zeke!

Dammit. Mr. Finn waves my nemesis over before I can protest further. Zeke’s athletic build towers over my five-three frame. My dark features are like a shadow behind his bright presence.

You want extra credit. Brianna could use a math tutor. Boom. Mr. Finn claps his hands. Now you two are paired for the rest of the semester. Zeke, help Brianna pass this unit to earn your extra credit.

Mr. Finn…

Sounds great, Dewey. Zeke flashes a brilliant smile.

I don’t like it.

Great. Now move along to your next classes before I have to write notes.

I zip ahead of Zeke, unwilling to face him yet. His long legs catch up to me.

So, you’re bad at math, huh?

I bite my tongue to keep from answering. Beige lockers open and slam around us, kids switching books or grabbing homemade lunches.

Don’t worry. I’m a math genius, you’ll pass.

You better hope so or no extra credit. I eye him suspiciously. Why do you need extra credit, anyway?

Zeke shrugs. Why are you so bad at math?

Whatever.

Meet you in the library after school. Don’t be late, I have football practice at 3:30.

Football practice, I mutter through gritted teeth, walking faster. Away from Zeke.

I’m being tutored by a jock.

It’s a nightmare come true.

****

Scooping pasta salad from my container, I search for Skylar. We have third lunch together. She should be here. I check my cell, no texts.

Where r u?

I hit SEND and return to people watching. No one dares to sit at our table so I have the whole bench to myself. Cliques stagger around the quad. Well, it isn’t really a quad, students just call it that. It’s an outdoor lunch area dominated by plastic picnic tables. Three walls block the area in, but our view of the main road is totally open. Cars cruise by. Football jackets litter the grass around us. Cheerleaders vacate a nearby table with Val leading the squad to Zeke’s friends. Long legs. Defined curves. Tiny waist. Full lips. She is Barbie with luxurious black curls and dark skin. A few girls stare, jealousy narrowing their eyes, but Val’s optimism doesn’t fade. Her white teeth risk blinding everyone when she smiles.

Like Zeke, Val is well-liked. Even though she’s popular, she’s not a bitch. She sticks with her friends like how I stay by Skylar’s side. It’s the cliché behind our head cheerleader and football captain being in a relationship that bugs me. So typical.

As she walks past, a faint gust of coconut breezes over. I want to hate her, but damn it, she smells nice.

Zeke throws an arm around Val. The it couple. Val smiles, slipping out from under Zeke’s arm to tug him away from the group. Another football player, Brant, sits up too quickly. There’s a line in his straight blond hair when he flips his hat around to see her better. Val doesn’t glance his way but Brant’s puppy dog eyes watch them go. He looks miserable. What’s his deal?

Zeke’s Adam’s apple bobs from swallowing hard, but he follows his girlfriend around the side of the school and toward the bleachers. Hookup central. Ew.

I shake my head and look for Skylar again. The sun breaks through the clouds, beating warmth on my bare shoulders. I tie my hair into a ponytail, which is really just a nub at the back of my skull, and pull out my notebook.

The low buzz of conversation rolls into a dull roar. A tall guy in a black leather jacket, which is insane in this heat, walks beside someone who looks suspiciously like Skylar with brown hair tied in a messy bun. Crap, that is Skylar.

Not only is a new student worth talking about, but Skylar and I don’t branch out. Ever. We are our own clique and that works fine. The chatter escalates when people notice the new guy with Skylar. Her brown skin glows in the sunlight, complementing the straight-haired stranger fast approaching. At about five-seven, she’s a few inches shorter than the newcomer, but he’s got almost a foot on me.

When they stop at our table, I freeze. Fork halfway to my mouth. Pen bleeding ink into the page where my left hand leaves it. Skylar waves in front of my face. Snapping out of my stupidity, I drop my fork into the container.

Sky? There’s a nervous tinge to my voice I’m not used to. I watch Skylar’s large hazel eyes, defined by black liner, glow with excitement.

Brie, this is Garrett. Garrett’s new here, so I invited him to join us.

