“Yeah?”

Bryce chimes in. “We needed a fine arts class and thought playing around in the clay with hot girls sounded fun last year when we signed up.” He waves his hand in front of him. “But, so far, no hot girls.”

“Oh, gee, thanks,” I tease.

“Well, besides you, of course,” Jake says. “But I think Whitney would kill me if she heard that.” Then he pats the empty stool next to him. “Sit here.”

“Do you like Whitney? I heard you’ve been making out with her a lot. At the dance. At the party.”

“We’ve been making out. And why not? She’s gorgeous.”

Jake is pretty much gorgeous himself, but he seems way too nice to be with someone like Whitney.

“What about her college boyfriend?”

“He’s not here. So who cares? Besides, she’s going to break up with him.”

“You know Dawson’s still in love with her, right?”

“Yeah, but we’ve talked about it. We’re not going to let it interfere with our friendship. Plus, she’s hot.”

Bryce grins. “I don’t know what Jake will do, but I know I’d step up my game for a shot at that.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s a hot piece, if you know what I mean.” Bryce pushes his elbow into my arm and grins again. Like I couldn’t possible know what he means and his grin somehow clarifies it for me. “And Jake isn’t the only one she’s been kissing.”

I look at Jake. “So, do you just want her for sex, or do you actually like her?”

“Why can’t it be both?” he says simply.

I contemplate that.

And come to the same conclusion I always do.

Guys make no freaking sense.

After class, I walk with Bryce and Jake to the café and go through the lunch line with them.

Jake says, “Come sit with us.”

I follow him to the table. The table I swore I would never sit at again.

I stand in front of it and look down. It’s just like any other long wooden table in the place.

We’ve celebrated holidays all over the world. Mom once told me that it doesn’t matter where you are, what matters is who is sitting with you.

I think about who’s sitting at our table at my old school. I imagine Vanessa hitting on Cush. Running her long nails through his hair and telling him all the things she wants to do to him.

“We don’t have assigned seats,” Bryce says to me, tearing me away from my thoughts. “Just sit anywhere.”

I don’t want to be rude, so I sit down next to Bryce and across from Jake.

The boys are telling Tyrese about what a joke Ceramics class is going to be when Whitney, Peyton, and three other pretty girls sit down. The three girls all scrunch up their noses at me, like they just smelled sour milk.

Whitney gives me that you-don’t-belong-here look.

It’s a look I know well, having worn it on numerous occasions myself.

What the heck am I doing here?

I’m trying to come up with a graceful exit strategy when Dawson sits down on the other side of me and whispers in my ear, “You look adorable today.”

And I can’t help it. It makes me happy.

Mostly because I was a bit worried about how I look today. I’m wearing the little plaid pleated skort, a fitted blue and white pinstriped oxford, and the navy blazer. Then I have on white lace over-the-knee socks and navy suede Rag & Bone platform Mary Janes. My accessories are a combination of long gold and pearl necklaces, gold bangles, and a red leather Proenza Schouler bag. I adore the lace socks and the platforms, but no one else is wearing them. Whitney has on pantyhose—seriously, do people still wear pantyhose?—and a pair of navy square-heeled pumps. The leather looks buttery and expensive, but they still look like the kind of sensible shoes your grandma might wear to the country club.

Make that great-grandma.

But I don’t care. I’m not trying to fit in. I want to be me. And this version of their uniform is totally my style.

Whitney glares at me.

Dawson is oblivious to Whitney’s glares. He puts his hand on my knee, touching the top of my socks, and says in his you’re-so-going-to-fall-into-bed-with-me voice, “These are especially sexy.”

I am about ready to tell him to stop flirting with me when Whitney speaks to Jake in a loud voice. “Oh, Jakey, I just love the tie you have on today. Is it Fendi?” Then she rubs her hand down the front of his shirt and looks at the back of his tie.

She fawns over him and even gives him a kiss on the cheek.

Her fawning is aimed directly at Dawson. She’s talking and flirting with Jake, but her eyes are on Dawson, who hasn’t looked at her once because his attention has been focused on me and Bryce. He tells us all about his morning classes, then starts talking about the kind of wheels I should buy for my new Range Rover. That conversation morphs into an animated one about all the hottest cars they have ever seen.

The lunch-is-over bell rings.

I haven’t seen the Hottie today, but as I’m heading off to my next class, I spy him.

He’s dumping his trash into a trash barrel.

And looking way too sexy doing it.

But, still.

I’ll be damned if I am going to speak to him. He hasn’t spoken to me or texted me since the dances. He turns in my direction and I quickly look away. I certainly don’t want to look like I’m creeping on him.

That becomes an easy task when Dallas comes wandering over, throws his arm around my shoulder, and says, “Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

As we’re walking, he goes on and on about how he was able to see up some girl’s skirt in his last class. And how her panties were bright neon blue, and how She just didn’t look like the kind of girl to wear neon blue.

Then he starts trying to guess the underwear color of every girl we pass.

We get to my class and he says, “So what color are yours today?”

“I thought the whole point of your little game was to guess.”

“Hmm, do they match your socks, white and lacy?”

“Damn, you’re good,” I lie.

He grins big and walks off to class feeling all good about himself.

I’m wearing red lace, really, but, shh . . . don’t tell.

Mom always says red lace panties make you feel confident and sexy, even if no one ever sees them.

The back of my hair.

French.

I walk into French class and don’t see anyone I know, so I sit in a mid-row seat.

I feel my phone buzzing in my bag and take a peek at it. We aren’t supposed to use our phones during class, but I have a couple minutes before the last bell rings.

I see that Brooklyn has sent me a photo of himself. He’s in my favorite pair of Billabong board shorts and the only other thing he’s wearing is his leather cord necklace with the chaos symbol charm. I reach down and touch the tattoo on my hip, close my eyes, click my platforms together three times, and wish myself back home.

