“Thanks. They had a two-for-one so I stocked up. I booked two shoots this weekend! One wedding and one family session.” Her grin is so high it lifts her eyebrows. She’s proud, and so am I.

  “That was fast!” I say.

  She nods after dropping the second case on the counter near the other one. Hands on her hips, she blows up at the dark brown cut of bangs that’s grown long enough to hide her eyes. They part with her breath and she turns her focus to the stove, sighing.

  “I’ll order in,” she says.

  “Actually”—I touch her shoulder just before she moves to the drawer that holds our takeout menus—“I have to run out for school supplies. I’ll pick up. Pizza?”

  “Perfect.” She looks relieved, and tired. She’s spent the last few days calling every client she ever had at the studio and putting cards and flyers in every coffee shop within a ten-mile radius. My mom is incredibly talented at portrait photography, but the hustle part of the business doesn’t come naturally. Hustle ranks right up there with cooking. Two jobs in one weekend—that’s huge for her, and vital for us.

  I leave my mom as she’s pulling the smoldering pot away from the stove, slipping out the door before guilt tricks me into offering to clean that, too. I hate wet food, even crusty sauce bits singed onto metal.

  Not paying much attention on my trip out the garage to my car, I press the unlock button on the key fob, triggering the honking sound and scaring the father-son duo playing hoops in the driveway just a strip of grass away from ours. The ball bounces away from their game, through the grass and toward me while they both stare. I stop it with my foot and glance up to meet their uneasy eyes.

  I’m one-hundred percent certain this is weirder for me than for either of them. I was never really close to Lucas’s dad, Todd, mostly because of his work schedule and how little he’s home. But I would wave, he would wave, we’d pass pleasantries and make jokes and say hi. That little bit of banter ceased when Lucas pulled away. They’re like a team, but I don’t get the game we’re playing. Every accidental interaction has been strange over the last two years, but now, I have the advantage of knowing what a scumbag Mr. Fuller is. And Lucas is blissfully ignorant.

  I could crush them right now if I wanted to.

  Without weighing the post part of my actions, I bend my knee and kick the ball back at them, punting it with the top of my bare foot hard enough that I’m pretty sure a bruise is forming. The airborne ball sails about two dozen feet to the right, up the property line and down the slope of our back yards into the thick weeds that Mom and I need to pull someday. It gets lodged under the crooked bumper of the old Buick my dad left behind, and it’s rough arrival sends a flight of birds flurrying out of the yard.

  Fuck. That was dramatic.

  “Oops,” I say, my eyes off in the distance, still watching the last few birds flap their wings and leave the premises. I can’t believe I did that. I wonder if this is what my mom means when she utters “hormones” under her breath at me.

  Following up my rash decision with another one, I decide the only thing that could make this worse is apologizing, so I continue my trip around the front of my car, get in, and turn the key.

  It clicks.

  Several clicks in a row.

  The same clicks that the van made when we got the news that we needed a new alternator.

  I lean forward—still not buckled in—and kiss my steering wheel, sure that the Fuller men are watching and wondering what the fuck I’m on.

  “Please,” I whisper, turning the key and pumping the gas once like my dad used to tell me. The ignition catches, the vibration of hope rattling my fingers where they grip the switch and key. I press the pedal down just a little more, and the sweet sound of a dozen-plus-year-old Honda firing up fills my ears.

  I shift into reverse and peel out backward with my eyes glued to the rearview mirror. The car dips from the driveway and into the road and I crank the wheel with every intention of hauling ass out of this place and not coming home until I’m sure Lucas and his dad are inside. But whatever it is that’s growing inside me, this thing that makes me speak up, act out, and be . . . abrasive and bold—it boils to the top. With my car tenuously idling at the curb in front of Lucas’s driveway, I turn to my right, drawn to this gut feeling that he would be there. He was.

