“That’s my shirt!” Pax’s shout cuts through my thoughts. He’s on the other side of Makayla, but he’s so much taller than her that I can see his angry face as he half-stands, pointing across the room. “That fucker’s got my shirt on. I can see the dye stain!”
“What?”
Pax is up and moving before I understand what’s going on. Around the end of our table, past two others, coming at the new guy from behind. I want to scream, but all I can think is he’s wearing headphones. James is wearing headphones.
He doesn’t see Pax before Pax’s hand is on his shoulder. They’re too far away for me to hear what’s said, but James looks up, and even from back here, I can see his mouth tighten. Pax says something angrily, and then holds out his hand.
“Oh my God,” Makayla says.
More heads start to turn their way, and James stands up. Pax’s arms are out. James’s are at his sides. Then Pax shoves him in between his pecs. My stomach drops.
Pax says something, waving his arms.
I see James shaking his head.
Pax grabs James’s collar, and that’s when time jumps forward. James moves so fast, I can’t even track the movement. I see him shove Pax, hard, and Pax goes sprawling backwards. He crashes into a table—someone’s plate goes flying and a girl jumps up, screaming—and then I can’t see. Everyone in the lunch room is on their feet. I peek between heads and shoulders, so I see James standing above Pax, who is crouching on the floor.
James steps back, wide shoulders pumping, arms still partway out, and then Pax grabs him by his legs, and they’re both on the floor. Two security guards in red shirts hop into the pit and, shortly after, Pax and James are led off with their arms behind their backs. My heart’s still pounding as my friends and I look, wide-eyed, at each other.
“That was his shirt!” Tia says, her mouth agape. “I could see the dye, too. I dyed Pax’s hair blue for powder puff last year, remember? He was wearing a white undershirt, and blue got in this spot—” she motions with her own hands, “near the armpit of the shirt.”
Ever the most logical among us, Makayla sits back down; we follow.
“You think he could see that from back here?” Makayla asks.
“Fucking Pax,” Jake says. “That was dumb as hell. He’ll be benched the first game or two; I know coach won’t take that shit from him again.”
Luc, another football player, groans. “Somebody’s gotta get that brother off the ’roids.”
Sunny slaps her boyfriend on the arm. “I hope you’re kidding. Y’all aren’t really taking steroids…?”
“God, no.” He rolls his eyes. “This is high school, Sunny, not the NFL.”
“I’m pretty sure they test for those,” Makayla says, eating a french fry.
I’m surprised when, soon, the bell rings.
“That went fast,” I say to Makayla as we grab our books.
“The entertainment.” She wags her eyebrows, but her face looks unhappy. “I hope he doesn’t get suspended.”
Pax and Makayla have this…thing together. I’m not sure what it is. Not friends with benefits; it’s more like cat fights and kisses.
“Do you think it’s really his shirt?”
She shrugs. “Not worth college admission over, though, or football for that matter.”
“Preach it, sistah.”
Stupid Pax.
As Makayla and I part ways and I walk toward my next class, I wonder how or why the new guy might have had his shirt. I’m thinking so hard about it that when I reach the door to my pre-calculus class, I groan. I’m holding my morning books—my calculus textbook not among them. I was so distracted I forgot to swing by my locker after lunchtime.
Crap.
I turn and take off down the hall, moving back in the direction of the cafeteria, gym, and office. I’m passing by one of the computer labs when the office door ahead opens, and someone steps into the hall. One blink and— white T-shirt! My stomach does a barrel roll, because it’s him. He just came out of the office.
I’m so spazzed out, I almost turn and run. That’s what being near him does to me. Instead I tell myself to get a grip and slow my pace so I don’t get too close. I want to watch him. It’s creepy, but I want to watch him move. The hall is empty, everyone in class. I suck a deep breath in and glue my eyeballs to his shoulders. Still wide. Big-boned, you might say. His back seems lean, but not thin. More like sleek. Muscle and bone.
I bite my lip, feeling like a criminal in my own mind.
I’ve never met someone like this. Never reacted this way to anyone. I didn’t even know that it was possible.
And so, of course I want to watch him. I just want to understand.
Liar.
What I really want is to possess him in some vital way. I want to grab his hands and squeeze, or even bite him. I just need to know this boy.
He passes the athletic hallway to our left, and I follow. I see his hands ball up, his head dip down a little. He picks up the pace, and I do, too.
The common area is vast, with lockers lining its four huge walls, the cafeteria in the middle, and the front doors punched into the southernmost wall.
I tell myself I’ll find a partial wall to duck behind before he sees me. I pass my locker, watching as his head dips more, his strides elongate, and his arms go out. His palms smack the glass door, and he pushes into the glass-walled entryway between the outside doors and the common area.
I stop, expecting to see him push past the next door, too, and stride into the parking lot. Instead, he sits—so fast I blink twice before I realize he’s on the floor. He’s sitting cross-legged right there in the entryway. He’s got his elbows on his knees, his palms over his face.
My heart pounds as I watch his shoulders start to rise and fall. Once, twice, three times—fast—and then he’s up again. His fist is flung against the brick wall, and I see his face shatter in pain.
He draws his arm up to his chest, curls his shoulders inward, and turns to face the parking lot. For a long second, I can feel how much he wants to go.
Instead, he turns to face me.
Chapter Two
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.