Landon
I feel her gaze burning through the sweaty, cotton shirt I stole. I stare at the brick wall out in front of me, hoping she’ll go, but she doesn’t, so I look at her.
Go the fuck away, I try to tell her with my face.
It’s the girl from homeroom. She’s got brown-blonde hair, and these striking, clear blue eyes that always seem to follow me. I felt them on me that first half hour. Right after the fight, I spotted them again, widened with fear. Of me or for me? Not that I give a fuck.
This whole damn day has been a pain in the ass, starting at the Crenshaws’. Rupert—yeah, his fucking name is really Rupert—Crenshaw, an entitled, 15-year-old twat, emptied my bag into the washing machine sometime late last night, so when I woke up—at four fucking thirty—all my shit was wet. He told his mothers he was just making sure my clothes were clean.
Rupert is so scrawny, I can’t wear his shit. Since the Crenshaws are both moms, it was girl shirt or nothing, so I ended up in a T-shirt with a big, pink flower on it. I wore my jeans wet, commando, because I’d rather deal with wet denim against my dick than wear a skirt. I’m all about acceptance and whatever, but I’m not wearing a skirt.
As soon as I got checked in at the school office, I asked to use the restroom, and then I made my way to the locker room beside the gym and nabbed this white T-shirt. It had a stain on the side, making it identifiable. But I’m a careful thief. I took the liberty of scrawling my initials on the tag. When mofo tried to jump me in the cafeteria, I played it cool instead of really waling on him. Then when we got hauled off to the office, one peek at my tag got me off the hook.
Except here I am now—not exactly off the hook, am I?
The girl doesn’t move, so I tighten my face.
God, her eyes are blue. Why won’t she fucking go?
She bites her lip, and I’m annoyed to feel my dick stir in my damp jeans.
Go. I clench my jaw.
Obviously, she’s not getting my ESP, because instead, she comes toward me, moving hesitantly at first, then with purpose. Her soft lips press into a line as she comes through one of the glass doors, stopping a few feet from me.
Up close, I can see some freckles on her nose. Her lips are pink and smooth, her blonde hair silky. Her blue eyes are wide and nervous, and her crisp clothes look brand new. “What do you want?” This girl doesn’t belong in my arms’ reach.
“Nothing.” She bites down on her lower lip again. “I— we had homeroom together.”
“Yes.”
“I saw you out here. I just wanted to stop and…say hi.”
Her manner annoys me instantly. As if I would believe she happened upon me randomly, up here by the school’s front doors, and decided to say “hi.” What is this, a fucking country club social? I give her a slight glare. “Don’t you have a class to go to?”
“Don’t you?” Her eyes widen.
“What do you care?”
She shrugs, and I can see her swallow. “You seemed upset, so I thought maybe…”
“Maybe?”
“I wanted to check on you,” she says at last. She squares her shoulders and looks up at me, her blue eyes sparkling in the light that’s streaming through the glass doors.
“I’m fine.” I turn away from her, because I hate that fucking look on her face. As if she’s trying to decode me. I’ve seen this look before from doctors and social workers, and the pity mixed in with it makes me ill.
“Well if you’re fine, you should come to class.”
I turn back to her, simmering with renewed irritation. “Are you my teacher now?”
“No. I’m just trying to help. It’s your first day, and it seems like it hasn’t gone all that well.”
“You think?” I actually laugh, the sound dry and completely humorless.
Her eyes fall to my right hand, the one I just used to punch the wall. “Is it okay?”
I look down, noticing the blood on my knuckles for the first time. Now that she’s mentioned it, it starts to throb. “It’s fine. Now go away.”
“Do you need a Band-Aid?”
“Do you know how to take a hint?”
Her jaw tightens. Then she blows her breath out. “It doesn’t matter if you’re mean to me. You’re not going to hurt my feelings.”
I arch an eyebrow. “No?”
“No.” She folds her arms in front of herself, pulling on her purple shirt, so I can see the outline of her bra under the thin cotton. “I’m not super sensitive or anything, and it’s clear you’re only being rude because I’m making you uncomfortable.”
“Oh, so we’ve got a psychologist in the house.” I offer some light applause, despite my throbbing hand.
The girl’s mouth curves slightly. She looks befuddled, and also a little bit amused. “You’re right, I’m not a psychologist. I’ve never even been to see one. But I am a fellow person, and I know you must be having a bad day.”
She doesn’t know the half of it.
“A fellow person?” Even to my own ears, I sound like a dick.
“A potential friend.”
“Is that what we’re calling this? Your stalking me? Potential friendship?”
Now she laughs—but doesn’t take my bait. “You never know. I could be the best friend you’ve ever had.” She spreads her hands, smiling patiently, and my heart beats off-rhythm.
“Aren’t you late for class or something?” I try.
“Yes. And like I said already, so are you.”
“If I come inside, will you go away?”
She nods, giving me a small smile, and opens the door for me. “So tell me,” she says as we walk back into the lobby, “is it really yours?”
“The shirt?”
She nods.
“Why would I steal a fucking undershirt?”
“Maybe you needed one.” Her side-eye is annoyingly omniscient.
I arch one eyebrow. “Maybe I didn’t.”
“Pax shouldn’t have done that. He’s hot-headed. I think you are too.”
“Is that what your psych training tells you?” I ask.
“That’s what your bleeding hand tells me.”
Touché. This girl is something else. “Any other brilliant observations?” I stop at my locker, and she waits. I pull some books out, and she steps a little closer.
“Is that a Richard Feynman book?”
I blink down at the paperback I’ve got atop my textbooks. Then, reluctantly, I meet her angel eyes. “Does it look like one?”
“It is. It does.” Her whole demeanor brightens, like a flower blooming. “Are you reading it for class?”
“I got the assignment yesterday. Wait—” I slap my forehead. “I didn’t go to school here yesterday.”
She tilts her head, the way that dogs do when they’re curious. “I think I like you, James.”
“Is that your way of saying you like Feynman?”
“That’s my way of saying I like you.”
She smiles again, and walks away, and I’m left with my racing pulse.
Evie
My last class of the day is marching band. I’m playing my clarinet and moving through our halftime formations on the practice field, but I’m not really there at all. My mind is in the school’s front entryway.
Who is this guy, and why does he make me feel…strange?