Chapter 4
Fernwood High School hasn’t changed much in two years. Hardly surprising. This whole town is like a time capsule. Everyone who lives here is content with their shiny, happy lives. They embrace—enjoy—the status quo.
It’s annoying. But again, not surprising.
I toss the football I’m holding in the air and catch it, half listening to the two guys standing closest discuss how they’re getting a keg to a party on Friday night. I’m tempted to tell them it’s as simple as a good fake ID and some confidence, but I don’t talk to the rich jerks who make up about half of Fernwood High’s population unless it’s absolutely necessary or I’m in the mood to stir up some shit.
Five girls are whispering to each other directly across from me. One of them, a blonde, looks me over pretty obviously and then flips her ponytail over one shoulder. I wink at her, then toss the ball again. The girls start tittering louder, like birds, and Mr. Medina, the gym teacher, gives up on his overview of the class rules. Or maybe he just finished running through them. I wasn’t really listening.
The loose circle of students disbands.
“Don’t forget a change of clothes tomorrow!” Mr. Medina calls after the disappearing backs.
I doubt I’ll bother. None of the guys at the garage will care if I show up sweaty, and my standard summer uniform is athletic shorts and a T-shirt. The temperature has yet to dip below seventy since I’ve been back in Massachusetts, so I doubt that’ll change anytime soon.
I tuck the football into the mesh bag by the long metal bench, then turn toward the sports building that houses the gymnasium and locker rooms.
“Hold up a minute, Ryder.”
I blow out a long breath as I pause halfway across the running track that surrounds the football field. “I’ve got places to be, Mr. Medina.”
“This won’t take long,” he says, walking toward me with a clipboard tucked under one arm.
In addition to teaching gym, Medina also coaches the football team. I only need one guess on what he wants to talk to me about.
“The answer is no,” I tell him.
“Why?”
He doesn’t take offense to my straightforward approach, which I appreciate. It almost makes me wish I could give him a different answer. Medina’s one of the few teachers I have positive memories of from freshman year. He treats students based on their behavior, not their home address.
“I have a job after school,” I answer. “I don’t have a rich daddy bankrolling me.”
Medina might act oblivious to the social hierarchy here, but there’s no way he doesn’t know I live in the trailer park.
“What about practicing before school?” he asks.
“I’d rather sleep.”
Mr. Medina half smiles. “I’m offering you the starting spot, James.”
Both my eyebrows rise, betraying my surprise. “Thought that was Hathaway’s gig.”
“We’d hold tryouts again, of course.”
But I’d win. That’s what he’s saying. And it’s nice to know.
Archer Hathaway is the exact sort of rich prick I can’t stand, and based on his behavior in Calculus earlier, he’s only gotten richer and prickier in the two years I was gone. I’d love to steal his roster spot and rub it in his face, but I wasn’t lying about my job. I can’t afford to get fired—literally—which is exactly how me not showing up at the garage would go. Tucker went out on a limb to get me the gig, and I can’t do that to him either.
“I can’t. Really.”
Mr. Medina nods slowly. “I understand your situation is different from most students’. But I would really like to help you, Ryder. Colleges love to see extracurriculars like sports on applications?—”
“I’m not going to college.”
He sighs. “Keeping your options open is?—”
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Probably Tuck, wondering where I am.
“I have to head out,” I cut Medina off—again. “See you tomorrow.”
He doesn’t try to stop me this time, just nods.
I stop in the locker room to grab my backpack and then head straight toward the parking lot, which is still full. I appear to be the only one eager to get out of here. Countless groups of students are clustered around expensive cars, socializing. The largest cluster is right by the obnoxiously oversized entrance to the high school. Twin columns frame the double doors that keep opening as more students spill outside.
Elle Clarke stands in the center of the crowd, laughing at something the girl next to her said as she slips on a pair of sunglasses. I recognize the blonde beside her vaguely. Her name is Julia? Maybe? She and Elle have been friends for a while.
“So, you survived, huh?”
I glance over at Reese Porter, who’s approaching me. She’s a fellow Two, which is what the rich snobs we attend school with call us. Better than trailer-park trash, I guess.
“Yeah,” I reply. “This town is all bark and no bite.”
Aside from some whispers and stares, most people ignored my return.
Reese snorts. “Not much has changed.” She follows my gaze to the large cluster of our peers by the main entrance. “Same pecking order. Same hero worship, starting with Queen Elle.”
I say nothing. I’ve never told anyone what happened between me and Elle, knowing exactly what my friends thought—think—of her. But she’s different than most people see. Or she used to be at least. People change. I have.
“Oh goody. Here comes the jock parade.” Reese scoffs. Saying she harbors some resentment toward the wealthy section of town would be a massive understatement.
