“You think we should hook up one last time?” I whisper into his ear, doing my best impression of a seductive temptress.
He nods.
“How about this?” I say, leaning in closer and letting my lips brush across his ear. His breath catches and his fingers dig into my hips. I draw in a deep breath, drop to my feet, and slap him across the face. “Go fuck yourself.”
Chapter Five
For the first eleven years of my school life, the last week of summer break always flew by at warp speed, bringing an agonizing end to the greatest part of the year. This week has been an exception to that rule. The last nine days have been the universe’s cruel experiment in making time crawl. Like the clocks in a Dali painting, each minute has dripped by, seeming to take years in the span of seconds. It doesn’t help that I’ve barely left my room.
My eyes open and I know it’s Monday morning. The Monday before school starts on Wednesday. I roll over onto my back and my lip curls because I can smell myself. I haven’t showered in a few days—I say few because I am too embarrassed to think back to how many actual days have passed since I last showered, leaning against the glass wall, crying while the hot water washed over my body, scalding away the grime but doing absolutely nothing to cleanse my heart.
The sun shines through the massive bay window in my room, so I know it’s late enough that I have the house alone. My parents are at work, going about their lives because the world still spins for them. A glance at my cell phone tells me that’s it’s eleven in the morning. Oh, and that I have exactly zero new messages and just as many missed calls. Nate hasn’t so much as sent me a tongue-sticking-out emoji since he shattered my heart at Alexander’s stupid party. You’d think he’d have sent me something—anything—since the day that ruined my life. Especially since I’ve sent him exactly one text a day since he left me. But nope. He’s moved on. Maybe he lost his phone or maybe he’s dead, but even as I think those things I know they aren’t true. Nate Miles doesn’t love me anymore.
And that is the worst truth of all.
With a painful swallow in my dry throat, I push up on my elbows and sit up in bed. Pain rushes into my head, but it’s nothing I haven’t been feeling all week. My eyes are swollen but somehow tears still flood them when I think back to that night with Nate. There’s a water bottle and an empty box of tissues on my nightstand. The t-shirt I started crying into when the tissues ran out sits on my comforter next to me, already dried from last night’s tears.
I am a mess. But I can’t seem to make myself care.
My phone beeps, but it doesn’t send my heart into a panic because it’s the sound I’ve saved to indicate my mother’s messages. When any inkling of hope that your ex is reaching out to you makes you panic, it is imperative to assign everyone else a different ringtone. With a sigh, I grab the phone and read her text.
Mom: Make sure you’re awake in time for orientation, sweetheart! 1pm. Love you!!
Two exclamation marks. Like going to a new school and losing your boyfriend because of it is something to be excited about—something that deserves exclaiming. I snort out a laugh and tears sting my eyes. I throw off the blankets and step out of bed onto achy legs that haven’t carried me around in days. A small voice in the back of my mind tells me that I can get through this, somehow.
I’m still wondering where that thought came from when I step out of the shower thirty minutes later.
Granite Hills High looks as flashy as the name implies. My hands shake on the steering wheel as I navigate the many signs around campus that point to each of the four student parking lots surrounding the school. Finally, I find a lot called SENIOR and assume I’m in the right place and pull into a parking spot between a newer model Escalade and a flashy sports car with a logo I’ve never seen before. I shrivel in the driver’s seat of my ’08 model silver Honda Civic. Already, I don’t fit in with these people.
This school is more like a massive compound of bricks and decorative glass. Four stories tall, made of tan and white bricks, the imposing building scowls down on me as I make my way through the parking lot toward what looks like the front of the school.
A massive pavilion with a rounded glass roof overlooks a granite fountain at the entrance. Granite Hills High School is emblazoned across the wall in shiny silver letters that are probably as tall as I am. A dozen flagpoles line the walkway, featuring the American and Texas flags, followed by school flags for each of their sports teams.
I swallow and keep my head up as I follow the flow of students entering the building. They all seem to know what they’re doing here, so I play along, trying to ignore the lump in my throat and the
anxious clawing feeling in my gut.
Police officers stand around the entrance, arms crossed and stoic expressions on their faces. I remember hearing that Granite Hills has their own police department because the school is so huge. As I filter in the school, mixing in the crowd of students, the first pleasant thought about this place comes to mind. A girl could be invisible in a school this huge. Maybe a little invisibility is what I need.
Another fountain decorates the school’s lobby, a bronze wildcat statue in the middle of it, its massive claws posed in an attack position. Wildcat Pride is all over the place, blue and white versions of the same stuff we had in green and gold back at Deer Valley High. I walk on shiny white marble floors, past the office that looks like a million-dollar business suite instead of a place to turn in tardy slips. There are posters and awards and a long hallway lined with every flag of every country that hangs from the ceiling. I am overwhelmed and surrounded by students who pay me no attention at all.
“Seniors, this way!” a woman dressed in a blue and white Wildcats shirt shouts, cupping her hands to her mouth. She waves a hand toward the right, and I follow her, branching off with the other seniors. Another woman yells for freshmen and sophomores, pointing them to the left. A middle-aged man who is obviously a coach, judging by the whistle around his neck, calls for Juniors to meet in gym number four, wherever that is.
I blend into the crowd, only recognizing a couple of people from my old school. I didn’t really know them so I don’t bother trying to strike up a conversation. Besides, friendly facades and pointless chit-chat are a little impossible to make at the moment. Maybe when my heart isn’t still shredded beneath my ribcage; maybe if that time ever comes, I’ll try making a friend.
We head down a hallway with skylights lining the roof and professionally designed posters advertising clubs, teams, and organizations of the school. All of Deer Valley’s posters are hand painted on poster board. There’s a line of tables outside of the entrance to the library. My mouth falls open as I gaze through the floor to ceiling windows that peer inside, showing only a fraction of the bookshelves that fill the room. There are couches and cushy chairs, another fountain, walls and walls of books.
“Excuse me?” someone says in my direction. I look up and find a short woman with curly brown hair, wearing a Wildcats t-shirt. She smiles at me while holding a radio in one hand and a clipboard in another. “Are you a new student, or returning?”
“New,” I say. My voice feels like I haven’t used it in years.
“Great, you’ll be in one of those lines,” she says with all the high-pitched excitedness of a talk show host as she points toward three extra tables at the end of the line. “And welcome to Granite Hills!”
Okay if the dress code requires that kind of perkiness, I should probably drop out now. I give her the best smile I can manage. Every table is labeled with letters of the alphabet. I take a spot in line in front of the table marked R-Z.
A group of guys stand around in the A-K table for the line of returning students. They’re all buff and tall and could easily be a clone of the football jocks back at home. I mean, at my old school. One of them, a muscular guy taller than the rest with blond hair cropped short, looks over the crowd of new students, his eyes surveying the lot. There’s maybe forty of us here, and I doubt there are many more Deer Valley students on the way. It was a small rezoning, one that left all of my friends on the other side of the line.
His eyes meet mine for a second, and then they travel on, taking in the view. I move two steps forward in the line and glance back at him. He’s not exactly interesting—more like familiar in a comforting sort of way. I don’t know why I watch him, other than for something to do besides think of Nate. He taps his friend’s arm with the back of his hand. “There’s a few hotties from that other school,” he says, one dimple appearing in his cheek when he smirks. “Might be good since you’ve ran through all the hotties here.”