All traces of humor vanished from her face and she raised an unamused eyebrow. “Really?”
“What?”
“I’ve gone to school with you for four years. And we’ve been in this class together since January.”
I was a complete and total asshole. “Oh. I knew that. Sorry, um…”
“Meg,” she prompted. “Meg Reynolds?”
No way. That wasn’t Meg Reynolds. Meg Reynolds was the girl from my eighth-grade gym class who couldn’t hit a ball or jump a hurdle to save her life. The girl who’d completely destroyed our chances of beating Coach Bell’s class in Downey Middle School’s End-of-Year Olympics.
When did Meg Reynolds get hot? And where the hell was I when it happened?
“Right. Of course. Meg! I’m—”
“Ryden Brooks,” she said. “Star goalie of the state champion Pumas, future prom king and homecoming king, and recipient of the Most Likely to Conquer the World award.” She rolled her eyes. “I know who you are. Because we’ve been going to school together since seventh grade.”
I nodded and focused on the front of the classroom, desperate, for the first time in my life, for class to start early. Where the hell was Mr. Wheeler?
Since my Don’t sit. Gum. sign had been deemed unacceptable, I flipped to a new page and started over. Please don’t sit here. I wrote neatly. There is gum on this chair. Meg wouldn’t be able to object to this one. I used full sentences and everything.
I tore it out and held it up, but she wasn’t looking my way. Her head was down, and she was writing something in a notebook. Her hair was all over the place, tumbling over the desk and obstructing her face, but she kept writing. Her handwriting was really small, like she was afraid of running out of room and was trying to squeeze as much information onto the page as possible.
I watched as her pen moved confidently across her paper. Whatever she was writing, she was really into it.
I couldn’t imagine writing anything like that, all intense and continuous. The only time I ever write anything is when we have to do essay questions in those blue books or type up term papers, and even then I feel like I have to stop every three words to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to say.
“Hey, Meg,” I said.
Her pen kept going. Didn’t she hear me? Or was she still pissed that I hadn’t known her name?
“Meg,” I said again, louder.
The pen stopped. She looked up. “What do you want?”
Yeah, she was still pissed.
“Is this okay?”
She read my sign, and her dark eyes changed from coal to velvet as she laughed.
I felt an inexplicable rush of relief. Fifteen minutes ago, I’d completely forgotten this girl existed. And now I cared whether she was mad at me or not? What the hell was wrong with me?
“It’s better,” she said. “But kinda stilted, don’t you think?”
“Stilted?”
“Yeah, you know, too formal. Not enough personality.”
“I know what it means,” I said. “But it’s just a sign about gum. Why does it need personality?”
She tapped her pen at the corner of her mouth, right where her top lip and bottom lip met. The skin there looked really soft. I had the sudden urge to run my thumb over it. “How about doing a play on one of those no trespassing signs? Something like, No Sitting. Violators Will Be Prosecuted.”
I laughed. “Or, Private Gum Residence. Trespass At Your Own Risk.”
“Yes! Amazing. Or… Beware of Gum.”
“Private Chair. Gum Only. No Butts Allowed.”
Meg cracked up. “Yes! Do that one.”
I was putting the finishing touches on the sign when Meg’s laughter cut off. I looked up, and she pointed to the chair, her eyes wide.
Someone was sitting in it. We’d been so busy trying to come up with something funny for the sign that we’d forgotten the whole point of the sign. Oops.
The guy sitting in the chair was Gary Fleming, this dude who always pushed around the underclassmen and wrote things like “homo” and “slut” on people’s lockers.
I felt bad for about a second, and then I was kind of glad Gary sat in the chair. If anyone deserved it, he did.
I turned to Meg. She actually looked scared, like Gary was going to think she was the one who’d made him sit in the gum and make her life a living hell because of it. Huh. Was that what people like him did to people like her? I’d never really thought about what school was like for other people.
I shook my head. “That guy’s a douche bag,” I whispered. “Don’t worry about it.”
She stared at me, her eyes latched on mine as if she was trying to figure me out. I smiled. She smiled back hesitantly.
It felt good, holding her gaze like that. Safe. Comfortable.
But then Mr. Wheeler came into the classroom muttering something about a broken Xerox machine in the teachers’ lounge, and Meg turned away.
There were a million thoughts going through my head—and, let’s be honest, a million feelings in the, um, lower half of me—but one thing was certain: I’d never forget Meg Reynolds again.
Chapter 3