He just laughs, completely unbothered. “I’m serious about what I said earlier. You look good tonight. Like…dangerouslygood.”
“Careful,” I say dryly. “Flattery might actually work if you weren’t you.”
The whole table erupts at that, everyone except Devon.
Beck
Age 14
“Remember when you said you hated sports?” Gracie teases, and I try very hard not to stare at her cheer skirt.
It’s pleated. Yellow and red. It sways when she moves, bright and impossible to ignore. When she bends to grab her pom-poms off the gym floor, my brain short-circuits, and I look away fast, face burning.
“It’s just hormones,” Mom said when I made a rare confession that I was starting to notice girls.
I didn’t tell her it wasonegirl. Onevery specificgirl. The one who’s been in our house at least six days a week for as long as I can remember.
Hormones were also her explanation for why I’d shot up seven inches in a year. For my voice cracking mid-sentence. For the hair where there hadn’t been any before. For the way my body feels unfamiliar lately, too big, too loud, too aware.
“I still hate sports,” I mutter, leaning closer to Gracie so my teammates and coaches don’t hear. I reach back and tighten the strap that holds my glasses in place. Sometimes they fog up when I run. “I didn’t even try out, remember?”
We’re in the gym. Eighth grade. Junior high, one step up from elementary school. At least we have a real science lab now, with Bunsen burners and counters Gracie claimed before anyone else. She got special permission to come in early. Run her own experiments.
I don’t think the other kids know, even her so-called friends. She’s gotten prettier, more popular. It’s like she’s living a double life. The science nerd she only shows to me and the head cheerleader the rest of the school sees. She doesn’t pretend she’s dumb. Doesn’t act like a ditz, but she keeps her best parts quiet. It almost makes me angry, but then…I also like it. That I’m the only one she trusts enough to let the mask slip.
“But you’re doing so good!” Gracie says. She knocks the basketball out of my hands and bounces it a few times before handing it back. “Top scorer last game.”
I snort. “Because I’m three inches taller than everyone else.”
That’s the truth. The real reason the basketball coach approached me, asked me to join the team, why he starts me every game. Because I’m already six feet.
I almost said no.
Then I realized playing basketball meant games. Games meant cheerleaders. And cheerleaders meant Gracie.
I’m not an idiot. I joined the team immediately.
“Once the other kids catch up in height, I’ll ride the bench, Gracie. I’m not that great.” I don’t want to disappoint her. Or myself when she stops cheering for me. It’d felt a little too good these past few games, watching her jump up and down beaming when I made a shot.
“Like I care,” she says, socking me in the shoulder playfully. “Don’t you know, Beck?”
She looks at me, her eyes warm and certain.
“I’ll cheer for you, no matter what you do.”
Gracie
Present
Trish sees him first. I can tell by the way she straightens, runs her fingers through her hair, and tugs the deep V of her shirt a little lower, showing off some serious cleavage.
I turn to follow her gaze, and, sure enough, there he is.
Beck.
He weaves through the crowd toward us, easy and familiar, our drinks balanced in one hand like he’s done this a million times, which he has. Growing up, he worked lots of side jobs—washing cars, the burger joint, waiting tables. I did the same, except my jobs were more often in the mall, selling clothes and make-up. Poor kids with single moms learn fast. How not to drop the glass. Not to rip the clothing. Not to make mistakes that get you fired.
Our moms needed money, not excuses.