This isn’t awkward at all. Um, hey, Garrett.

Hi. Garrett’s brown eyes seem bored.

Skylar takes a seat across the table, letting Garrett slide onto the bench next to me. Her tactics are all too transparent. I want to shake her. Patrick Verona is a fictional character played by Heath Ledger in one of my favorite movies. He’s not real. Garrett is not Patrick!

Garrett’s straight brown strands fall in front of his eyes so it’s hard to see what he’s thinking. Does he know Skylar is trying to set us up?

Stop smiling, Sky! This isn’t funny.

So, Garrett, you were telling me about your next class, Skylar prompts when neither of us make any headway in starting a conversation. You said it was Art?

Garrett nods. Yeah, it’s my elective.

Brie’s in Art too. Who is your teacher again?

Mr. Rooney.

Huh, that’s your Art teacher too. Skylar points a spoon in my direction before digging into her yogurt. I guess you have a new friend in that class.

Great. Garrett’s monotone sounds about as excited as I am.

Stop it! I telepathically scream at Skylar. She can’t hear me, so she continues making things worse. I glance sideways at Garrett’s jacket, wondering how on earth he isn’t drenched in sweat. The leather is tattered and scratched near the hem like he’s been wearing it for years. Or maybe that’s the style. I don’t know anything about fashion. My jeans feel like they’re constricting my legs when I cross one over the other under the table. Worn at the knees from keeping them for too many years, they’re the comfiest ones I own.

So, what happened at your last school?

"Sky, I warn. He probably doesn’t want to talk about it."

She widens her hazel eyes in a perfectly practiced fashion to seem both surprised and innocent, living up to the whole drama kid reputation. No wonder she nails every school performance. The girl is a chameleon.

Garrett shrugs. Not much to tell. I got into trouble. Third strike and I was out.

Do you play sports then? I ask.

Skylar adds, Third strike comment, when he gives her a puzzling look.

Oh, um, no. Is that a big thing at this school?

It’s my turn to shrug. It’s like every other school. Cheerleaders and football players get more attention. The rest of the sports get average attention.

Brie plays soccer.

Garrett looks at me, like really looks at me. His large eyes carry the tiniest hint of amusement and his dimples highlight a growing grin. His dark hand rests on the table, tanned from being in the sun. I wonder what his tan lines look like. Does he ever take that jacket off?

Huh. Would not have pegged you for an athlete.

Why? Because I’m short? I question, cheeks burning. Everyone has something to say about my height and I’m not even standing this time.

You just don’t look like the soccer-playing type.

"And what does a soccer player look like?" I prompt a little too hotly.

Garrett half-grins, lips pulling up on an angle. He looks away, eyes scanning each table like he’s analyzing his surroundings. Or looking for a quick escape.

I’m sure you know better than me. I don’t play sports, remember? Garrett answers lazily before standing up. Well, this was fun. Thanks for … whatever this was.

Garrett grabs his bag and walks back toward school.

I punch Skylar’s arm.

Ow! Oh, come on. I had good intentions. Skylar rubs her arm, bunching her jean jacket sleeve. Her brown bangs skim thick mascara lashes when she looks at me. You said if I find someone as perfect as Patrick, you’d go for it. She gestures to Garrett’s retreating form.

We don’t know anything about Garrett. And Patrick Verona isn’t real, I hiss. Now this random stranger thinks we’re even weirder than everyone else.

Skylar smirks and stops rubbing her arm, elbows resting on the table so she can lean closer. And why does that matter? We never care what anyone thinks.

Breath halting in my lungs, I realize my mistake.

We don’t care. It doesn’t matter, I breathe out quickly.

Sure it doesn’t. But Skylar’s smirk spreads into a grin.

****

What does art mean to you? Mr. Rooney asks when we’re seated in front of our canvases. He cleans his glasses with the hem of his suit jacket. Proper Mr. Rooney is such a contrast to Mr. Finn. He’s older, in his forties, and has been doing this class for so long I think he’s only half paying attention to what he’s saying. "I’ve heard answers from an easy grade to bringing a piece of myself to life. But ask yourself, what does art mean to you? Sketch your thoughts onto the canvas in front of you."

