My throat constricted at the mere mention of my sister, and I yanked my elbow from Priya’s grip. “Like I need the reminder?”
My sister Maggie’s death taught me to avoid girls with mean streaks like the plague. I knew what it meant to be the brunt of their jokes, victim to their cruelty. I didn’t know what Maggie endured until things went too far—four years stood between us (she was a senior when I was in eighth grade), so we hadn’t attended the same school since elementary school. Guilt stifled me whenever I thought of Maggie, and how oblivious I’d been to those girls’ abuse.
By the time I learned the truth, it was too late.
After she died, I withdrew from my clique of girlfriends. Part of me was terrified they’d eventually turn on me, too. But mostly, I couldn’t stand their pity. Most people were awkward as hell around someone in mourning. They’d stare at me with these wide, sorrowful eyes, and their uneasiness made me feel like I should’ve been the one comforting them.
At the time, I couldn’t handle it. It was bad enough watching my parents grieve, and needing to be strong for them. Priya was the only one who acted normal around me, letting me pour my heart out without getting that disquieted look in her eyes, refusing to leave my side.
So instead of partying or flailing at school dances, we camped out in my room for movie marathons or “jam sessions”—I’d work on a song at my keyboard with huge red headphones glomming my skull, while she’d sprawl on the carpet with Mittens, reading a fantasy novel or learning David Thurston’s magic tricks from his Netflix show Manic Magic. As a textbook introvert, Priya was living her best life, but sometimes I missed being part of a big group.
“I’m sorry.” Priya’s voice was strained. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt.” She eyed Sasha and her friends huddled over their table, whispering animatedly. They seemed prepped for the runway compared to their neighboring table, where Becky Wallace and our old clique donned a mix of too-big glasses, sweatshirts, and poorly executed French braids.
Suddenly, Sasha slapped the table, threw her head back, and laughed heartily. I couldn’t imagine having such boisterous self-confidence. People turned to gape, like they wanted in on the joke. If Sasha Harris thought something was funny, it must be worth hearing.
As long as it wasn’t about you.
My stomach clenched. I could let fear rule my future and keep being afraid of girls like Sasha. Or I could rise above this petty high school crap and do whatever I could to get into music school and someday produce epic movie and TV scores.
I had to do this. I had to.
Besides, what was the worst that could happen? She could say no. She could make fun of me. Torture me. Turn me into an object of ridicule and make me want to—
“Oof.” Someone behind me collided hard with my arm, tearing me from my thoughts.
“My bad!” Zane Carter called over his shoulder as he headed for Sasha’s table.
As I rubbed my arm, Priya ogled him. “Oh my God. He touched you.”
“That’s kind of an understatement.”
Priya had worshiped Zane for years. He was the spitting image of her favorite magician, David Thurston. And with those blazing green eyes, shaggy chestnut hair, defined cheekbones, and perma-smirk, who could blame her?
Well, I didn’t get the appeal of the perma-smirk.
Either way, she turned wide-eyed and mute whenever he appeared, which made it kind of difficult to have any sort of meaningful interaction. I thought she’d finally forgotten about him over winter break (I certainly had) until a couple of days ago, when she went to the grocery store with her mom and spotted him examining a protein shake nutrition label in aisle seven. I knew it was aisle seven because Priya told me about it seventeen times.
“You know . . . if we go over there,” I said, “you might get to talk to Zane.” I had to get this over with, and it’d be much easier if I didn’t have to approach Sasha alone.
“What?” Priya gasped. “He’d never talk to me. No way.”
“Why not? I heard he broke up with his girlfriend last month.” I nudged her with my elbow. “Maybe he’ll be into you.”
“Yeah, right!”
“C’mon, let’s go see.” I grabbed Priya’s wrist and, ignoring her frantic protestations, dragged her to Sasha and Zane’s table. Zane typed on his phone, elbows on his knees, as the girls giggled over something. “Hey, guys—”
Oh. Oh, no. Zane’s baseball teammate Robbie Nelson sat next to him, scribbling last-minute answers on a homework assignment. I hadn’t noticed him with his baseball cap shading his face. He glanced up at me, and my stomach gave a small lurch.
Robbie had one of those faces you couldn’t help staring at—well defined, with a high-bridged nose, angular jaw, and these wolfish gray eyes that made you go all deer-in-headlights when they landed on you. While I was invisible to Sasha, which was exactly how I wanted it, Robbie’s eyes would flick to mine in the halls, his head tilting like a question mark as he offered a shy grin. I’d always look away first, flustered to be caught gawking. Since we didn’t have any classes together, he probably didn’t even know my name.
But I couldn’t let him psych me out. I had to talk to Sasha.
“So, um, hey,” I started again. I tossed my hair back and flashed a wide smile, ignoring my wobbly legs. “How was your winter break?”
The five of them only offered vacant stares. I kept smiling, forcing down the heat threatening to creep up my neck. My mind went blank, and words seemed like an altogether foreign concept. All the scenarios I’d concocted in the shower this morning for what to say jumbled in my brain. What did popular people even talk about? Oh, hell. These people were the rulers of the roost, and we were like worms wriggling into their coop. What was I thinking?
Finally, Robbie broke the silence. “It was nice. You’re Amber, right?”
So he did know my name. Warmth spread through my veins. He reversed his cap, and his gray eyes sparkled under the fluorescent lights as he gave me his usual lopsided grin. His two front teeth were a little crooked, somehow making his smile even cuter.
He stood and swung over two chairs from a neighboring table like they were light as feathers. “I don’t think we’ve ever met before.”
“I know, crazy!” I said, taking a seat. “Our class isn’t that big. But better late than never, right? That’s, you know, a thing people say.” I was totally blabbering, and despite my best efforts, I blushed profusely. Priya, of course, had reverted to her mute state. She stared at Zane, practically drooling.
Amy’s and Maria’s smiles didn’t reach their eyes, betraying their suspicion. Why had we barged onto their turf? Before I could say anything else, Sasha reached over and ran a lock of my hair through her fingers. “Oh my God, I love your hair color.” Her voice was so melodic, I couldn’t tell if she was mocking me. “Which is it?”
“It’s . . . um . . . red?”
She laughed throatily. “Obviously. I mean the swatch. The dye you use.”
“Oh.” I smoothed my hair back. “I don’t dye it, actually.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Bullshit. That’s virgin hair?” I stiffened, biting the inside of my cheek. Did she think I was lying? She leaned back in her chair, draping her elbow over its frame. “You lucky bitch.” Her own chestnut hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, sleek and shimmering, and the mole next to her left eye disappeared into the crinkles when she smiled brightly enough to warm the room. She was giving me a compliment. Snarky, but genuine.