Starlee's Turn (The Wayward Sons 2)

His jaw tightens and he pushes his glasses back with his finger. “I’m not sure if I can do it.”

“Well, if it matters,” I say, linking our fingers, “I can help.”

If we were in a cartoon, I think Charlie’s eyes would have bulged from his head and his heart burst from his chest. My cheeks burn and I stammer, “I-I’m not talking about sex or anything.”

“I didn’t think that,” he says a little too aggressively.

“I know, but I just wanted to make it clear. You and I both need to be a little more social—do a few more things. I think maybe you can help me, too.”

“How?”

“I think I n

eed to make some friends at school—female friends. Are you in any clubs?”

“Just the tutoring—which is really a punishment.”

“Well, maybe we can both join a club together, and it will show Sierra that you’re doing things besides playing video games, and I won’t be so scared to walk into the club alone.”

He thinks about it for a moment and I don’t miss the sideways glance he gives to his computer. Jeez. He exhales and says, “Okay. That may work.”

I smile. “Good, and if you do that with me, I won’t tell her that you’re hiding out over here.”

“You won’t?”

“No. And you can keep it up—and when you’re at home be a functional member of the family.”

He nods. “Okay I can do that. Join a club. Don’t be a dick.”

I laugh but immediately feel better. He needs this, as much as I do.

17

Starlee

I survive the first week of school. Class changes, homework, the maze of hallways, P.E., and the thirty-minute drive to and from school with Dexter that’s a test on my nerves and personal self-control.

When I get up on Friday morning, my first thought is to how I can’t wait to get home and put on my pajamas, binge-watch season nine of Supernatural and eat the leftover pastries in the refrigerator. But I can’t. It’s Friday night and everyone is focused on one thing.

Football.

The building is draped in school colors, blue and gray. The mascot—a mammoth—is aggressively emblazoned on banners and signs and shirts and jackets. George and Jake wear their jerseys, and girls--led by Christina Albright--dressed in short skirts and glittery bows flit around the halls. There’s a charged energy in the air that’s contagious, and even Dexter seems into it.

“There’s not a lot to do around here,” he explains, leaning against the locker next to mine. “Football is just something we do.”

“I thought football was just a big deal in the south.”

“Nope. It’s all over. The Rose Bowl is in California. The Forty-Niners. We’re all in.”

I touch the gray mammoth shirt under his flannel. “I didn’t know school spirit would look so sexy on you.”

“That jersey looks pretty good on you, too.”

I’d been given a football jersey the day before—no name or number on the back. I’m supporting two members of the team, so it didn’t seem fair to pick one over the other. It’s massive and I’m wearing it like a dress over a pair of black leggings.

“It’s weird,” I say, slamming my locker shut. The halls are thinning. The bell is about to ring.

“What’s weird?”