  While his dad was wading through the knee-high crab grass and dandelion, Lucas had walked to the end of his driveway, probably on the off chance he’d get the last silent word. I meet his stare and promise myself not to blink, and not to drive away until he gives first. My nostrils flare, and the evening air chills the breath puffing from his barely parted lips. My window fogs, but I can still see him clearly under the glow of the streetlight—the same streetlight he and I used to beat with spoons to usher in the new year at midnight every January first. Maybe I imagine it, but the longer we hold on to this, the harder his chest heaves with what looks like anger and pain. The more time that passes, the more determined I am to win.

  Without interruption of headlights and the heavy blaring of a car horn, I think maybe Lucas and I would have remained here in this dumb power play until the sun came up and my car ran out of gas. But we both blink and jerk our gazes away to the white Chevy Tahoe violently flashing its brights at me. I shade my eyes as if I have to visually confirm that it’s Lucas’s mom, but my buzzing pulse kicks in my sense of autopilot, and I reverse several feet to clear the Fuller driveway. Shannon Fuller doesn’t glance my way once as she pulls into her home, driving straight into the family garage and closing the door the second the Tahoe’s bumper clears the line. When I look back to where Lucas was standing, he’s gone. I scan the driveway and the deepest part of our properties where our yards meet without a glint of him or his dad.

  They’ve gone inside. Mom came home and the game is over. I’m still here, so I guess that means I won. I look back to the road ahead, the street empty through the next several stop signs, and I drive off for school supplies, pizza, and a handle on my pride.

  Chapter Five

  Abby can’t fathom why I would go out of my way to do something nice for Tory D’Angelo. It’s fair to call it into question, and I can’t quite find the right words to explain that I’m not really doing anything to be nice to him; I’m doing it to make a show of being nice to him in front of Lucas.

  I accepted the truth last night sometime around the checkout counter at the office supply store when I slid my credit card for seventy-four bucks’ worth of binders, paper, labels, and pens. That’s a chunk of money and two hours of my time spent on a guy I’ve never really liked. Yeah, it all sank in right at that moment.

  “Your new boyfriend is coming. Go woo him with the protractor and pencil bag,” Abby says, making a joke and pointing to the side parking lot where Lucas and the twins just pulled in beside each other.

  “You’re a bitch sometimes,” I say, pushing off from my front bumper, where we’ve been leaning and waiting for the last ten minutes.

  “Yeah, I know. But at least I don’t buy presents for assholes,” she shouts at me. It draws a few stares from people hanging out in the lot, but I ignore them. My eyes are focused on Lucas, sitting with one leg out of his truck and his hand resting on his steering wheel. He’s wearing a hat today, all black with deep blue AP embroidered on the front for Allensville Public. He’s not strutting his peacock feather of a varsity jacket today either. Just a plain black T-shirt that hugs his biceps. No matter the argument I make in my head, the twins just don’t fill out their shirts quite the same way Lucas does.

  I fight the urge to lower my gaze to my feet when I get closer, and I’m rewarded by catching the moment Lucas notices me and shifts his position in his truck, his arm sliding from the wheel and his body sitting taller as I approach. He’s talking to the twins, who stand right beside his truck. He nods out his front window, silently telling them to look my direction, and when Hayden and Tory see me, I put on the performance of my life.

  My eyes leave Lucas and greet Tory, all my effort going into an effortless smile I hope breezes across my face.

  “Mabee, what’s up,” the arrogant twin says. He holds out a palm and moves a few steps toward me.

  Everything in my body buzzes with caution. This could be a trick. I always assume there’s a trick waiting. Nasty words written about me in bathroom stalls, dicks drawn in the dust of my car window, late-night hang-ups from blocked numbers—it’s hard to take Abby’s word that juvenile shit is behind us, especially after the immature prank I fell victim to at the party.

  I take Tory’s hand, half waiting for him to pull it away at the last second and laugh like a third-grader. He doesn’t. Instead, he tugs me toward his chest and wraps his other arm around me briefly in a hug. It’s an odd feeling, being swallowed up by his masculine sent, the coolness of his freshly showered body under a T-shirt, his muscles hard, and his height about the same as Lucas. In a brief lapse of judgement, I indulge and understand why so many girls date him. This . . . it feels nice.

