steadyeyes,hersurevoice,andhersmoothdeliveryleftnoroomfordoubt.Andanyway,ifKrisandI weregoingtocarryoutherplantoliveinthesewerofsociallifeandbecomeuntouchable,beingseen withBella—party-planningqueenofourclass—wouldhaveruinedit.SoeventhoughBellahadsentmea fewtextsrightafterthemanhuntgame,andeventhoughI’dtypedsomereplies,I’dneverhitsend.
ButKrishadmadeacleanbreak.Nowallofasuddenshefeelscompelledtoriskeverything—her curfew,and our carefullycrafted status asnobodies—for Bella? It doesn’tmake sense. Itry to think of somethingthatwillmakeitfitintothemapofKris,butIcomeupempty.WhenIthinkofKris,Ithinkof herwithme.
Itremindsmeofthatgameweusedtoplayatintermediateschooldances,theonewhereyoucross yourarmsatthewrists,claspeachother’shands,andspinaroundasfastasyoucan.
Foroverayearwe’vebeenlettingtherestoftheworldwhirlarounduswhileweheldonsotightwe couldn’t see anything but each other. But just because the background spun and blended and bled into streaks,itdoesn’tmeanitdisappeared.
Itapthetipofmypenonthesheetofpaperinfrontofmeandlookoverthelistofirregularverbsand theirmeanings.We’vedonethisbefore.Wedoiteveryear.“Tokeepusfresh,”Señorasays.Asifwe’ll starttorotifwecan’trememberhowtosay shewent , hegoes , I’mgoing .
Maybeshe’sright.
UNCORRECTEDE-PROOF—NOTFORSALE
HarperCollinsPublishers
..................................................................
CHAPTER12
AFTERSPANISHIhookmythumbsunderthestrapsofmybackpackandwalktheusualroutetohomeroom: down the hall, up the stairs, stick to the side so I can exit right. My shoulder brushes along the wall. I examinesomerandomgirl’sponytail.Becausethisispartoftheusualtoo:swallow,tense,breathe,don’t lookatJolene.
Even though Block 241, where the high school sits, is a solid square of moss green according to Sanborn,thelandisdivided.Themassesstaytotheright.Royaltyloungesontheleft,atJolene’slocker, wheresheholdscourt,andHudson’shand.Or,atleast,wheresheusedto.It’sthefirstplaceIsawthem together after the manhunt game: Hudson’s head lowered, Jolene’s neck extended, their lips meeting. I shouldhave looked away.That’s what you’resupposed to do whenyou see peoplekiss. But I couldn’t believeit.Hishandonherhip.Herheadtippedsotheywouldfit.Notinadarkroomorasecludedspot underthestars,butunderthefluorescentlightsforeveryonetosee.Istoodtherewatchingthem,willing Hudson to pull away. And for the briefest second I thought he might. His spine straightened, his hand seemedtopushbackinsteadofpullin.Buthiseyesdidn’tflyopentofindme.Jolene’sdid.Deepina freshkiss,shestaredatme,likesheknewexactlywhereI’dbe.
Ihadn’tknownuntilthatmomentthatI’dreallydoit—leaveJoleneandHudson.Everyone.ThatIwas done.Sure,that’swhatI’dtoldKris.Andyeah,Ihadn’tspokentoJolenesincethemanhuntgame.Butit hadonlybeenafew,flat,end-of-summerdays.I’dstillfeltherwithme;hervoicereciting thetwolittle girls beforeIfellasleep,herbreathonmyneck.I’dwonderedhowlongshe’dstaymadatme.
I’d wondered about Hudson, too—why he hadn’t returned my calls. I’d convinced myself he was dealingwithhisdad’sdrinking,hismomleaving.ThathewasgamingwithCalortiredfromtryouts.That everythingwouldbefinethefirstdaybackatschool,easierwhenIcouldseehim,andhecouldseeme, andhecouldsmile,andwecouldlaughlikethatnightinthegrass.
ButwhenIfinallysawHudson,hewaswithJolene.Theywerekissing.Ilookedthen,butneveragain.
Untilnow.
I turn my head. I can’t see at first. There are too many people. Backpacks, shoulders, mouths, sweaters,andheadsblockmyview.Imovefromsidetosideandsquintmyeyes.Mystomachgetstight and my breath jagged, as if when the crowd clears it’ll be last year again and I’ll see them. But as the crowdthins,thescenelooksnothinglikeitoncedid.Hudsonisn’tthere.NeitherisJolene.
