I pull my phone out of my bag and check the time. Shoot! With a gasp, I hustle out the front door of the school, down the steps. If I’m really lucky, Keller will still be in the parking lot and I’ll be able to get a glimpse of his perfect, gorgeous face before he hops in his car and leaves.
I snort behind my hand, holding back a giggle. A freshman crushing on a senior—a super hot, super popular senior. I’m a walking 80s movie cliché.
But the heart wants what the heart wants, and mine wants Keller Keating. Badly. I giggle again and this time, my cheeks burn as my mind wanders to my now familiar fantasy of Keller and me together, kissing as he pulls me into his strong arms. How ridiculous! Like that would ever happen.
As long as I only look, no harm can come of it. Besides, Keller Keating would never notice a girl like me. I’m not ugly by a long shot, but I’m no supermodel. The girls I see Keller leave with every Friday since school started three weeks ago are taller, thinner, and older than me. In other words, they’re women, whereas I’m stuck in half-girl, half-woman territory. Not exactly Keller Keating girlfriend material.
My feet hit the pavement and I whirl around, scanning the remaining cars. Already, the lot is nearly empty. On Fridays, people clear out fast, staff and students alike, the administration usually the only ones left. I don’t see Keller’s very conspicuous blue sports car among the few vehicles left in front of the school and sag in disappointment. My bag slides off my shoulder to land on the ground with a thud.
“Damn,” I mutter.
“Hey.”
I startle at the unexpected voice. When I turn around, a girl I recognize from around school but have never actually met is standing about a foot away.
“Hey,” I respond.
The girl squints, her perfect little nose wrinkling up as she shades the sun from her face with a hand. Her eyes immediately catch my attention. They’re the most shocking shade of silver I’ve ever seen. Literally silver.
“You okay?” the girl asks. “Are you looking for someone?”
I stare at this unknown, silver-eyed girl. I’ve seen her here and there in the hallways since school started three weeks ago. I think we’re both freshmen, but we don’t run in the same circles and we’re not in any of the same classes. North Atlanta Prep is exclusive, but not exactly small.
“Ummmm, my ride,” I stammer, not wanting to admit I’m out here stalking a guy who doesn’t even know I exist. “I’m waiting for my driver, I mean. He’s not here.”
Come to think of it, my ride isn’t here yet. Where is he? Charlie is never late. I hope he’s okay, though he’s probably just stuck in hideous Atlanta traffic.
“My ride isn’t here either,” she says. “We can wait together.” Her face is so hopeful I can’t say no. Besides, where am I going to go without a ride?
I sit on the steps next to her and pull out my phone. “I should call Charlie. Ummmm, my driver.”
She nods, her dark ponytail bobbing behind her.
“Is there anyone you can call for you?” I ask.
The girl shrugs. “My brother was supposed to give me a ride. He probably forgot since I usually have cheerleading practice after school on Fridays. Our captain is going to some big gala tonight with her boyfriend so practice was cancelled.” The girl rolls those intriguing eyes and her mouth curls into a mischievous smirk. “I don’t mind though. I know he loves me. He’s just a free spirit kind of guy.” She shrugs, accepting the fact that her brother left her stranded.
My gaze drops to her cheerleading squad T-shirt, sporting the black and red colors of the school.
“Oh. Well…I’m sure my driver can give you a ride.”
The girl smiles, two dimples framing her perfect teeth. “Thanks. I’m Kinsey.” She holds out her hand.
Befuddled, I clasp my hand around hers. What ninth grader shakes hands? It’s weird, but she’s so genuine in her actions I can’t help but smile back.
“I’m Britton.”
Finger swiping on my phone, I pull up my contacts and scroll through for Charlie’s number. While I’m searching, the loud squeal of tires on the driveway leading up to the school catches my attention. Along with the noise, the acrid scent of burnt rubber stings my nostrils. I glance up from my phone to watch as a black car fishtails into the parking lot, swinging widely to the left and screeching to a stop about a hundred yards away.
“Who’s that?” Kinsey asks.
I squint to block out the bright September sun. “No clue, but he probably shouldn’t be behind the wheel if that’s how he drives.” We watch as the driver’s door of the car is thrown open and a tall boy a few years older than us steps out. Despite the oppressive Atlanta heat, a chill goes down my spine. Something is very, very wrong.
“Britton,” Kinsey whispers, her voice shaking.