What does art mean to me? What the hell does art mean to me?

It’s my escape. It’s my mindless activity. It’s my hobby?

I don’t know what art means to me.

Other kids seem to know. They fill their canvases with swirls and lines, coming together to form images. Everyone but Patrick Verona, I mean, Garrett. And me. Garrett leans against his stool, hiding his phone behind his canvas so Mr. Rooney doesn’t see him texting. Who would he be texting anyway? He just got here.

Forget it.

If you’re not sure how to answer this question, ask yourself when you use art and why? Mr. Rooney continues, What possesses you to pick up that pencil or paintbrush? Why art?

That’s easy. I draw when I’m bored. When I’m thinking things over. When I’m nervous. I sketch all the time. I’ve never thought about why I do it. I just do it. Maybe I shouldn’t overthink this.

I lift my pencil, letting my mind relax with each stroke on the white canvas. My hand glides this way and that, creating abstract images I don’t totally understand. By the time the bell rings, there’s no perfect image or emphasis, which could be problematic, but it’s a start. I’ll figure out the rest tomorrow.

Garrett’s canvas remains empty. He slides his phone in his pocket, hiding the canvas behind another one in the back before walking out. I shake my head. What a stereotype. The brooding and moody new kid. Maybe he’s a vampire. Wouldn’t that be interesting? Ha.

Signing the bottom of my canvas, I place mine in the back with the others and head for my locker. Skylar’s opening the one next to it, hands reaching in to grab a notebook.

How was class? she asks, but that smugness is still there.

I drew scribbles on a canvas to portray my feelings about art. How was History?

Same old. She shrugs. But I bet Garrett’s an incredible artist. He doesn’t play sports and he’s all sulky.

I doubt it. He didn’t do a thing.

Of course he didn’t, Skylar adds, as if it’s the most reasonable response in the world. Lowering her voice a few octaves, she places a hand over her heart mockingly. Because school is a popularity contest and art is too pure to be graded.

I roll my eyes and open the beige locker, grabbing my math textbook.

Yeah, sure. That’s it. I slam the locker shut and lean against it, watching Skylar fidget with something in her bag. I can’t drive you home today. I have to study for math.

It’s cool. I want to walk anyway. It’s gorgeous out. Skylar closes her locker and faces me. She purses her lips, folding her jean jacket over her arms when she sees my expression. What’s wrong?

I lightly bang my head against the locker.

Ezekiel is my tutor.

Skylar blinks. I don’t think she’s listening until she bursts out laughing. She bends over, body shaking, and snorts mid-laugh. People turn to stare but the hallways are jammed and most people are sucked into their own conversations.

It’s not that funny.

Zeke? she howls. But you hate him!

Yeah, yeah. We all know that. I lift off my locker and push through the crowd. Skylar catches up.

"How? When? Why? How?" she cries over the commotion of opening and slamming lockers.

"Because I want to get into NYU, but I don’t understand quadratics at all and apparently Zeke is Mr. Finn’s best math student, I huff and look over. Skylar is biting her bottom lip as though she needs to keep from laughing again. Shut up. It’s still not funny."

Just try not to kill each other.

No promises.

Good luck!

She offers a small wave when we reach the library. I heave open the way-too-heavy door and find a table to drop my bag on, screeching the chair in when I sit. The librarian gives me her best no-nonsense look and I open my math textbook, doodling in the margin with a pencil. The smell of old books and stale air gusts by. There are no windows to ventilate the library, so the AC is blasting. I pull my gray long sleeves over my knuckles. It doesn’t do anything to warm my cold fingers. Maybe I have time to slip across the street and grab a tea before Zeke gets here.

On cue, the football captain breezes through the door like it’s the lightest thing in the world. And I hate him a little more for it. Black strands wave in front of my face from the blowing AC directly behind me but I can’t move now. I tuck the moving hair behind my ear, feeling my two cartilage piercings tangling around the strands.

