The guy’s face drops its smug smile and goes slack. He reaches for a pen and signs the sheets quickly before pushing them into Jordan’s outstretched hand.
“There. Okay? God, I was just joking.” He shakes his bangs out of his eyes. “Please don’t post that video.”
“I was bluffing, man. I would never do that.” Jordan lets go of my wrist and smiles as he hands me my sheet. “But it was nice doing business with you.”
We’re halfway to the parking lot before I get my voice back.
“You remembered.”
Jordan slows.
“Yeah. Of course I remembered.”
I rub my wrist where he held it. I saw a counselor for a few years after my mom died, back when my anxiety first got really bad. It was terrible. I was getting sick at the smallest changes: a pop quiz, having to pick my own partner for a project in a class where I didn’t have any friends, you name it. My heart would start beating so fast it would feel like it was about to jump out of my chest. Until my counselor came up with a trick.
I would place two fingers on my wrist and try to feel my pulse, and if I could, count how many beats were occurring per minute. I kept time with my foot as I went along, just like I did when trying out a new piece’s rhythm in band. It was supposed to ground me, help me find my center—and it worked. I still do it even now.
It was so embarrassing though, feeling so out of control that I had to start using little tricks to keep from completely losing it that I never told anyone. Not even Gabi. But then, one day before our first band concert as first and second chair, Jordan caught me doing it while I was trying to hide behind one of the massive velvet curtains backstage.
“What’s wrong?” he asked as his big brown eyes searched my face for something I knew I couldn’t help but give away. “You look sick.”
“I am sick,” I answered, wiping at my eyes. I wasn’t crying yet, but the tears usually came right before the puke. “Or I’m gonna be. I’m supposed to do this when I’m scared. It usually calms me down.”
I could see the audience from where I stood, and my grandparents were front row center, Robbie playing with his 3DS. Granny already had a disposable camera out, ready to click away. It was a big deal, their first time seeing me play in front of a crowd. Even Grandad had put on a tie and a nice pair of slacks for the show. I couldn’t stand the thought of messing up in front of them, not when they looked so proud.
“Okay.” He looked out at the audience and then back to me. His parents weren’t going to be there, he’d told me earlier that day. His brother had a big football game out of town, so his dad was there watching him play and his mom was at her Pilates class. It was just him. “What do we do?”
And it was that simple. I told him about counting the beats, about taking deep breaths, and he stood in front of me mirroring my moves like it was the simplest thing in the world. And from then on out, for the rest of middle school, he did the same thing. Finally this ritual that I’d had to adopt to keep from completely falling apart wasn’t just mine anymore. I had someone to share it with.
I stop to look at him now, all tall and handsome and every bit as much of the all-American guy as his parents always wanted him to be. And I guess the guy that he wanted to be too.
“But, um, sorry about, like, touching you without your consent or whatever. You just looked really stressed when that guy started messing around. I know how you used to, you know …”
“Yeah. Well. You know. Um, thanks.” I hold up the sheet and start tucking it into my backpack. “I, uh—every point counts. So I appreciate it.”
He smiles, bright and brilliant and every bit the Jordan Jennings who I used to know. Like something has been unlocked, like whatever cool and collected attitude he’s mastered over the past four years has suddenly fallen away. And for a second, all I can do is smile back.
I’m not forgiving him—not even a little bit. But I think it might not be the worst thing in the world to make the best of working with him if I have to. Madame Simoné assigns partners at these events how and when she sees fit, and if there’s a chance we could get stuck together again, I should try not to be miserable when it happens. I don’t know if people ever really change, but for the sake of this race, I think I might be willing to hope.
“You’re only a few days into the campaign, Lizzie.” Robbie’s voice is low as he hands me a sudsy dish to rinse and dry. “So what, Gabi’s weird algorithm has you a little behind where you wanna be?”
Granny is getting changed into her scrubs for the night shift at the nursing home, and Grandad is already dozing in front of the TV, but Robbie and I are whispering to each other just in case.
“I’m not ‘a little behind,’ Ro. Out of twenty-five girls in this race, I’m currently ranked twenty-fourth. And that’s only because Cameron Haddix has worn the same tracksuit for three years straight and is still trying to convince everyone that Maria Sharapova is her long-lost cousin.” I groan. “It’s not hard to beat her.”
“Okay, first of all, that tracksuit is vintage Adidas. They don’t even make those anymore! So I feel like you should put some respect on her look.”
I roll my eyes. Four days into the race, and while Gabi and Stone’s magical algorithm has had everyone else bouncing around in the polls, my name has remained firmly at twenty-four. I went up one spot, thanks to Cameron’s tracksuit affinity and her already missing a community service event, but other than that, no luck. Yesterday I even tried on some of the pieces that G had sent over to my house in a moment of desperation.
The bright red cable-knit cardigan I’m wearing isn’t exactly my style, but I have to admit that it’s pretty cozy. It feels like a million bucks—literally. I didn’t even bother looking at the price tag before I tore it off.
“Okay, seriously though, you and Jordan have been getting chummy, right?” He hands me another plate and looks at me like he knows something he shouldn’t. “Campbell Confidential won’t shut up about it. And some of it is … not flattering.”
I wouldn’t say “chummy,” but Jordan and I were paired together for both our community service activities this week. It wasn’t exactly easy, being around him again. But he’s still charming, and still funny, so it was easy to halfway forget to be mad at him. Like earlier this week, for instance, we cleaned the art room, and for a second it was almost like old times.
We’d been working in silence for a while in the art room when he said, “It’s kinda cool that you’re running, you know.” Jordan smiled at me over the basketful of rubber glue in his arms. We were tucked away from the rest of the candidates who got assigned to classroom-cleaning duty, and it was less intimidating to be honest with each other when no one else was around. “It’s good to have you with me in the trenches.”
“Trenches? You make this sound like we’re going to war.”
He scrunched up his nose like he was getting ready to sneeze and the diamond stud in his nose glinted in the art room’s fluorescent light. Jordan is the only jock I know who could pull off a nose ring and have nobody say anything shady about it. But also, when you’re hot enough to’ve been a Riverdale cast member in another life, and your dad played for the Colts for eight years, you can kind of do whatever you want.