I open my eyes, see that I’m still here, sigh, and read his text.

B<3: It’s hard being here in Zarautz. Everywhere I look reminds me of you. Of our summer of waves.

Me: We did have fun there. Remember that night? When it was cold and we were the only two people on the beach?

B<3: One of the best nights of my life. Do you have plans for this weekend? I’ll be in Long Beach, NY. Can you come?

Me: I’d love to come.

B <3: Can’t wait to see you. Love you.

I look up. Aiden is standing over me reading my texts. He makes a hmphhh sound and sits down in the seat right behind me.

I sure hope the back of my hair looks okay.

And I know I went on to Science, Drama, and Soccer after that, but all I have been able to think about are four things.

1.) The back of my head is going to have to look sexy every day.

2.) Why didn’t Aiden talk to me?

3.) Is he done playing me? And, if so, why didn’t I get played with?

4.) I’m seeing Brooklyn in six days.

I think about how Garrett thinks Vincent will go to great lengths to find me.

I text Brooklyn again.

Me: Do you think it’s safe for me to see you?

B<3: I’ll have security. My dad will be there. I really don’t think he’s gonna fly all the way to NY on the off chance you might be there.

A lotta rage.

5:45pm

Dance team practice is over. Normally, we’re supposed to be done at 4:30, but today was super long. Peyton marches up to me, grabs my arm, and says, “You went out on a date with Dawson? After all I did for you?”

“All you did for me?”

“I got you to try out for dance. I put in a good word for you in soccer. And you go after Whitney’s ex?”

“From what I understand, a panel of judges decided who made the dance team, not you. And if you put in a good word for me about varsity soccer then I appreciate it, but I’m assuming a coach would not play me if I didn’t earn it, and I fully expect to earn a starting position.”

“Fine. What about Dawson?”

“What about him? We went out for pizza. Big deal.”

“He kissed you. Everyone saw.”

“So? Why does Whitney care? She’s made out with both Bryce and Jake. Which I find interesting since she has a college boyfriend.”

“She’s done with the college boy. She’s just moving on.”

“Well, maybe she should let Dawson move on too.”

“Oh, trust me, he’s moved on plenty.”

“No, he hasn’t. He’s hooked up, yes. But he hasn’t moved on. He hasn’t dated anyone even close to seriously.”

“You think he’ll be serious with you?”

“Absolutely not. We’re sorta becoming friends. We have a lot in common.”

“And what about my brother?”

“What about your brother?”

“He likes you.”

“No, he doesn’t. He did all that dances for points stuff and we had a great time, but it’s been two days and I haven’t seen or heard from him. Well, he is in my French class, but he just sat behind me and didn’t say a word to me. He hasn’t texted me, talked to me, nothing! And it’s not my fault he frickin quoted Keats, and I froze. It caught me off guard! He can be super romantic one minute and a stupid dick the next. He knows where to find me and, so far, he has not found me!”

“Well it doesn’t help that you’re making out with Dawson!”

“I have not made out with Dawson. I don’t know why you think that. We kissed. Once. I told you, we talk. And mostly, sadly, we talk about Whitney and your stupid brother. So back off!”

I spin on my heel, walk out the practice room door, and let it slam loudly behind me.

Shit!

I march into our dressing room, stuff my stupid pompoms in my locker, and leave.

I feel the need to kill something. Or hit something.

As I’m marching down the hall in the field house, I spy a large boxing bag in the fitness center.

I make a beeline for it.

No one is really in here, so I take my frustrations out on the bag.

I do all my kickboxing moves. I don’t even care that I’m still in my stupid practice dance skirt and probably look ridiculous.

Punching this bag feels really, really good.

I kick the bag first.

Then I grab a pair of gloves and start punching it over and over.

I hate stupid boys and stupid, bitchy, bossy girls.

I throw an uppercut to the bag’s chin, like if the bag had a chin. And, in my mind, the bag’s chin looks just like Peyton’s.

Then I throw one, two, three fast jabs straight into Whitney’s perfect nose. I picture it shattering and her crying out in pain as blood shoots out of her nostrils and her eyes begin to blacken.

I hate my life. Boom.

I hate stalkers. Boom.

Big swooping hook to the cheekbone or, better yet, the temple.

I hate getting chewed out for something I didn’t do.

Knockout punch. Bam, baby.

I love punching this bag.

I may have to come and do this daily.

I now know why Tommy started doing kickboxing. It’s probably a necessary stress relief when you live with six women, four of whom are under the age of five. Really, it’s a wonder he isn’t completely bonkers.

I shut my eyes and continue to punch my stress away. I hit the same spot over and over again.

I hear a voice go, “Damn, girl. Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

I open my eyes and see Tyrese and Ace.

“Hey, guys.”

“Who pissed you off? You gotta lot of rage in there, girl. And it’s only the first day,” Tyrese says.

I back up and wipe the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. “It doesn’t really matter.”

“Where’d you learn to punch like that?”

“I used to take kickboxing lessons.”

Tyrese says, “Let me guess. Whitney freaking about Dawes? I heard her bitching about you in Government today.”

I roll my eyes. “It was Peyton but, yeah, pretty much.”

“Dawson said you had fun at dinner.” Ace smiles. He’s much cuter when he smiles.

“We did. We’re freaks. He moaned about Whitney, and I complained about Peyton’s stupid brother.” I give the bag a solid right hook and then laugh. “I’ve been pretending this bag is his head.”

Ace coughs, and Tyrese rolls his eyes over his shoulder. Like someone is there. Like, behind me.

Tyrese says, “Hey, have fun. We gotta go.”

Someone taps me on my shoulder.

I turn around and am face to face with the stupid brother.