Ready? Zeke asks, sitting across from me. His red hair is disheveled, but not in a purposeful, I-planned-this look. It’s like someone’s run a hand through it. Maybe he’s done it to himself.

I’m here, aren’t I?

Right, he concedes and pulls out his textbook. Goosebumps rise along his freckled arms. The strawberry-blond hair lining them offers little protection from the chill. His white T-shirt can’t be doing anything for him here, but he doesn’t complain.

Want to study outside? Less blowback. I jerk my thumb behind me, pointing at the AC and my poor choice of seating. The low buzz of a whirring fan is getting louder the colder it gets.

Zeke nods and we gather our things, slipping out to the quad that’s not really a quad. Students linger at tables with snacks and coffee from the convenience store across the street. A few of them have textbooks in their laps but most seem lost in conversation. We head for a large eastern red cedar tree where a splintering picnic table sits. The rest of the tables are solid plastic and bolted down so no students come back to steal them. But this picnic table is too heavy and old to bother with, so the school leaves it by the tree. The outdoor cement area turns to grass here, providing a grassy divide between us and the main road. Cars zoom past behind us.

"All right, so the exciting world of quadratic formulas," Zeke begins with the same enthusiasm as Mr. Finn. I avoid the sliver of wood sticking out of the bench beside my butt, settling my backpack on top of it to avoid an accidental cheek stabbing.

No. I put up a hand to stop him before this nightmare continues. Math is not exciting and quadratic formulas are the furthest things from a good time. Can we get this over with?

Okay, okay. Zeke flips open a notebook and copies formulas from the textbook.

Two students watch us like they’ve discovered extraterrestrial lifeforms. They walk by closer than they need to, likely trying to hear snippets of our conversation, but we pause until they are out of earshot. No reason to give people incentive to talk about this whole thing. I glare at them until they hurry off.

Thought you didn’t care what people think, Zeke comments in a low voice.

It doesn’t mean I want people to think I’m stupid.

Because you’re being tutored by a jock, right? Zeke’s blue eyes narrow, freckled cheeks turning red. "You know, for someone who doesn’t believe in labels, you are quick to dish them out. Just because people see you as unapproachable doesn’t mean you always have to be that way. You’re not some kind of outcast, Brianna. I’ve never thought so."

You would be the only one. Even I believe it.

Zeke’s posture goes rigid and he stares at me as if I slapped him.

What?

You… He shakes his head. You can’t be serious.

Why not? I can be the outsider who happens to play soccer. I can be the unsociable doodler. Whatever. I am those things, sort of. But I’m drawing the line at people thinking I’m stupid. They don’t need to think they know everything about me.

People know nothing about you, Brianna. I think that’s the point. You’re closed off.

I thought this was a math session, not a lecture about my socializing inability.

Zeke lets out a breath.

You’re right, that’s your business. Forget I said anything. He turns his attention back to the formula chicken-scratched on his page, flipping it around to show me what he’s doing.

It looks like alien speak. I can’t make sense of this. I groan after my third failed attempt at answering one question right. My head drops onto my arms resting on the rough wooden table. We’ve been at this for an hour and I’m no closer to improving.

Zeke closes his books and stuffs them in his bag. You’ll get the hang of it. We’ll try again tomorrow.

Can’t. Tomorrow’s Tuesday, I have soccer practice.

We’ll meet Wednesday then. See you in class, Zeke decides before taking off, jogging towards the boys’ locker room. I shove the textbook in my bag, breaking off the splinter stuck to the bottom, and walk to my car.

How do I still not understand this? I mutter, leaning my forehead against the scuffed steering wheel of my beat-up 2011 Jetta. I lower the windows to let some of the warm air out. Rust clings to the paint near the tires from salt and years of never cleaning it properly. Obviously the previous owner never worried about it.

I turn the volume up for Raise Hell by Dorothy and forget about school for a little while.

****

Mom’s already prepping dinner in the kitchen.

Hi hon, how was school? she asks, putting on the kettle without me asking.

