Second Chances: A Romance Writers of America Collection (Stark World 2.50)

"Work it!" a jerk-face in the row to my right catcalled. The plus-sized Goth girl seated behind the boy finger-flicked his head. "Ow!" He rubbed the spot as he swung about and glared at the Goth. Senora Mendoza rapped her yardstick against the linoleum floor. The boy startled and faced forward.

I slid into my seat and stowed my phone in my messenger bag. The thud of my textbook sounded overly loud as it slipped through my fingers and landed on my desk. My knees drew together. I countered my inclination to slump and hide behind my hair. "No matter what," my paternal grandmother often reminded me, "a Saint James does not acknowledge adversity or embarrassment. We ride above it." Well, maybe not Dad.

Throughout Spanish, I kept my gaze locked on Senora Mendoza or stared at my primer. My heels bounced as I discharged nervous energy through my toes.

Toward the end of class, Senora called on Nate. He shot me a sideways glance from across the room. My stomach looped. Then Nate answered her question in flawless Spanish. Senora's expression morphed from arched brow surprise to pleasure. The tension seeped out of my shoulders. Well played, Nate.

Five minutes before the bell, while Senora wrote tomorrow's assignment on the board, Goth girl pitched a folded note onto my desk. As I swept it into my jacket pocket, Senora whirled around and scanned the class. I avoided eye contact and copied the assignment in my notebook. The bell shrilled. I packed my messenger bag and surreptitiously read the note.

Lunch? Same spot as yesterday? Nate.

A montage of lunches with my friends at my old school cycled through my mind. A tsunami of hurt crashed over me, followed by a tidal wave of doubt. How will I make new friends when my Haylee persona is a lie? Maybe the alias had been a mistake. I had thought a fresh name would give me space, help me hide until the scandal passed. Instead, it paralyzed me.

Guilt twisted my insides. I couldn't go backward or forward. And the only person throwing me a lifeline was the boy who had driven me crazy in elementary school. How long could I maintain the fraud? I glanced at the students threading out the door. What would happen if word leaked? My insides twisted.

Nate sat sideways in his seat, making deliberate work of zipping up his backpack. He glanced up at me. My insides shivered. I broke eye contact and rose, hoisting my messenger bag against my chest like a battle shield. I half hoped Nate would rush up behind me and tug my hair. Instead, his wounded stare followed me out the door.

Later, when the lunch bell sounded at the end of English Three Honors, remorse surfed through me. Part of me longed to head for the boulder and see if Nate would show up. Maybe I should come clean. Apologize.

I decided to hide out in the library.

At a corner far from the librarian's watchful eye, I laid my messenger bag on the table and unpacked my dill pickle spear and peanut butter and boysenberry jam on rye. A quick check of my phone yielded a text from my mother, wishing me a great day. You, too, I texted back. It couldn't be fun for her meeting with lawyers and financial planners, sorting through the debris field left by Dad's death. I wondered if any of Mom's friends had stuck by her.

After Dad's accident, I had boycotted the reading of his will. It didn't matter what it said. I could tell by Mom's tight expression; the company was in trouble. We were in trouble. Mom had said, "I'll worry about the finances. You concentrate on school. Junior year is the make-or-break-it year for college."

Focus on school. Pretend the old me never existed. No more playing hooky with Dad when the winds and tide called to us. Time to get serious.

I blinked back the sudden tears and surge of anger.

I pushed my messenger bag aside. A small stack of magazines someone had left on the table tipped over the edge and dived onto the dusky blue carpet with a loud slap. Great. Kneeling, I skimmed the covers as I retrieved them. My pulse ricocheted. Someone had pulled the only three magazines containing photos of me. I double-checked the front covers and text. Yes. Yes. And yes. Holding the magazines to my chest, I scanned the library. Most students were in the cafeteria or the quad. But several, mostly loners and a few groups of two or three, had taken refuge in the library. None glanced my way.

I sank onto the hard wooden chair. Statistically, no way could this be random. I flipped open the top magazine to the five-page feature "Nouveau Riche Teens Practice Noblesse Oblige." The concept had been to feature wealthy teens volunteering for their favorite charity. I always wondered who had tipped them off about the First Saturday of the Month Club. I thought I had blended in--just another volunteer swinging a hammer or wielding a paintbrush.

"You must do it!" the editor on the phone cajoled. "Here's your chance to inspire other teens--other girls! Think of how many more homes will be rehabbed; how many families you'll help."

I bit my lip and flipped the pages a second time. Pop star. Famous athlete's son ... and ... this time I saw it, the ragged edge where someone had torn out my photo.

My heart accelerated. I checked the next magazine. The bohemian fashion shoot at Joshua Tree National Park should be on page eighty-one. Seventy-nine. Eighty. Eighty-five. This time, the page tears were hardly visible. Sick fear drained the blood from my cheeks. My mind flashed to television shows where the police discovered an apartment where the stalker had plastered photos of his prey.

With dread rising like high tide, I reached for the last magazine.

"Haylee?"

Startled, I whirled toward Nate's voice. He emerged from the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, his hands raised like two stop signs. "I swear, I'm not stalking you. I thought you'd be in the quad." His copper brows knitted together. "You okay?"

My chest caved. "I'm fine." I placed the magazine on top of the others and pushed away the stack as though signaling a waiter to clear the table.

Nate angled his head as he studied the top cover. "'Tangerine: Fall's Hot New Hue.' Whoa. Totally not your color."

"Gee, thanks." I sniffed and drew the side of my forefingers across the thin skin beneath my lower eyelashes. "Good thing the issue is a year old." I eyed Nate. He acted innocent enough. But if he hadn't ferreted out the magazines, then who had? The flesh on my forearms bristled. My gaze swept the library. No overt paparazzi, tabloid spies, or stalkers. I kicked at the chair beside me in a quasi-invitation. "Sorry, I didn't answer your note."

"Hey. No problem." He averted his eyes, and his Adam's apple bobbed. "Well,

bye." He pivoted toward the nonfiction section.

"Wait." I grabbed his hand. Nate stiffened. His fingers twitched indecisively. I released him. "I was in a bad space earlier." My chest corseted at the thought of my so-called friends.

"And now?"