The Creeping

He takes a backward step, flicks his hair off his forehead, and shoves his hands deep into his pockets. “Hey, sorry. I saw you take off and wanted to make sure you were okay,” he says, ending with an uncertain smile.

I take a deep breath and shrug. “You know . . . it always feels weird to be here . . . on this day.” What’s weird is that Sam—not Zoey, not Taylor, not Michaela, not Cole—cared enough to follow me. “What’s with the vest?” I point to the bright-red atrocity he’s wearing over his T-shirt. If Zoey were here to see this, she’d roll her eyes and say I told you so. Sam Worth used to be one of our best friends. We were inseparable as kids, right up until Zoey decided we wanted to be popular and that Sam was destined to be the King of Loserdom. Although Sam isn’t a Cyclops, he isn’t the kind of guy that most girls date. At least not girls I know.

Sam looks down and practically turns green. “Oh crap, it’s my uniform,” he says, ripping the vest off his shoulders so quickly I think it might tear. “I’m always forgetting I have it on.” He wads the polyester nightmare up in a ball and tries stuffing it in his jeans pocket. Half of it sticks out.

The Star Wars T-shirt he’s rocking underneath isn’t much better. I try not to laugh. “Uniform for what?” I ask, scooting over so there’s room for Sam on the bench. Zoey would flip if she saw this, but I’m just off balance enough to flirt with disaster.

“I work at BigBox,” he says, plopping down next to me, springy and eager like a puppy.

BigBox is one of those giant you-can-buy-everything-under-the-sun stores. “Since when?”

“Every summer for the last four years,” he says, a hint of a laugh in his voice. “It’s okay, though, there’s no reason you’d know.”

I blink at him through the darkness. Is he being sarcastic or is he really that nice? I mean, I do the best I can. Zoey erased Sam from her social radar, but when I see him in the halls, I always say hey. No, I’m not twelve years old, sporting a feathered headdress and playing cowboys and Indians in the woods with him anymore. And I probably wouldn’t ever in a million years follow him into a spooky cemetery to make sure he was okay. But I keep Zoey off his back.

It’s not like I can invite him to eat lunch with us. That’s not how high school works. Even my popularity couldn’t take the hit of me being seen hanging out with science-fiction-loving, secondhand-clothing-wearing, BigBox-working Sam Worth.

It’s kind of a shame, because if Sam ever tried, he could be vaguely hot. In the pale light I can just make out the cluster of tiny freckles on the bridge of his nose—they make me think of sunny days. He has muddy-brown eyes that make it hard to look away. Tousled bed-head hair. That whole I’ll-listen-to-everything-you-have-to-say-and-then-write-you-a-love-letter thing. Girls eat that stuff up. Instead he’s tragically committed to achieving new astronomical levels of bizzaro-ness. I can’t be sure, but I think I glimpse a shoelace as his belt tonight.

“Hella Stella, I said, ‘Are you okay?’?” Sam repeats himself for what’s likely the millionth time.

I bristle at my old nickname. The word “hella” was sooo middle school and plus, I don’t need to give people any more reason to talk about me. I scan the cemetery around us nervously. I can see a small group of stoners lighting up twenty feet away. Definitely not worried about them overhearing. But Janey Bear and her bestie, Kate Lucey, are staggering down the path toward us, arms locked, red cups in their hands, jaws clacking. Fan-freaking-tastic. I bet they’re only out here prowling for sordid hookups to gossip about. Janey couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it. Me sharing a romantic moment with Sam Worth in this gloomy cemetery will be the scandal that she’s dreamed of her whole life. Before the night is over, rumors will be spreading that we were hooking up between the tombs, Sam calling out my childhood nickname between thrusts, me confessing my eternal love. Gag me. And of course, if that happens, I can kiss ever kissing Taylor Martinson good-bye.

I turn back to him and mouth, “Don’t call me that.”

His eyes widen, and he reminds me of this owl stuffed toy I used to have. “Call you what? Hella Stella? Why?” he says so loudly I know Janey must hear.

I take a shaky breath and glance toward the girls. Janey’s staring back at me with narrow-set blue eyes that don’t miss a thing. “Sam, just don’t,” I murmur urgently. “Please shut up.” I try to scare him with a nasty glare, but he starts to chuckle.