Pointe

Pointe by Brandy Colbert Page B

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Authors: Brandy Colbert
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and cigarette smoke; a guy from my math class standing a few feet away from the service window, telling someone they can go fuck themselves.
    This night is becoming more bizarre by the second. I would think Klein was screwing around if he didn’t look so vulnerable. Right now, he’s somewhat sober and serious and my God, are we really going to have this conversation?
    â€œI don’t know . . . You started hanging out with Trisha.” My eyes dart to the window. Quickly, as if she’s going to bounce over at the sound of her name.
    â€œBecause you didn’t seem into it.” He scratches at the back of his head with the heel of his hand. “I was into you, Legs,” he says, without quite looking at me.
    â€œI had a lot going on back then . . . I was kind of a mess.”
    A
total
mess. I was eating again—Juniper Hill had taken care of that—but food wasn’t the same for me. I ate because people were instructed to watch my habits: teachers, counselors, Marisa, Phil. I ate because I loved ballet and never wanted it taken from me again. But I mostly ate because my parents might have resorted to something more drastic if I didn’t.
    Besides that, I was adjusting to a new school, new people, a new routine—all without Donovan. And it had been two years since Chris had left without saying goodbye. Klein was a diversion—a sly, smooth-talking diversion who looked like he’d been created in a factory of beautiful people and came with instant popularity—but I knew we were short-term from the start.
    â€œI was messed up, too,” he says with a shrug, like,
hey, everyone was messed up back then.
    You still are.
    â€œI guess we just weren’t right for each other,” I say, hoping he’ll drop it.
    I don’t know how to answer his question any more than I know why there is something between Hosea and me. Klein was good for a while and then he wasn’t. And it was pathetic to tell someone that you were still hurting from a breakup that had happened two years before.
    Klein swallows hard, looks at me harder. “What about now?”
    I shake my head a little as I play with the clasp on my wallet, sitting snug against the can of soda. “Dude, you’re with
Trisha.
”
    â€œWhat if I wasn’t?” His gaze is so intense, I have to turn away.
    â€œI don’t know, Klein.”
    What I do know is that I never felt an ounce for him of what I feel for Hosea, and the most physical contact Hosea and I have shared is accidental finger brushes. I knew everything about Klein before I ever spoke to him, but with Hosea, there’s something new to learn each time we talk. A look or a laugh that surprises me. A story I never would have expected from him.
    â€œWell, when I give Trisha the boot, you’ll be the first person I call, Legs,” he says, his eyes flickering over me from top to bottom and back again.
    Luckily our second rush of the evening starts up just then. A gaggle of freshmen are making their way across the field and form a line in front of the window. Total lifesaver.
    Klein doesn’t get another word in until Mrs. McCarty is back to refill the popcorn maker and the two sophomores taking over for us have arrived. I walk out first and Klein follows as I trek across the field to rescue Phil. The earthy, pungent scent of wood smoke drifts over from the other side of the field; Principal Detz is manning a portable fire pit so people can roast marshmallows for s’mores.
    â€œI wasn’t kidding back there,” he says, his army-green coat hanging from his hand. I get a glimpse of the label. Burberry.
    We’re standing a few feet from the caramel-apple booth where Mr. Jacobsen whistles as he dips Granny Smiths into a slow cooker. He looks up and catches my eye, waves me over as if the allure of caramel apples is too strong to resist. I like Mr. Jacobsen—he’s the undisputed favorite

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