  “Hey,” I utter out nervously. I swallow down the dry feeling in my throat as we pull apart and glance to the right, to Lucas. It’s as if he’s watching a television show, concentration and suspicion denting his brow, his chin propped up on the back of his palm as he leans into the center console of his truck. His bewilderment sparks a joy in my chest that paints the richest sinister smile on my lips. I flit my eyes back to Tory and lift the bag. “I come bearing gifts.”

  Tory’s eyes widen and he bares his teeth in a genuine grin mixed with laughter, like a boy being given a toy from Santa. For once, I don’t even think he’ll make something dirty out of this. He takes the bag from me, a plastic strap in each hand, and opens it wide to look inside. His mouth sours a little and he looks in deeper, exaggerating before popping his view back to me.

  “School shit?” His neck shrinks into his shoulders in playful repulsion so I laugh to keep the mood light, shoving at him playfully. Flirtatiously.

  “Yes, but you left your list in class yesterday. You left all of your papers, actually. They’re in there too.” I make eyes toward the bag dangling from his hands, but his gaze seems stuck on me. I think I’ve stumped him . . . or he’s afraid I’m falling in love with him. Whatever the cause, I think he’s going to be kind to me right now.

  “Thanks, Mabee. I mean, I probably won’t use half of this shit, but . . . yeah. Hey, that was nice,” he says, lightly laughing out his words. He opens his arms, welcoming me in for another hug, so I accept, resting my cheek on his hard chest and wrapping my arms around his body as far as they’ll go. I look right at Lucas while I’m there, eyes hazed and smile daring him to do his worst.

  “You’re welcome,” I say, letting my hands run along his sides while I let go. Tory tilts his head and looks at me sideways, and that little motion sends a chill through my chest. I’m flirting with fire now, and mixed signals aren’t really part of who I am. I ball my hands into fists, shove them in my pockets, and take in my surroundings one last time. Both Tory and his brother watch me with puzzled expressions, Lucas, with his mouth a hard, flat line and eyes frozen cold.

  I lift my hand to wave good-bye and turn to head back to Abby, focusing on the pattern her feet make as they kick back and forth from where she sits on the hood of my car. I imagine laughter behind me, partly because I expect it, but it’s not real. When I focus, I hear nothing, not even the sound of people walking close behind. My body feels hot and my pulse is pounding in all parts of my body—fingertips, throat, ears, legs. I’m nearly jelly when I reach my friend, and she slides from my car and hands me my black and white checkered backpack, fully stocked with my “school shit.”

  “That went well,” she says, an eyebrow raised. I can’t feel my feet.

  “I don’t know if I have a barometer to measure how that went,” I say.

  “I don’t know what that means.” She shrugs. I twist my head to meet her eyes as we walk toward the main doors of the front building. The longer I look at her, the harder it becomes to hold in my laughter. When it breaks free, Abby joins in, and I’m pretty sure she thinks we’re laughing because she doesn’t know what a barometer is, but that’s not what’s funny at all. Nothing’s funny, really. Things are nuts, way out of my comfort ballpark, but funny? Certainly not. Nervous, tenuous, doubtful, sad—that’s what things are. And they’re that way because of Lucas Fuller and what he is and was to me.

  I part ways with my friend after the first building and begin my trek to the science area, the burning hole in my chest growing hotter the closer I get. My pace is quick enough that I get settled in my seat before Lucas arrives. I’m well into my act of being distracted by reading when I feel him shove his large body into the seat behind me. I jerk forward when his desk bangs into my chair, but grit my teeth instead of engaging him.

  “Oops, sorry.” His tone is flat and purposely cold.

  I put the end of my pencil in my mouth, my teeth squeezing at the eraser with light pressure that takes all of my attention. Most of my attention. Not nearly enough of my attention.

  “My dad says you’re unhinged.” His face is close to the back of my head. My hair is pulled back into a messy bun today, which means every bit of his breath slithers around my bare neck.

