She walks over to the sink, opens the faucet, and lets the water run. I’m not sure why she turned the tap on, because she doesn’t rinse her bowl of cereal or the juicer she used to press oranges. She just stands there, gripping the edge of the sink.
“Like what?”
“You’re going to be late,” she says way too long after I asked. She finally pulls the juicer apart with jerky movements, then sponges each piece of black plastic vigorously.
Not much ruffles Mom.
Just Dad and music.Why?
Pulse skittering with perplexity, I plop my bowl into the sink, then give my mother a quick hug, because I sense she needs one.
On my way to school, I listen to my peppiest playlist, but it does little to lighten my sullenness. My mood worsens when I spot a black Range Rover driving parallel to me.
As I peer through the window, my bike swerves a little. It’s not Tennessee at the wheel, though, just some mom with two kids strapped into the backseat. Relieved, I straighten my trajectory, concentrating on not getting myself run over, even though I wouldn’t have to go to school if I did.
As I turn into Reedwood’s parking lot, I scan the rows of cars for Ten’s. I don’t see it. Maybe he asked to transfer to another school. Or maybe he begged his dad to stay home too, and his father—unlike my mother—showed some compassion.
I snatch my notebook from my locker just as the second bell rings, and Mrs. Larue’s plucky voice crackles from the PA system. “When you judge another, you do not define them, you define yourself.”
Ha! Take that, Ten.
My suspicions about Mrs. Larue being a spy strengthen as I enter the classroom. The table I share with Ten is empty. I sink into my cold, hard chair, then dig through my tote for my homework sheet. Legs appear in front of me. Long legs. Clad in jeans. I follow the legs up to a white T-shirt with red lettering that readsI SPEAK FRENCH, then to the sharp Adam’s apple and the jaw coated by dark scruff.
I don’t look any higher. Instead, I shift on my chair, then pull my elastic off my ponytail and let my hair settle around my face like a privacy screen. I try to focus on the lecture, but it’s like trying to focus on a conversation during a concert.
I tap my foot, jiggle my knee.
This is torture. Just torture.
I’m about to stick my hand up to be excused to go to the infirmary when a large hand claps my knee. Stills it.
I jerk my face toward Tennessee.
“Please stop,” he murmurs, pulling his hand away.
Without doing it on purpose, I go back to bouncing my knee. I can feel him glaring at it throughout class, probably tempted to pin it down.
A scrap of paper lands on my sheet of homework.What’s wrong?
Is he serious? Has he forgotten how weird he acted toward me at the mall? I avert my gaze from the note and feign great interest in the equation written on the whiteboard.
He filches his note back and scribbles:Is it because I lied about hating music?
I shake my head.
Then what?he writes.
You looked at me as though I was a nutcase in that shop.
You’re mad at me because of the way I looked at you?
Now that I see it in writing, it does seem a little silly.Forget it.
New words appear on the piece of paper:How much has Jade told you about my family?
She hasn’t told me anything. Just that your dad is an entertainment lawyer. Why?Frowning, I finally glance up at him.
Ten’s cheek dimples. He must be biting it, because he doesn’t have dimples.
