The gymnasium is close to an exit, so we’re among the first to make it to the safety of the faculty parking lot. Surrounded by the odd assortment of vehicles, from a station wagon here to a cherry red Porsche there, I watch apathetic students saunter out of the concrete block that is our high school, as if they’re impervious to fire.
Not that I believe there’s a fire.
My guess is that some moron pulled the alarm to be funny, not having the foresight to realize that he or she would then be forced to stand in the cold for an hour while waiting for the fire trucks to arrive and the firemen to clear the building and finally make the screeching alarm stop.
It’s windy, and I think I see snow flurries. With every gust, I pull myself tighter into a ball to try to stay warm.
It’s not working.
I yank my hair out of its messy knot at the nape of my neck, hoping it will act as a scarf. Immediately, the wind sets flight to my bright auburn locks, and I am both blinded and repeatedly face-whipped.
As the hordes of students gather, I hear whispers and chuckles, presumably about my outfit. I swear I hear the click of a camera phone, but by the time I peer through my wild mane, the photographer has hidden the evidence. Still, the trace of giggling from the inside of a tight circle of cheerleaders makes me nervous.
I stare at their backs until Alex Morgan whips her head of shiny black hair in my direction and locks eyes with me. She looks like she took time to apply an extra layer of jet-black eyeliner before evacuating the building.
Priorities.
Alex smirks at me and turns back to the huddle, and more giggles erupt from it.
At this moment, I wish for my best friend, Jamie. The girl has her faults, but she’ll never back down from a cheerleader’s slams.
Alone with my bare legs and purr-fect T-shirt, I hear bits and pieces of conversations about weekend plans, the “test we’re missing right now,” and “let’s just take off and drive to Reggie’s for breakfast, since we’re already out here.” I hug my arms to my torso even tighter, partially to shield myself from the weather and partially to obscure the cat.
“Nice T-shirt,” says a smooth male voice, with just a touch of mockery. Using my left hand as a makeshift ponytail holder, I grab all the hair I can catch and turn in the direction of the voice.
And then time stops.
I see the smile first. There is an unmistakable sweetness peeking through the teasing. My armor begins to crumble before I’ve made my way up to the eyes; what’s left of it melts away at the sight of them. Sparkling pale cornflower blue with darker flecks, surrounded by eyelashes any girl would envy.
Looking at me.
Right at me.
Even more than his mouth, his eyes are smiling.
If there was something near me—a piece of furniture, even a nonhostile person—I might reach out and physically steady myself because I feel off balance in his presence. In a good way.
Wow.
And then it’s all gone. The shirt, the phone, basketball, Alex Morgan.
There’s nothing but the boy before me.
He looks like he belongs in either Hollywood or heaven. I could stare at him all day.
“Thanks,” I say after who knows how long. I force myself to blink. His face looks familiar somehow, but only in the way that I want it to.
Wait, do I remember him?
Please, oh please, oh please let me remember him.
I thumb through years and years of faces in the album in my brain. This face is nowhere to be found.
For a glimmer of a second, I’m sad about that fact. Then my optimistic side springs forth. I’m probably wrong. He has to be in there somewhere.
Where were we? Oh, the outfit…