When Tennessee’s gaze dips to my knees, to the Band-Aids I haven’t removed, Jasper steps closer to me and angles his body as though to shield me from the beast’s piercing golden eyes.
“If I’m not mistaken, you have history, Jasper”—she taps his forearm—“and Angela has calculus.”
She’s not mistaken. Mrs. Larue lives and breathes for her school and students. She knows everyone’s names, allergies, and grade point average. Once, she even asked how I’d enjoyed the Fleetwood Mac album I’d bought at the PTA winter market. Even though I’d mumbled something about “Dreams” being one of my favorite songs, what I’d really wanted to say was, “Do you secretly work for the CIA?”
“Let me get you three tardy slips so Mrs. Dabbs and Mr. Renfrew don’t penalize you.” Her heels click on the smoke-gray floorboards as she walks over to her secretary’s desk and grabs the slips. She jots down our names, then hands the slips to us. “You will never have this day again, so make it count.”
Tennessee arches a thick eyebrow.
“Run off now, my children.”
Once we’re back in the quiet hallway, Jasper slings an arm around my shoulders. It feels incredibly heavy, and not because of his bulky muscles. “What brings you to Tennessee, Tennessee?” Jasper asks.
Tennessee hikes his black backpack higher on his shoulder. A silver bracelet glints on his wrist. There’s an engraving on it, but I can’t make it out.
“Ten. Just Ten.” Instead of answering Jasper’s question, he asks, “Is the principal always this … cheery?”
I shrug out from under Jasper’s arm. “Always.”
“Every morning, she spouts some philosophical crap over the PA system,” Jasper says, which is true. Principal Larue reads us a quote every morning. “But she’s a chill lady.”
Through the frosted glass window of Mr. Renfrew’s classroom, I spy Rae and Mel sitting together at a collaborative desk. So much for saving me a seat …
“Take good care of my girl, now, Ten.” Jasper winks at me before entering the classroom.
Once the door shuts behind him, I say, “Our classroom’s three doors down,” at the same time as Ten says, “Your boyfriend’s friendly.”
“He sure is.”
Why I don’t correct him is beyond me. Maybe it’s because I want him to think I’m more popular than I am. Or maybe it’s so he stops eyeing me as though I were some pitiful hick.
5
A Tall Order of Insufferable
Tennessee and I have three classes together—calculus, art, and English.
In calculus, where there’s assigned seating, we’re stuck next to each other—a consequence of turning up late on the first day. Rae doesn’t get why I’m so glum about having to sit next to Ten. She, along with most of the female student body, thinks he’s a God-given gift to the girls of Reedwood High.
I don’t get it. Sure, he’s hands down the most handsome guy at Reedwood, but his surly attitude is such a turnoff. All week, he ate lunch by himself and couldn’t get into his car fast enough after school let out. Not that I was keeping tabs on him. He’s just so tall that he’s hard to overlook. Plus he wears his brown hair spiky instead of floppy like ninety-nine percent of his peers, which adds a solid inch.
“I wish he’d mauled me with his car,” Rae says dreamily, glancing over at Ten, who’s already seated at our double desk.
He stares out the window at the middle school half a mile away. Unlike our brick building, its design is modern—brushed concrete striated with long strips of windows that reflect the late-morning brightness.
“The second bell has rung, Miss Conrad. Please take your seat,” Mrs. Dabbs says, pushing up the sleeves of her crimson tunic, which she’s paired with wide-legged pants in the same shade. Combined with her frizzy red hair and streaky blush, she resembles a candied apple.
She should take makeup tips from Mona Stone, who’s always put together so perfectly. My dance teacher, who used to be one of Mona’s backup dancers, told me my idol does her own makeup because she doesn’t like anyone poking at her face. The second she shared this with me, I spent hours watching tutorials to learn how to line my eyes and dust sparkly powder over my cheekbones. I don’t wear more than mascara and concealer to school, but if I had to go onstage to accept a Grammy, I could glam myself up real quick.
A couple of minutes into the class, Mrs. Dabbs quizzes me on parabolas, and I scramble to locate the answer between the lyrics and musical notes I scribble in the margins of my math textbook.
She poises her felt-tip pen against the whiteboard. “So, Miss Conrad, what is the difference between a parabola and a hyperbola?”
Sweat beads on my upper lip, and I lick it away, flipping through the book in desperation. I hate being put on the spot. How will I ever succeed as an artist if I can’t stand to be the center of attention, though? Did Mona ever get flustered in high school? Probably not.
“Hyperbolas have two curves that mirror each other and open in opposing sides. Parabolas only have one curve.” It’s Ten who answers.
Mrs. Dabbs shoots him a smile as white as the board behind her. “Thank you, Mr. Dylan.” She turns to me. “Miss Conrad, may I suggest you use the weekend to study for my class since you are clearly too distracted by your doodling”—she sweeps her arm in my direction, making all the blood in my body converge in my face—“to pay attention to my lesson?”
I untuck my wavy brown hair from behind my ears to curtain off my glow-in-the-dark complexion, then spend the rest of class with my head bent over my book, attempting to memorize equations, which clearly won’t serve me considering my choice of career.
The second the bell rings, I toss my stuff into my fabric tote, impatient to escape this torture session.
“You’re really into music, huh?” Ten asks, halting my escape. He’s reading the flowy lyrics I inked on my bag—the chorus from my favorite Mona Stone song.
Startled he talked to me, I don’t immediately answer. Finally, I say, “It’s my life.”
He puts away his books slowly, as though trying to drag out the moment. He’s probably waiting for the classroom to empty so he doesn’t have to chat with anyone else on his way to the cafeteria.
For some reason, I follow up my comment with, “The quote under my picture in last year’s yearbook said: Angie Conrad likes music more than she likes people.”
A corner of his mouth quirks up, and I blink, because the beast is smiling. Ten hasn’t smiled once since arriving at Reedwood. At least, not at me.
I stand up, hoisting my tote onto my shoulder. “Do you like music?”
He evens out his already neat stack of textbooks. “No.”
My head jerks back. “How can you not?”
He slides his books into his backpack and zips it up. “Do you enjoy the sound of a car alarm?”
Sets my teeth on edge. “Does anyone?”
“My point exactly.”
He’s standing now, so I have to crane my neck to look at him.
“Are you seriously comparing music to a car alarm?”
“Maybe.”