This was the popular crowd.
Clutching her brown bag—which held some carrots, a small container of hummus, and a yogurt, all packed this morning by Aunt Nora—Skylar headed in that direction. Was she being too bold, parading over to sit in the cool section? It wasn’t like she was going to plop down in the middle of the action. She’d stay on the outskirts, try to smile at people, listen to the kinds of things people talked about here. Although, it might be difficult to hear anything, with that group of whooping boys wrestling and jostling each other just next to the cash registers. . . .
Just as she spotted the perfect chair, right at the edge of the light-drenched area, it hit her. Or rather, he hit her—a guy (one of the wrestling boys) came flying out of nowhere, slamming her shoulder and knocking his tray of spaghetti and marinara sauce all over her white top and pink sweater.
“You assholes! Now I have to get a new lunch!” The guy who’d collided with Skylar was wearing an Ascension High football jacket and still hadn’t noticed that his lost lunch was now covering the front of Skylar’s shirt. She could feel its warmth on her stomach. A hundred eyes stared at her.
“Oh, jeez.” The boy had just turned to look at Skylar. He had short brown hair, a square jawline, and broad shoulders. The name Travers was printed above his right pec on his football jacket. “Look at you.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out other than a squeaked “You—you ran into me.” Great. Her second obvious comment of the day.
“Sorry about these idiots,” he said just a little too loudly so his friends would hear him. “They don’t know how to behave in public.” He grinned at her. “Especially not around new girls. You are new here, right?”
Skylar actually had to concentrate to make sure her jaw didn’t drop. This guy, this cute guy, had noticed her? “You—um—I—how did you know?”
“Hard to miss a pretty girl. I think you’re in my geometry class, first period? I’m Pierce.”
“I’m, uh, Skylar,” she responded. She couldn’t believe she was having a conversation—with a boy—in the middle of the cafeteria, while covered in spaghetti sauce. “Yeah—geometry. I’m the one who asked that dumb question about the sine and cosine stuff . . . .”
“Wanna know my secret?” Pierce asked, leaning in conspiratorially. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a graphing calculator. “Dorky, I know, but I carry it around with me just in case.” He winked. “I also carry this around, for marinara emergencies.” He took off his jacket and then pulled his sweatshirt over his head. It, too, was emblazoned with Ascension’s football logo.
He put his jacket back on but held out the sweatshirt to her. She looked at it, and looked at him, not understanding.
“Take it for the afternoon—no one wants to smell like oregano through their last few periods.”
“Are you sure?” Skylar took the sweatshirt tentatively.
“Yup. You can bring it to me tomorrow. See you in math, Skylar.” And with that, he turned away and headed back to his table. As he approached his friends she saw him push one of them good-naturedly, and peg another one with a french fry. The guys started laughing and high-fiving.
Skylar felt a warm glow in the pit of her stomach. Pierce Travers. It was a perfect name, and immediately she coupled it with her own. Pierce Travers and Skylar McVoy. A football player who was also nice? She almost brought the sweatshirt to her nose to smell him, but remembered at the last second that she was still in the middle of the cafeteria.
In the bathroom she gingerly removed her stained top and replaced it with the sweatshirt. It was huge and hardly matched her boots, but who cared? She was wearing a boy’s football sweatshirt. If not for her nervous expression of a newbie, she might even be taken for the girlfriend of an Ascension High player—maybe even Pierce’s girlfriend. With an unfamiliar confidence in her step, she emerged back into the hallway, ready to face the last few classes of the day.
The sweatshirt was a sign, she was sure of it—a sign that in Ascension, she would get the life she deserved.
CHAPTER THREE
“It’s bad enough that I have to wait until practically dinnertime to eat lunch this semester,” Gabby said, gesticulating with a fork held high above the Greek salad she’d brought from home. “But now I’m not even guaranteed the pleasure of my best friend’s company? What is this? Prison?”