I plop down on the kitchen chair, leaning my head against the thin cushion back to stare at the pot lights in the ceiling, and let out a long breath.

That bad, huh? This will make you feel better. Mom opens the cupboard and reveals my favorite brand of Earl Grey tea. I smile.

That is exactly what I need. I tell her about my day. The new kid. Skylar’s failed setup. Zeke being my new tutor.

Weren’t you two friends once?

I shake my head. Ezekiel and I have never been friends.

Yes, you were in kindergarten. Red hair, right? Mom’s black hair is French-braided so tight that it doesn’t move when she nods, answering her own question.

I blow on my tea and set it down, sensing it’s too hot to drink. Steam rises from the turquoise mug.

I wouldn’t say we were friends. We were in the same grade and went to the same kiddie parties, I explain. I met Skylar in first grade and she’s been my only friend since.

Didn’t you have a crush on him? Mom persists, crossing one leg over the other on the seat beside me. She adds milk to her tea, but I only add two scoops of sugar.

We can grow out of our first crush. I was five, Mom.

She smiles. Age is just a number.

And hell is just a sauna.

You sound like your father. Mom chuckles and sips her tea.

He was wise, I remind her. I wish I had the chance to know him.

Me too.

I blow on my tea again, letting the warm turquoise mug heat my hands. My icy fingers are thanks to Mom’s bad circulation. Inherited genes are great.

Do you work tonight?

Her hooded brown eyes meet mine, the exact dark shade, small shape, and sharp narrow angles. I look so much like her, but personality-wise, I’m more similar to Dad.

Or so she tells me.

Not tonight. They need me at the inpatient unit for 8:00 AM. Mom’s a Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner at a nearby hospital. Her hours are usually steady, but a few times a month she works long hours or the occasional weekend shift.

Salmon, teriyaki sauce, brown rice, and veggies line the counter, all ready for us to prepare. My stomach grumbles, reminding me that I didn’t finish my pasta salad at lunch due to the whole Garrett thing.

I can help you get dinner going, I say, finally sipping my tea. The heat burns my tongue but I like it hot so I sip it again, enjoying the notes of sweet floral in the bitter, malty black tea.

****

I start on homework after dinner, happily avoiding math, but Skylar’s notifications keep cutting into my focus. The constant buzzing is annoying. I flip my phone over on my desk.

Hi.

How did it go?

Are you dead?

Is Zeke dead?

Do we have to bury a body?

I’m not hearing back from you so I’m starting to think I chose the wrong side.

I don’t want to do homework. Distract me.

SOS

Oh man, I whisper-laugh and click CALL.

Hi, Sky answers on the first ring.

What is wrong with you?

History is boring and I don’t want to work on this project. Tell me how studying went.

I’m not any better at quadratics so we’re studying again on Wednesday, but we didn’t kill each other. So that’s good. Luna barges into my room, sending the door wide open, thinking I’m talking to her. Her big brown eyes stare up at me as she places her head on my lap. When I don’t immediately start petting her, she hoists herself up to lick my face. Warm slobber and dog breath coat my cheek.

I pull the phone away to push her down.

Sit, I whisper. When she does, I pet her, watching black fur stick to my gray sleeves. I’ll need to give her a good brushing soon.

Perfect. Well, while you’re not killing Zeke, can we talk about Garrett?

Why? Garrett doesn’t care about school. I don’t need that kind of distraction so close to graduation. I’ll think about boys when I get to college.

But Garrett could be exactly what you’re looking for. You’re not even giving it a chance. What if he asks you to prom?

I shrug, even though she can’t see me, placing the phone in the crook between my shoulder and ear. Drawing with my left hand and using my right to hold the notebook steady. Luna’s paw lands on my lap, reminding me that I stopped petting her.

Why don’t you go for it, Sky? I’m not interested in prom or Garrett, but you keep bringing it up. See if he wants to go with you.

He’s not my type, she says too quickly. Is Sky into the new guy? I stop drawing, hand falling onto Luna’s head to pet her again. She nuzzles up to my palm.

