Beauty and the Baller

My eyes tighten. Was he with her in the stacks?

“You’re looking pretty freaking amazing,” she tells him, and I sigh gustily at her frankness. “Nice uniform,” she adds.

“It’s just white pants and a polo,” I murmur under my breath.

“Ah, well, I’m just working.” He blushes as he scans her books, never taking his eyes off her. “Can I text you later?”

“Yeah,” she replies.

Oh my God, they’re texting?

“You scanned this one”—I pick up a book—“twice. Look alive, Toby.” I give him a sweet but deadly smile. And keep your paws off my sister.

Finally, we finish and exit the store, a sigh of relief hitting.

“Back to this sex book,” I say. “Your brain is still cooking, which means your body isn’t ready to make those kinds of decisions. Twenty-five is when an adult’s brain is fully formed. You told me that.” I give her a triumphant look, which she ignores as she gets in the car and sets the France books on her lap.

“Sometimes you just have to trust me, Nova. I won’t rush into anything. Maybe you need sex.” She counts off her fingers. “It boosts your immune system, prevents heart disease, improves bladder function, relieves stress—and I can keep going. Just because I want to talk about it doesn’t mean I want to hook up with some rando.”

“Well. I’m grateful for that.”

“I’m not Celia Keller.”

“Who’s that?” I throw the Caddy in reverse.

“Lacey’s older sister.”

“Ah.” Lacey has been her bestie since their elementary days.

“She picked up a cowboy at the Roadhouse, fucked him in the bathroom, then ended up pregnant with twins. They cry all the time when I’m at Lacey’s. Two boys. They poop, and it’s disgusting.”

“Fucked?” I give her side-eye.

She shrugs. “Cursing is actually a sign of intelligence. NPR did a study—”

“Not in the South and not from a lady’s mouth.”

Sabine cocks her head. “It’s true, then.”

“What?”

“That when you get older, you turn into your mother. You sound just like her.”

Great.

“Dammit.”

She rolls down her window. “Exactly. Different flowers, same garden . . .”

Chapter 7

NOVA

Life is strange indeed.

It’s Friday, and I’m sitting in a job interview at the high school—the very last place I considered working.

Nervous, I stare down at my hands, carefully manicured and painted a navy blue by Sabine last night while we watched Downton Abbey. My clothes finally arrived from Piper, my roommate in New York, and I’m dressed like a professional: maroon silk blouse, a snazzy little navy blazer, a gold pencil skirt—Bobcats colors. Best of all, I have killer gold Gucci stilettos with crystals over the tips of the toes, just a tiny bit of bling because too much might scare the people of Blue Belle. My hair is tamed, scraped back in a sleek, high ponytail. My understated makeup says, Hire me. I’m a serious professional.

I hold my breath as Principal Lancaster checks out my résumé—which I typed up last night on my laptop, then printed out on regular paper. Mrs. Meadows told me about the opening when she popped by for a chat on Monday. My dear, they’re hiring at the high school. I’m not sure what for, but you should go . . .

I should start calling her Lois. She’s been helpful—even though I did catch her flipping through Mama’s personal recipe book. I had to wrestle it out of her hands. Okay, not really, but nobody gets Mama’s jelly recipe.

I squirm in the straight-backed chair as I take in the man across from me at the big oak desk. New to me, he’s in his late fifties, stately looking with a full head of short gray hair and black glasses.

The administrative offices have been updated since I walked the halls of Blue Belle. A soft beige color is on the walls, along with photos of Principal Lancaster with various townsfolk. Lois is in two—one of her cutting a yellow ribbon for the new football stadium a few years back and another of her with the team last year at the state finals. Ronan is front and center, his arms around players, a happy grin on his face. A sigh leaves me. I remember that grin. It reminds me of the one he wore when he accepted the Heisman. The world will be mine.

“You taught at a preschool?” he asks, glancing up and breaking me out of my reverie.

My hands twist in my lap. Being an art teacher was an unexpected career choice. I wanted to work at a gallery or in graphic design, but those jobs were competitive and hard to come by after graduation. I did odd jobs—radio work, office clerking, bartending—until I scored a small gallery job that I adored. It lasted for two years; then the store unexpectedly closed. My roommate worked at the preschool and got me a position there.

I clear my throat. “Yes, the Blair Preschool in Manhattan. I was in charge of the art department for five years.” I taught three- and four-year-old toddlers how to finger paint—with a little Van Gogh thrown in. Parents paid fifty grand a year to send their kids there, and I enjoyed it, but the salary was barely enough to pay my bills.