In Harmony

I snorted and slouched into the empty chair on her left, stretching my legs into the aisle. Doug Keely, the captain of the football team two seats over, hissed between his teeth to get Justin Baker’s attention. Justin, a baseball player, looked around. Doug jerked his chin at the new girl, eyebrows up, and mouthed the word hot.

Justin mouthed back, Smokin’.

“All right, class.” Mr. Paulson stood at the front of the room. It was only a few minutes after eight and he already had chalk dust on his pleated pants. “I trust you all had a restful holiday break. We have a new student at George Mason. Please give a hearty Mason Mavericks welcome to Willow Holloway. She comes to us all the way from New York City.”

New York.

The classroom rustled as kids turned to give Willow the once-over. A few raised hands in a cursory greeting. A murmured “Hey,” here and there. Only Angie McKenzie—the yearbook editor and queen of the geek squad—gave her a genuine smile that Willow didn’t return.

She mustered a throaty “Hi” that sent a shiver up my spine. Willow Holloway looked like her namesake—beautiful, delicate, and weeping. Not on the outside, but on the inside. Martin Ford trained me to observe people by how they inhabited their bodies instead of what they said or did. This girl ran deep. Her eyes had given her away when we’d locked stares.

Of course she’s sad, I thought. She had to trade New York City for Harmony-fucking-Indiana.

“Scorching,” Doug whispered to Justin Baker, drawing the word into three syllables and Justin grinned.

Fucking meatheads.

But they weren’t wrong. All through class, my eyes were drawn to Willow Holloway, keenly aware of how opposite we were. She wasn’t immaculately put together—slightly disheveled, with long, thick hair that looked a little wild. But her boots and jeans screamed money. Her oval face was porcelain smooth, as if she hadn’t spent a day in her life working under a harsh sun or biting wind. And as of that morning, she was likely a good two years younger than me.

Too young, I thought, even as my eyes stumbled on the swell of breasts under her cashmere sweater and got stuck there, along with that mass of just-climbed-out-of bed hair that my hands itched to touch.

Who’s the fucking meathead now?

I shifted in my seat, reminding myself I had all the legal-aged ass I could handle, one text or phone call away. Still, for the rest of class, my entire damn body was acutely conscious of Willow beside me. When the bell rang, I lingered in my seat to watch her rise. She gathered her books with a lackadaisical confidence, as if she’d been at George Mason for years instead of minutes.

She turned to me with a dry smile. “You can have your seat back tomorrow.”

I met her gaze steadily, silently.

She shrugged, and walked away, flipping that incredible mass of soft hair over her shoulder. It swished to one side, then the other, settling in a curtain reaching nearly to her waist.

Forget it, I told myself. Too young, too rich, too…everything you’re not.

I’d been poor as shit for my entire life. I’d learned to roll with it most days. Other times, like this morning, it punched me in the teeth.

Willow

“Please give a hearty Mason Mavericks welcome to Willow Holloway. She comes to us all the way from New York City.”

I smiled blandly at my new classmates. The jocks in the letterman jackets, a clear agenda behind their friendly smiles. The girl with the dark curly hair and the freckles across her pale skin who was no doubt going to pounce on me the second the bell rang. The rebel-without-a-cause badass whose seat I’d taken…

Everyone was easy to ignore except for him.

Holy hell, I’d never seen a more stunningly gorgeous guy in my life. At least six-two with broad shoulders, lean muscle, and a movie-star face. Impossibly perfect features. High cheek bones, bristly chiseled jaw, thick brows, full lips. His eyes were gray-green, like the sea off of Nantucket in winter.

All of him was stormy and cold, with an undertow of danger. His black leather jacket smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and I wouldn’t be surprised if he kept a switchblade down his boot. Even the way he looked at me felt dangerous. My body reacted instantly, all over, as if his scrutinizing gaze went deeper than skin. He looked at me like he could see me.

You’re overreacting, girl. Like, a lot.

I fixed my eyes on the window and its bleak landscape of gray skies and dirty snow. This was all wrong. The first day of school was supposed to be at the end of summer, when the heat hasn’t quite given in to chillier autumn breezes. Not the middle of winter with snow blanketing the ground and only a few months remained before graduation.

It would’ve sucked, if I still had the capacity to give a shit if I made friends or not. I was trapped in my own perpetual winter. Sealed in a cube of apathetic ice, like one of those mummies they show on the Discovery Channel. They looked so life-like but on the inside… Nothing.

I used to like school. I looked forward to the day. My friends could be moody and dramatic, but they were my friends. The workload was either overwhelming or mind-numbingly boring, but I took pride in my grades. In the months after the party, I hated watching my GPA sink lower and lower, taking my college prospects with them. I hated how I worried my parents, even if it was a peripheral kind of concern.

I looked around the classroom, safe in my ice coffin. I wanted to be friendly. But friendly led to friends. Friends led to phone calls and texts and late-night talks under the covers. Warm, dangerous conditions that made icy barricades melt and terrible secrets were liable to pour out on a torrent of never-ending tears.

Forget it. These kids could like me or hate me or ignore me—my preferred option—and I wouldn’t feel the difference. Even James Dean next to me. He could have his damn chair back tomorrow. I didn’t need him and his stormy green eyes digging under my skin.