Well, if he is your type, you should talk to him. You have my blessing, I tell her, listening to her huff through the speaker. I know you’ve made it your mission to find my Patrick Verona, but let’s face it, it’s not going to happen and I kind of prefer it that way.

Because you’re focused on getting into NYU for visual arts.

I’m not sure why, but I suck in a breath. I haven’t told anyone what I’m applying for yet. Skylar only knows where I want to go to college.

You’re always drawing, Brie. I’ve seen what you can do with a pencil. Art is your way of expression. I only put two and two together, she explains before I find my voice again.

I groan. I’m so closed off that I can’t even tell my best friend what I’m going to school for, I admit, thinking over Zeke’s words. Why does he have to be right?

You don’t need to.

I hear her grinning through her words.

Your drawings tell me everything. She pauses before adding, Did I tell you that I’m taking next year off to figure things out? I can’t decide what to do after high school and I don’t want to spend a bunch of money on a program I’m not sure about.

Wait. What? How is this casually being inserted into a conversation right now? Skylar is not one to put off school. Are you sure? What about drama and Broadway? Isn’t that your dream?

I really do love performing but I love other things too, she says. I’ve been trying my hand at writing and I don’t know where it’s going, but I think I might write a screenplay or poetry or something. You know I love Edgar Allen Poe. Anyway, college applications are due soon and I can’t decide on a program, so I’m taking a year to figure it out.

How are you going to figure it out? I lean back in my chair, rolling it across the hardwood to prop my feet on my white comforter that complements the baby-blue walls I never bothered to repaint after middle school. Luna grunts and shuffles so she is beside the chair, nudging my hand with her snout. I grin and stroke her soft coat, a handful of fur clinging to me. Her winter coat is really shedding. Where’s her brush?

I’ll take a few courses in case I need them for programs I’m interested in. Maybe I’ll travel a bit or get a part-time job. We’ll see. Skylar inhales sharply. I haven’t told my parents yet.

It’ll be fine, I coax, even though they’re going to flip out. They’ll understand why you’re taking it off. You want to be certain that you’re studying what you want to do for the rest of your life. It makes sense.

I’m not lying, exactly. I’m hoping that’s what happens.

We’ll see. Something pings through the phone. Oh, crap. I have to go. My history group wants to Skype. I’ll see you tomorrow. She hangs up.

Luna whines and stares at me with pleading brown puppy dog eyes.

What’s wrong, girl? The black Labrador twirls in a circle near my bedroom door before running downstairs, briefly pausing to see if I’m following her. She darts for the front door and puts her paws on it as if telling me I need to be out there.

I’m taking Luna for a walk! I call to Mom who is busy folding laundry in the living room. The low buzz of conversation from the TV and bright shifting colors flow into the hallway.

Okay, sweetie. Be home before dark.

After grabbing Luna’s leash, we head outside. The sun is setting when we’re halfway down the street.

Guess this won’t be a long walk, I murmur to her, but Luna’s a full-size black Labrador with energy to burn, so we jog to the dog park down the street. Her tongue rolls out of her panting mouth, a happy dog-like smile lighting up her chomps. By some miracle, she has more energy when we get there. I pull the tennis ball from my sweater pocket and whip it across the field. Luna zips through the grass, kicking up clouds of dirt under her paws.

A golden retriever joins Luna’s ball chase and a tall figure offers a wave. Straight dark hair falls into his eyes and his leather jacket has a tattered hemline. Is that Garrett? He steps closer, black leash rolled in his hand. His dark-washed jeans are riddled with holes, looking more and more like a stylistic choice.

Luna drops the ball at my feet, panting excitedly. The golden retriever goes for it and Luna barks defensively as if telling her this is mine.

Lexi, Garrett chastises, but his tone is full of love. He takes a ball from his pocket, twisting it so the golden retriever can see. We have our own.

That’s okay, they can share. I toss the wet and dirty tennis ball across the field. Both dogs race after it. Lexi’s long blonde coat sways in the wind, contrasting Luna’s short black hair. They’re really adorable. I can’t stop smiling as they trip over each other on the hunt for the slimy toy.

