More laughter from the crowd. Idiots. She also put them down.
“You can’t keep up,” she whispers. “Stay the hell away from me.”
Screw this. I can do anything.
Coach Knox blows his whistle and the entire class turns to face him. “Last order of business for the day. We need one senior girl and one senior guy nominated for the homecoming court. We’ll start with guys.”
HC TITLE-AUTHOR
179
Several hands rise. I can’t keep up? She’s so wrong.
“Raise your hand if you want Tim
Richardson.” Coach nods with each hand he counts.
I’m the king at this school. I can win any dare, any time. Win any game. If she wants to play, we’ll play. She doesn’t want the world to know she’s Scott Risk’s niece. Skater Girl humiliated me and she’s about to learn that turnabout is fair play.
“Now for the girls,” says Coach.
My hand rises in the air at the same time as everyone else’s, but I’m not giving anybody else the opportunity to supply another name.
“Beth Risk.”
Hands drop. All gazes flicker between me
and Beth. Her feet fall off the seat, one right after another—clomp, clomp. “What did you say?”
“Did you say Risk?” asks Tim. “As in Scott Risk? As in the baseball god who just moved back to our town?”
A wave of whispers crashes among the
students sitting on the bleachers, Beth’s name the topic of each hushed conversation. Ignoring HC TITLE-AUTHOR
180
Tim, I face Beth. Her blue eyes blaze like twin flames from a blowtorch. Who’s not keeping up now? “I nominate you, Beth Risk, for homecoming court.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “You can’t.”
“Yes.” I love winning. “I can.”
“I second it,” says Gwen with a bright smile plastered on her face, and red flags rise. She’s wanted the homecoming crown since she was three.
Beth jerks up and stamps her foot against the bleacher like a toddler throwing a fit. “No, you can’t. Nominate yourself.”
“It’s okay,” says Gwen, “I was already
nominated in first and second period.”
“So was I.” I waggle my eyebrows at Beth.
“We could walk on the field together. Won’t that be fun?”
Beth stands completely still, mouth slightly slack, her hands held out to her sides with her fingers spread. I finally nailed the girl who’s been nailing me for weeks.
Coach Knox claps his hands to get our
attention. “All in favor of adding Beth to the football homecoming court raise their hands.”
With every eye on Beth, the entire class
HC TITLE-AUTHOR
181
raises their hands. Everyone except for
Lacy. Her stare burns holes through me, but she keeps her mouth shut.
“All opposed,” says Coach Knox.
“Me,” Beth yells. I smile. I love winning.
“Congratulations,” Coach Knox says in a
bored voice. “You’re on the homecoming
court.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you people?”
Coach Knox points at her. “Take a seat and watch your language.”
The bell rings. Beth grabs her backpack and leans into my face. “You are so fucking dead.”
HC TITLE-AUTHOR
182
Beth
ARROGANT BOY—he’s going down. Blah. It’s aggravating the way they worship him. Ryan this. Ryan that. Ryan’s a god. Ryan’s a goddamn moron. I’ve met guys like him
before. Hell, I screwed one. Rather, one screwed me over. I’m not a stupid little girl anymore and I will no longer fall for things that look pretty.
Our Calculus teacher, with teased eighties hair, peers at us over her gigantic glasses.
“When I call your name, come to the front and write out your work on the board.” She scans the class. “Morgan Adams, Sarah Janes, Gwen Gardner, and Beth Risk.”
The back of my head hits the wall behind me. Damn. This is Scott’s fault. The stupid guidance counselor told Scott I couldn’t keep up in this class, but Scott insisted I be placed in HC TITLE-AUTHOR
183
the honors program. Scott explained to me later that night, over the tofu and green crap his wife insisted on calling dinner, that he was raising my expectations of myself.
“So, it’s true,” someone says from the front of class. “Your last name is Risk.”
Clank. Clank. The sound of the chains
squeezing my lungs echoes in my head. Since Ryan’s little performance in Gym, the entire school has whispered as I pass and this time it isn’t because I’m the school freak. No, they whisper for reasons way worse. Their envious, judging eyes survey me because they want to know me—or rather, my uncle.
“Are you related to Scott Risk?” asks a girl with short brown hair.
Everyone in the class watches me. My hands start to sweat.
“Ms. Risk?” prods our teacher. I’m not sure what she’s prodding me on: that I’m the only one who hasn’t come to the front or because I haven’t answered the question. I stare at my empty notebook. Panic pushes my heart past my rib cage. What do I do?
My teacher’s lips edge into a cheesy grin.
“Why don’t you go ahead and satisfy the
HC TITLE-AUTHOR