Ambition (Private 7)

"I don't know," I replied, glancing at Josh's disappearing form. I really didn't know. Considering everything I'd been through in the

past twenty-four hours, I should have been curled up in a ball somewhere, babbling incoherently.

"Maybe we can get together sometime and you can float some theories," West suggested. "I wouldn't mind a few tips before my

college interviews." I blinked at him. He was asking me out. This unusually tall person and his preppy hair were asking me out. The

near corpse of my relationship with Josh was, I hoped, still revivable, and this guy was asking me out. How did he even know Josh

and I had broken up? I had only told the Billings Girls. Was Josh spreading the word? Was he so psyched about his newfound freedom

that he was shouting it from rooftops everywhere? "Um, maybe. Can we talk about this later?" "Sure. What's your number? I'll text

you," West said. He typed in my phone number and gave me a smile before sauntering off.

"Wow, Reed," London said, sidling over to give me a hip-nudge. She looked West's departing form up and down like he was a

piece of meat and tossed her thick, artificially streaked hair over her shoulder. "Way to bounce back." "Are you kidding me?" I hissed

at her. "I just broke up with Josh, I'm not just going to start dating." "Who said anything about dating?" London replied. "Just hook up

with the guy. West is an excellent kisser," she said, smiling at him over my shoulder. I glanced back there as well. "Ew," I said, realiz-

ing that London knew from experience. "I have to go." There was only one guy I was interested in right now. The one fleeing the

scene--my scene--as fast as his squared sneakers would carry him.

TELL ME HOW YOU REALLY FEEL

As I approached the art studio, I couldn't ever remember feeling so nervous in my life. Not when I'd first arrived at Easton. Not

when I had been questioned by the police about Thomas Pearson's murder last year. Not when I thought I was about to be expelled.

Maybe on the Billings rooftop last winter when Ariana had been hell-bent on throwing me over the side. But that had been more terror

than nervousness. A trembling, knee-weakening, life-flashing-before-my-eyes kind of terror. This was almost worse. Because there

was hope behind these nerves. Hope even though I knew I was about to get crushed. But I couldn't seem to squelch it, even to protect

myself. "

I pressed my damp palms into my jeans, then grasped the cold door handle and pulled. Perched on a wooden stool, Josh sat with his

back curled like a C. So lonely and sad. He didn't look up from his easel. On the canvas was a charcoal profile that looked a lot like

mine.

He hadn't opened any paints yet. The brushes sat dry and untouched. When he finally turned and saw me there, anger flashed

through his blue eyes. "You can't be here," he said. "Why not? Maybe I've developed an interest in painting." I tried for levity. Bad

idea. Josh stood up, nearly knocking his seat over. "No. I mean, you can't really be here. You can't actually think we're going to talk

about this. That you're going to find some way to explain it that will make me forgive you."

All the oxygen left the room. Tell me how you really feel. "Josh, please--" "No! Reed, no. God! "He brought his hand to his head

and winced. "I can't get the picture of you and Dash out of my mind. Do you have any idea what this is like for me?" "Actually, yeah.