Then Ella laughs, a joyful sound that warms me to my bones. “You’re disgusting.”
“I don’t think that’s really what you think.”
A slight blush hits her cheeks, and she shakes her head. “You really love yourself, don’t you?”
I waggle my brows. “What’s not to love?”
She shrugs. “I can think of a few things. We can start with your arrogance.”
I lean in. She doesn't back away. There’s a challenge inher eyes, and it spurs me on. “It’s only arrogance if it's not true.”
“I don’t think that’s how it works.”
“Are you sure?” I flash a dazzling smile at her.
She laughs again and pushes me away. “You’re trouble, did you know that?”
Her hand is still touching my chest when I say, “Yeah, but I think you like it.”
The words are out before I can take them back. Both of our smiles drop, and Ella pulls her hand back.
“I…uh, should go find Hardy and Lily.” She hitches her thumb over her shoulder.
I clear my throat. “Yeah. Of course.”
Ella disappears behind one of the canvas pictures. There’s a slight tremor in my hands, and I occupy them by tucking my shirt back into my shorts.
What is happening?
13
MOST LIKELY TO BE AN INFLUENCER
“We should do poems,”someone says.
“No, short stories,” says another.
“What about romance?” a quiet voice from the back suggests, and everyone boos.
The creative writing club meets every Wednesday during lunch, and every meeting has looked exactly the same: a lot of talk about what we should be writing with no actual writing anywhere to be seen. Since I joined late and most of the other students have been in this club for the last couple of years, I choose not to contribute. I sit off to the side of the room with my lunch tray and listen as everyone else argues.
Mrs. Grafton has tried to encourage us to put together some kind of anthology of our work and has graciously offered to edit and publish it for us. The idea is to have a book to showcase at the end of the school year. At this rate,we’ll be lucky to have written one coherent sentence by the time I graduate.
At least it’ll look good for Citrus Scholar.
I use my plastic fork to mix my dressing into my salad then take a bite. I’m half-listening, half thinking about the chess club that gathers across the hall. They also meet on Wednesdays during lunch, and while I’ve never bumped into him in the hall, I recently discovered that Connor Williams is a member.
I’m not really sure if this is a new development or if he’s been involved all of high school. He’s not in any of the yearbook pictures from previous years, but David accidentally let it slip that he had a chess match last week—and won. When I asked for more details, David’s lips became a steel trap. Now, I’m dying to know more.
I look at the small window in the door hoping for a small glimpse of what’s happening over there, but I can’t see anything. Meanwhile, the battle in the creative writing club wages on.
“What if we did a collection of horror stories?”
“I don’t like scary stuff.”
“We could write an original myth?”
“Something nonfiction?”
