Appealed by Emma Chase Page B

I pull my practice jersey over my head.
    Cashmere crawls toward the end of the bed. “It was a mistake.” She purrs, “I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you.”
    I’ve been with this girl for a year. Screwed her every way I know how, and thought that was love—but at his moment, I feel nothing for her. It’s almost scary. No guilt, no tender urge to protect her feelings. I’m not sure she has any. It’s really fucked up.
    â€œIf you didn’t, I would’ve broken up with you. We’re done, Cazz.”
    Her eyes drop to the bulge in my boxers and she licks her lips. She rises to her knees and moves to wrap her arms around my neck. “You don’t look done to me.”
    I catch her wrists and look at her hard.
    â€œTrust me, I’m done .”
    Anger flashes in her hazel eyes, sharp and vindictive and oh-so familiar. “I heard you hung out with your little freakazoid friend this weekend.”
    My grip on her wrists tightens. “Don’t call her that.”
    Her mouth twists into a nasty knot. “Did you fuck her? Is that what this is about?”
    I drop her wrists and take a step back. “This has nothing to do with Kennedy.”
    â€œOh, please. You would never turn me down unless you already had someplace new to stick your dick into. I know you, Brent.” She slides off the bed and trails the tip of her finger slowly up my arm. “And that’s why I know when you’re done with your little trip into Loserville—you’re going to come right back to me. We’re too good together.”
    Because she’s the hottest girl in school, I used to get a charge out of hearing her talk like that—a rush of confidence. Now it just makes me think that Cashmere is total bunny-boiling material.
    â€œTake my jersey off. We have a game tomorrow night; it’s bad luck if you wear it. Leave it on the bed.”
    And before she even starts to take it off, I’m out the door.
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    Lacrosse practice runs overtime. One of our starting defenders busted his ankle last week, trying to parkour between two garbage dumpsters. He’s kind of an idiot. The second string taking his place is a freshman—good but nervous—so Coach and I stayed after practice to work with him and to go over the opposing team’s game tapes. It’s dusk by the time I leave the gym.
    Walking back to my dorm, my lacrosse bag over my shoulder, I’m in a great mood. I don’t think I’ve stopped smiling all day. I may even whistle a merry tune. My mother had a thing for Gene Kelly when I was a kid, and in my head, I’m totally doing the “Singin’ in the Rain” dance.
    Three guys are standing on the dorm building’s steps. And even though I’m not the type who listens to other people’s conversations, two words zoom straight to my eardrums, like a nuclear missile: Kennedy Randolph.
    And my mental Gene Kelly is struck by a bolt of lightning and bursts into flames.
    â€œI told you she’d say yes, dumbass. I don’t know why you waited three years to ask her.”
    That’s Peter Elliot. He’s a science kid—biology. He got a grant from the federal government last year to cross-breed poisonous caterpillars, I think. And he’s talking to William Penderghast and Alfonso DiGaldi. They’re on the brainier end of the spectrum too—quiet, kinda bland guys who spend most of the weekend in the library.
    â€œYou can’t rush these things. The timing had to be just right. But now the stars have aligned and Kennedy Randolph is going to the movies with me this Friday. Maybe I should rent a limo.”
    William laughs for no reason. Smiles so big and bright it almost hurts to look at him—because he looks like how I felt just ten seconds ago.
    I walk straight up to them, eyes on William. “Did you just say you’re going out with Kennedy