Thanks. Garrett sticks the ball back in his pocket, watching the two dogs play. They bark at each other but it seems like they’re talking rather than fighting. I guess you live around here?

Around the block. You?

Right there. Garrett points to a house across the street with the porch light on, but the sky is still glowing orange. A breeze sends goosebumps up my arms and I zip up my sweater, grateful I thought to bring it with me. Black strands tickle my cheeks so I tuck the hair behind my ears. The day might have been warmer but spring air is much cooler when the sun goes down.

Really close then, I say, taking the ball from Lexi’s mouth when she offers it. Luna pants excitedly beside her, happy to have a friend. I throw the ball again and turn back to Garrett. His brown eyes have a thick layer of lashes, matching the rest of his dark features, and it hits me. This stranger is the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. I chuckle at the thought, but Garrett notices so I cover it up with a cough and let him throw the next ball.

Sorry about lunch, I tell him when the dogs take off again. Skylar thought you’d fit in with us more than the others.

It’s cool. I don’t really hang out with people.

Then who are you texting all the time, Mr. Popularity? I blurt before I can stop myself. Now he knows I’ve been watching. Great. My cheeks heat up and I look away, preferring to stare at the dogs. Less judgement.

Garrett pitches the ball farther.

Luna and Lexi play-fight with each other, too distracted to return the ball yet.

No one. I’m checking social media, mostly. I didn’t leave my old school on good terms so I’m seeing what people are saying, he admits. His tone seems upbeat, but the lightheartedness doesn’t reach his eyes when I face him again.

What are they saying? Curiosity’s getting the better of me.

Nothing good. Garrett lowers his stare and shakes some dirt off his boot.

Sorry.

Garrett looks up, brown eyes meeting mine in surprise. You don’t even know what you’re sorry for.

Luna returns the tennis ball, now completely covered in a layer of mucky slobber. It sticks to my fingers. As I fling it, the dogs sprint, legs speeding faster.

Want to tell me? I offer.

Doubt you’d want to hear it. Garrett glances back at the dogs now jumping over one another, both of them panting and excited.

I’m sure it’s not nearly as bad as you think.

He seems unconvinced. The porch lights shine on and off as twilight hits and the golden sunlight vacates the sky, leaving violet and navy-blue waves in its wake. It’s going to be dark soon. We should head home.

Lexi! Garrett whistles and steps back, closer to his house. The golden retriever comes charging, letting Luna carry the ball back to me. That would be my cue. After the trouble at my last school, Big Brother is always watching. He tilts his head toward the house. My parents want me inside for dinner. I’ll see you at school?

I nod and he turns around. Lexi trots beside him, only stopping so Garrett can put on her leash to cross the street. I clip Luna’s red leash back on and lead her to our house. We detour down a side street, cutting through a middle school yard. Twilight is already fading into night, overthrowing everything in shadows. I speed up our pace. The chilly breeze blows past us as we round the corner of the school, almost running into a red Mercedes. The only car parked in the lot.

Luna barks, seeing movement through the back window.

Oh, no, I whisper, tugging Luna away. A parked car with people in the backseat. I don’t need to stick around to confirm my suspicions. Luna keeps jumping, threatening to claw the side of the car, as if warning me that there’s someone in there!

Luna, no! I pull at her leash but she growls and barks. I urge her around the car but she’s growing louder. Luna, let’s go!

Her growling attracts attention. Two faces appear in the foggy back window and I almost do a double take when Val’s black curls pop up beside blond hair that does not belong to Zeke. Their faces are rosy and flushed from whatever they’ve been doing. I don’t want to know.

I so don’t want to be here. Can the ground open up and swallow me before they recognize who I am? From Val’s widening dark eyes and parting pink lips, she knows she’s been caught. Crap.

I bolt with Luna’s leash clenched tightly in my hand, forcing her to match my speed. She stops barking and runs alongside me, tongue flapping in the wind, unbothered by the truth. But I can’t escape