Starlee's Turn (The Wayward Sons 2)

His eyes connect with mine and my knees and resolve weaken.

“Find everything?” Ms. Peterman asks, popping her head in the doorway. She takes one look at us and shakes her head. “Starlee, I know you’re new here but don’t let this knucklehead drag you down. George, stop flirting and show her the stacks of magazines and anything else not already on the table.”

He fakes affront at his teacher’s ribbing but I’m horrified; being called out by a teacher on my first real day of school. I find the stack of magazines and grab a few before heading back to the table. A few kids whisper as I pass but I ignore them, studying the sample on the board, which seems to be mostly a collage representation of our personalities, and start cutting out pieces with the scissors from the container on the desk.

George eases into his seat across from me.

“You okay?”

“Of course, I’m not okay. I got yelled at by a teacher,” I whisper, keeping my head down.

“I don’t think I’d consider that yelling. Especially at you.”

I flip through the magazine pages, looking for images and designs I like. The other students already have a thick pile of clippings on their table. I feel the surge of anxiety as I realize I’m not only behind but the teacher thinks I’m a screw-up.

“Starlee?”

My stomach twists but I push back. “I’m fine. I just need to focus on this, okay?” I give him a small, reassuring smile. I’m not upset with him. I’m just…well, me. “We’ll talk after class.”

He does as I ask, pulling out his own artwork—a pen and ink drawing. It’s a struggle not to watch him work. Despite being a clumsy, physical train wreck everywhere else, his fingers are graceful and long. Elegant and skilled. After I’ve added a few things to my collage stack, I ask, “Is that an assignment?”

“No. Not really. It’s for my art school portfolio. I need a variety of samples of my work and Ms. Peterson is making sure I have all the criteria covered.”

“It’s really good.”

“Thank you.” He glances at my pile of clippings and picks one up. It’s a dog in a basket. “You’re going to need to cut those smaller and jeez, who taught you how to cut? These edges are all jagged.”

“No they’re not,” I say, reaching for it. He holds it out of reach and we shift to a standoff of sorts. “Give it back.”

“I will,” he says, then lowers his voice. “But only if you forgive me for being a dick back there.”

I scan the room, making sure none of the younger students are listening or if Ms. Peterman is in earshot. Neither seem to be a paying attention, but I’m not getting in trouble again. Quietly I whisper, “Deal.”

He picks up my scissors and trims the edges of my clipping, making the edges round and smooth. “Like that.”

“Got it.”

His foot taps against mine under the table and my nerves settle a little. Going to school with these guys is both the best and worst thing for me. They’re too confident and comfortable and I’m just…well, neither of those things, but I knew I was signing up for an adventure when I came out here and reverting back to my old ways isn’t an option.

I have a feeling my Wayward Sons won’t let me, either.

“How do you know Hollingsworth?” a voice asks over the echoing noises in the locker room. I’ve just wiggled into my clean T-shirt and I turn to see a dark-haired girl with smooth, perfect skin not quite making eye contact. She’s wearing a tank with Sierra Academy Cheer across the boobs in glitter. Tiny panties barely cover her butt and I desperately force myself not to cover my boy shorts.

“Me?” I ask stupidly.

“Yes, you,” she says with an invisible eyeroll.

“He lives next door to me—well, my grandmother—but yeah.” The noise has settled down and everyone, regardless of them looking our way or not, is focused on our conversation.

“So, you know all the foster boys.”

It rankles me that she calls them that. Foster boys. What kind of title is that? “I know all the boys that live next door, sure. We hung out all summer.”

“Oh,” she says, a trace of the meanness leaving her eyes. “That makes sense. Proximity. Why did you miss the first week of school?”

My ears burn from all the questions. I don’t like being under the spotlight and I certainly am not used to being the focus of a girl like this. I left popular girls and cheerleaders behind in middle school. I’m not sure how to navigate.

The truth seems easiest.