I’m on the ground, eyes level with scuffed black work boots.
In a rom-com, this would be the “meet-cute.” The boy would be movie-star hot, first-string quarterback, and class valedictorian. He’d offer me his hand, and he’d coincidentally have an extra T-shirt in his backpack. I’d change into it in the restroom, and somehow my boobs would be bigger, my hips would be smaller, and he’d walk me to class and ask me to prom.
In reality, the guy is Declan Murphy, and he’s practically snarling. His shirt and jacket are soaked with coffee, too, and he’s pulling material away from his chest.
If the rom-com guy was the star quarterback, Declan is the senior-class reject. He’s got a criminal record and a frequent seat in detention. He’s big and mean, and while reddish-brown hair and a sharp jaw might turn some girls on, the dark look in his eyes is enough to keep them away. A scar bisects one eyebrow, and it’s probably not his only one. Most people are afraid of him, and they have reason to be. Rowan is simultaneously trying to help me up and pull me away from him.
He looks at me with absolute derision. His voice is rough and low. “What is wrong with you?”
I jerk away from Rowan. My shirt is plastered to my chest, and I can guarantee he’s getting a great view of my purple bra through my pastel-green shirt. For as hot as the coffee was, now I’m wet and freezing. This is humiliating and horrible, and I can’t decide if I want to cry or if I want to yell at him.
My breath actually hitches, but I suck it up. I’m not afraid of him. “You ran into me.”
His eyes are fierce. “I wasn’t the one running.”
Then he moves forward sharply. I shrink away before I can help it.
Okay, maybe I am afraid of him.
I don’t know what I thought he was going to do. He’s just so intense. He stops short and scowls at my reaction, then finishes his motion to lean down and grab his backpack where it fell.
Oh.
There probably is something wrong with me. I want to yell at him all over again, even though all this was my fault. My jaw tightens.
Temper, Juliet.
The memory of my mother hits me so hard and fast and sudden that it’s a miracle I don’t burst into tears right here. There’s nothing holding me together, and one wrong word is going to send me straight off an edge.
Declan is straightening, and that scowl is still on his face, and I know he’s going to say something truly despicable. This, after the chastising letter, might be enough to turn me into a sopping mess.
But then his eyes find mine, and something he sees there steals the dark expression from his face.
A tinny voice speaks from beside us. “Declan Murphy. Late again, I see.”
Mr. Bellicaro, my freshman year biology teacher, is standing beside Rowan. Her cheeks are flushed and she looks almost panicked. She must have sensed trouble and gone running for a teacher. It’s something she would do. I’m not sure whether I’m annoyed or relieved. A classroom door hangs open behind him, and kids are peering into the hallway.
Declan swipes at drops of coffee clinging to his jacket. “I wasn’t late. She ran into me.”
Mr. Bellicaro purses his lips. He’s short and has a round gut that’s accentuated by a pink sweater-vest. He’s not what you’d consider well-liked. “No food is allowed outside the cafeteria—”
“Coffee isn’t food,” says Declan.
“Mr. Murphy, I believe you know the way to the principal’s office.”
“Yeah, I could draw you a map.” His voice sharpens, and he leans in, glowering. “This isn’t my fault.”
Rowan flinches back from his tone. Her hands are almost wringing. I don’t blame her. For an instant, I wonder if this guy is going to hit a teacher.
Mr. Bellicaro draws himself up. “Am I going to have to call security?”
“No.” Declan puts his hands up, his voice bitter. His eyes are dark and furious. “No. I’m walking.” And he is, cursing under his breath. He crumples his paper cup and flings it at a trash can.
So many emotions ricochet around my skull that I can barely settle on one. Shame, because it really was my fault, and I’m standing here, letting him take the blame. Indignation, for the way he spoke. Fear, for the way he acted.
Intrigue, for the way the darkness fell off his face when his eyes met mine.
I wish I had a photograph of his face at precisely that moment. Or now, capturing his walk down the shadowed hallway. Light flashes on his hair and turns it gold when he passes each window, but shadows cling to his broad shoulders and dark jeans. I haven’t wanted to touch my camera since Mom died, but all of a sudden I wish I had it in my hands. My fingers itch for it.
“For you, Miss Young.”
I turn, and Mr. Bellicaro is holding out a white slip of paper.
Detention. Again.
CHAPTER FIVE
You’re right.
I shouldn’t have interfered with your grief.
I’m sorry.
That doesn’t mean you were right to read my letter. I still kind of hate you for that. I’ve been trapped here for fifteen minutes, staring at a blank piece of paper, trying to remember how it felt to write to her, to know my thoughts were more permanent than a conversation.
Instead, all I can think about is you and your “Me too” and what it meant and whether your pain is anything like mine.
Not that it’s any of my business.
I don’t know if you’ll even read my apology, but I need to say the words to someone. Guilt has been riding my shoulders awhile now.
Not guilt because of you. Because of someone else.