  “Your dad’s a real good judge of character, I bet,” I say just loud enough that I’m sure he hears me. I chomp down on my pencil hard enough to bend the metal band around the eraser and stare toward the door. Our teacher stands outside waiting for stragglers to rush in before he closes it. Being early was the wrong choice. It would have been better to just come face-to-face with him once than having to sit here in this cone of silence where I swear I can hear every breath he takes. I wonder if he can hear my heart thundering.

  My chair shifts with the weight of his foot, which is now balanced on the back leg. He taps his toe against the metal a few times, and I refuse to believe he’s unaware of how annoying that is. The door finally closing behind our teacher, I bend to my side and unzip my backpack, pulling out my new pack of folders and a notebook.

  “You get Tory pink ones too?” Lucas chuckles out his lame tease as he leans forward, his hands gripped around the front of his desk to pull his body close. Rather than respond, I smile with my lips pressed together tightly and meet his glare blink for blink. He eventually leans back in his seat, laughing quietly while stretching his arms over his head, fingers woven together. I wait for him to look away before turning around.

  Lucas’s little digs stop as soon as our teacher’s lecture begins, and the next hour is a blissful lesson on velocity. I’m almost free, the minutes nearing the top of the hour signaling the end of class, when Mr. Slatvka drops a bomb in the form of a giant Ziploc filled with Hot Wheels track and a few cars on my desktop.

  “Mabee and Fuller, partners,” he says, waggling his finger in a motion to nonverbally link us together. He moves down the line to the next pair before I register what just happened.

  “Fuck,” Lucas breathes out in a whisper behind me. I turn to match his groan with one of my own.

  “I don’t like it either,” I say, lifting my hand to request to work with anybody else. Before our teacher turns to notice me, though, the bell sounds and the classroom erupts into chaos. The final bag in his hand is given to a group of three, the benefit of being near the end in a world of odd numbers. I lower my hand slowly and wonder why all of this is happening to me.

  “It’s fine. Just give me the bag and I’ll do everything for us,” Lucas says, pulling his backpack from the side of his desk and slinging it over his shoulder as he stands. His T-shirt lifts up a little when he weaves his other arm through his shoulder straps, and my eyes zero in on the tanned line where his dark jeans rest low on his hips, a red band from his boxer briefs showing above the waistband. At least, I imagine they’re briefs. Shit, I’m imagining him in briefs.

  “No, I’ll do it. Screw you,” I say, tossing the bag into my backpack and zipping it inside before standing and sliding my bag over my shoulder.

  “Fine, whatever,” he says, looking off to the side as he brushes by me and moves out the door. I let the rest of the class filter out to form a human wall of space between us, but my eyes still lock on his position the minute I leave the room. He pushes through the double doors, and the tinted glass does little to dissuade me from stalking him with my eyes until I’m outside, too. I follow in his steps around the media center, toward the gym where I expect he’ll peel off and duck inside for weights or some other stupid jock thing, but instead, he fishes out his keys from his pocket and continues toward the front of the school.

  He’s leaving. And judging by the way he scans to his right and left, he’s timing his steps perfectly to catch the front gate before it locks and forces him to exit through the office. He slips out undetected and jogs into the sea of student parking spots, stopping at a red sports car about four rows deep where he ducks inside the passenger door and fades in with the rest of the mundane background.

  We’re seniors now. Almost eighteen. Adults.

  Different people than we were.

  I wonder who Lucas has become.

  Chapter Six

  I’m two days back at my old school and already doing a boy’s homework for him. Granted, this is technically my homework, too, but still, there’s some tragic irony in this.

  It’s taken me an hour to rig the tracks in a way that this experiment will work with only one person. By the time my mom walks through the door from a quick grocery run, I’m sweaty and trigger-happy irritable. In case she couldn’t tell by the cold shoulder I gave her when she walked in, I drop a big fat F-bomb when the tape gives way under the weight of the cars I carefully balanced on the makeshift bridge from the wall to the table. The only car to make the full trip before the bridge collapses is sailing off the end of the table as my mom steps into the kitchen. It ricochets off of her shin.