I don't want to see his smirking face, so after I kill the ignition, I grab my denim blue backpack and step out, walking with long strides toward the narrow swatch of grass that runs along the left side of the main school building. I don't even bother locking the car door. Let him do it. If he doesn't, let some fucker steal my iPhone charger and a bunch of Wendy’s napkins.
I have to cut across a breezeway that adjoins the main building to the agriculture science wing. Then I'm in the patch of grass that leads to the walkway beside the arts wing. Music, art, choral, and band are housed here in this add-on.
One knock on the exterior door of the band room, and another kid—Alonzo—lets me into the big, open space, which always smells like gum and carpet. It doesn't take me long to grab the sheet music I need to practice my drum parts in my mind during my new classes. I should have played a lot more at home in the last few weeks, but I knew that prick would comment on it, so I've avoided practicing at the house unless he's gone.
I arrive in homeroom early. No one's in here except Landry—Simmons, I think her last name is—and Robby Hartford. I unzip my backpack, pull my schedule out, and refresh. I'm in homeroom for forty-five minutes, which will mostly be spent studying. After that, it’s first period government and civics with Mr. Lavers. Second period is calculus, followed by junior and senior lunch. Then I’ve got AP British lit, physics with Eeyore-ish Dr. Bumble, yearbook with Ms. Cern, and gym and band.
Not a bad schedule.
I look at my sheet music until my homeroom teacher, Mr. Burns from calculus, steps into the room, followed by a spurt of students. Everyone is wearing nicer clothes than normal, acting amped for the first day.
"Let's get up and line the wall,” Mr. Burns says. “When everyone is here, I'll call you out in alphabetized order. This is just a study period. It's easier for me to mark you absent or not if I see you in the same spot daily. Apologizes to A through Es and the Ws through Zs. I'm sure this arrangement must get tiresome."
I gather my stuff up, put it back into my book bag, and stand beside Landry. That's when Ezra walks into the room.
Ezra
I can feel his eyes on my back all through homeroom. I didn't think about it before, but I'm Masters and he's Miller, so this shouldn’t be a surprise.
Quitting all that shit today was not a good idea. By lunchtime, my brain and eyes are tracking half a second behind real time. I feel like I’m withdrawing for real—weird and twitchy, and I can't get full breaths. I sit with Brennan, Marcel, Cara, Landry, James, and some other people whose names I can’t remember. When Brennan asks me where Miller is, I shrug.
“Is he supposed to be here?” I manage.
"Sometimes. He could be outside with Jenna—Whatley,” Brennan tells me. “Sometimes they do that."
"Do they date?" asks Landry, who just transferred here last year.
"I don't think so," Cara tells her. "They’re just long-time best friends."
I drape an arm around her shoulders, planning to toy with one of her braids for the benefit of James, who’s a few seats down. Right at that moment, Miller walks by. He's not with Jenna. He's alone, holding a lunch tray.
Brennan whistles then waves at him. Mills holds up a hand but heads the other way.
“Sometimes your bro ditches us for the band dorks.” Brennan chuckles. “I’m just kidding. All of them are my friends, too.”
Cara leans against me, and I get a long whiff of her girly hair stuff. It makes me feel sick. I try to follow the conversation and eat some of my lunch, but it's a losing battle. I can see Miller out of the corner of my eye, sitting next to some guy with green hair, as I chew a bite of my cold pizza. It sits heavy in my stomach, so I don't have more.
"You must have that high-brow taste in pizza," Cara teases.
"I had a huge breakfast," I lie.
When the lunch bell rings, Miller goes the other way, so I don’t see him as I walk to gym. By that time, I'm so fucked up from my impromptu withdrawal, I can barely get my legs to move as we run laps around the track. My heart's beating way too hard. I try to keep my face neutral so no one can tell, but as I round the corner of the field, I hear a man’s low, "Football? You okay?"
The coach that's overseeing gym today is Hartselle; I think he’s the basketball one. He waves me to him, asks me to remind him of my name, and listens to my bullshit story about hitting my eye on the nightstand.