Sheisn’ttalkingtoBellaoutsidehistory,either.OrleavingthegymwhenIwalkin.
I don’t have to walk the long way to psychology. I don’t have to fix my gaze and stare off into the
ButKrishadmadeacleanbreak.Nowallofasuddenshefeelscompelledtoriskeverything—her curfew,and our carefullycrafted status asnobodies—for Bella? It doesn’tmake sense. Itry to think of somethingthatwillmakeitfitintothemapofKris,butIcomeupempty.WhenIthinkofKris,Ithinkof herwithme.
Itremindsmeofthatgameweusedtoplayatintermediateschooldances,theonewhereyoucross yourarmsatthewrists,claspeachother’shands,andspinaroundasfastasyoucan.
Foroverayearwe’vebeenlettingtherestoftheworldwhirlarounduswhileweheldonsotightwe couldn’t see anything but each other. But just because the background spun and blended and bled into streaks,itdoesn’tmeanitdisappeared.
Itapthetipofmypenonthesheetofpaperinfrontofmeandlookoverthelistofirregularverbsand theirmeanings.We’vedonethisbefore.Wedoiteveryear.“Tokeepusfresh,”Señorasays.Asifwe’ll starttorotifwecan’trememberhowtosay shewent , hegoes , I’mgoing .
Maybeshe’sright.
UNCORRECTEDE-PROOF—NOTFORSALE
HarperCollinsPublishers
..................................................................
CHAPTER12
AFTERSPANISHIhookmythumbsunderthestrapsofmybackpackandwalktheusualroutetohomeroom: down the hall, up the stairs, stick to the side so I can exit right. My shoulder brushes along the wall. I examinesomerandomgirl’sponytail.Becausethisispartoftheusualtoo:swallow,tense,breathe,don’t lookatJolene.
Even though Block 241, where the high school sits, is a solid square of moss green according to Sanborn,thelandisdivided.Themassesstaytotheright.Royaltyloungesontheleft,atJolene’slocker, wheresheholdscourt,andHudson’shand.Or,atleast,wheresheusedto.It’sthefirstplaceIsawthem together after the manhunt game: Hudson’s head lowered, Jolene’s neck extended, their lips meeting. I shouldhave looked away.That’s what you’resupposed to do whenyou see peoplekiss. But I couldn’t believeit.Hishandonherhip.Herheadtippedsotheywouldfit.Notinadarkroomorasecludedspot underthestars,butunderthefluorescentlightsforeveryonetosee.Istoodtherewatchingthem,willing Hudson to pull away. And for the briefest second I thought he might. His spine straightened, his hand seemedtopushbackinsteadofpullin.Buthiseyesdidn’tflyopentofindme.Jolene’sdid.Deepina freshkiss,shestaredatme,likesheknewexactlywhereI’dbe.
Ihadn’tknownuntilthatmomentthatI’dreallydoit—leaveJoleneandHudson.Everyone.ThatIwas done.Sure,that’swhatI’dtoldKris.Andyeah,Ihadn’tspokentoJolenesincethemanhuntgame.Butit hadonlybeenafew,flat,end-of-summerdays.I’dstillfeltherwithme;hervoicereciting thetwolittle girls beforeIfellasleep,herbreathonmyneck.I’dwonderedhowlongshe’dstaymadatme.
I’d wondered about Hudson, too—why he hadn’t returned my calls. I’d convinced myself he was dealingwithhisdad’sdrinking,hismomleaving.ThathewasgamingwithCalortiredfromtryouts.That everythingwouldbefinethefirstdaybackatschool,easierwhenIcouldseehim,andhecouldseeme, andhecouldsmile,andwecouldlaughlikethatnightinthegrass.
ButwhenIfinallysawHudson,hewaswithJolene.Theywerekissing.Ilookedthen,butneveragain.
Untilnow.
I turn my head. I can’t see at first. There are too many people. Backpacks, shoulders, mouths, sweaters,andheadsblockmyview.Imovefromsidetosideandsquintmyeyes.Mystomachgetstight and my breath jagged, as if when the crowd clears it’ll be last year again and I’ll see them. But as the crowdthins,thescenelooksnothinglikeitoncedid.Hudsonisn’tthere.NeitherisJolene.
Sheisn’ttalkingtoBellaoutsidehistory,either.OrleavingthegymwhenIwalkin.
I don’t have to walk the long way to psychology. I don’t have to fix my gaze and stare off into the
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