I watch several guys head toward the crowd congregated around Elle. Archer Hathaway is in front. He pushes his way right to Elle, then kisses her in full view of the entire parking lot.
My abs clench as the invisible hit registers. It feels like I was just kicked in the stomach.
“She’s dating Hathaway?” I don’t mean to ask the question; it just comes out.
“Oh, yeah.” Reese rolls her eyes. “He asked her to prom in front of the whole school. They were crowned king and queen. It was a vomit-inducing spectacle. Be glad you missed it.”
I am. And I’m not surprised Elle is dating someone or that he’s rich. I didn’t think it’d be Hathaway though. Freshman year, Elle agreed with me that Hathaway was a self-centered asshole.
“You went to prom?”
Reese’s face appears pinker than it did a minute ago. “It was lame. Whatever.”
I smirk. “Are there pictures?”
Reese is a tomboy through and through. I’ve never seen her wear a skirt, let alone a dress. Right now, she’s wearing jean cutoffs and a faded David Bowie T-shirt.
“Bye, Ryder.”
I chuckle as she walks off, resuming my surveillance of the parking lot. Finally, I spot Tucker’s green truck parked on the far side of the lot. Before heading in that direction, I steal one last look at the commotion near the main entrance of the high school.
Elle is looking this way. Not just this way. She’s looking at me.
There’s an unexpected jolt, an electric paddle to the chest, as our eyes connect. The sunglasses Elle’s wearing do nothing to diminish the impact of her stare. She’s surrounded by her adoring subjects, standing next to her king, but her attention is all mine.
I break the connection first, turning and walking toward Tucker’s truck. Surprised he hasn’t left my ass here by now. I haven’t been late once in the two weeks I’ve been working at the garage. Hopefully, that streak isn’t about to end.
“Ryder.”
I freeze, not because someone’s saying my name. Because she’s saying my name.
I spin around to watch Elle approach me with confident strides, her expression purposefully smooth. The blue dress she’s wearing flutters around her thighs in the slight breeze created by the movement.
Fuck, she looks hot. My fourteen-year-old self would have told you Elodie Clarke was the most beautiful girl in the whole world, and that’s an assessment I’m sticking by at seventeen.
Her dark hair is shorter, falling just past her shoulders in curls I know are manufactured. I prefer her hair wavy. Messy from my hands.
The careful curls make her look older. Maturer. More untouchable.
We never followed each other on social media, and I didn’t look her up in the time I was gone because that would have made everything a whole lot harder. Now, seeing her in person, I sorta wish I had. I’ve been staring at her for too long, same as I did outside of the History classroom earlier.
“From Mr. Anderson.” Elle takes one final step, leaving a couple of feet of space between us, holding a green folder out to me.
Rather than say thanks, I ask, “Why do you have it?”
I’m an asshole like that.
“He asked me to give it to you.” She pushes her sunglasses up to the top of her head, pulling the hair away from her face and pinning me in place with a hard stare.
“Why you?”
Elle holds my gaze. “You know why.”
Her taste in guys might have changed, but she’s still every teacher’s favorite student.
I flip the folder open to find it filled with study-guide materials and a flyer advertising the tutoring center’s services. My jaw works. Yeah, same school. Everyone expects the best from her. The worst from me.
“I don’t need extra help.” There’s an edge to my tone that has everything to do with my exasperation with this school after one day and nothing to do with her.
I’m embarrassed, though, that she’s the one witnessing this. It’s the first fucking day. Anderson couldn’t even give me a chance to keep up?
I’m not expecting her to take the folder from me, so it slips through my fingers easily. Elle rifles through the papers. A wrinkle appears on her forehead as she scans the sheets. Then, she shuts the folder and rips it clean in two. Tosses the torn pieces back to me.
“You’re welcome,” she says.
I don’t mean to smile. But I know I am. I can feel the stretch in my cheeks.
The words are right there, waiting on the tip of my tongue. I missed you. I still miss her, even while she’s standing in front of me, knowing that I fucked up everything between us.
I never expected to have this opportunity. I thought any conversation we had would consist of her laughing in my face or looking right through me. Thought I’d be a blip so far in the past that she’d barely remember me.
Elle’s looking at me like she remembers everything.
“I’m sorry.” The apology is impulsive, but I mean the words. Mean them as much as everything else I ever told her. I hope she can hear the sincerity.
Elle says nothing in response. She’s barely blinking. No reaction. I might as well have not spoken at all.
I try again. “Elle, I …”
She moves, her spin graceful and her posture perfect as she walks away from me. Back toward her large group of admirers, most of whom are staring this way. No doubt wondering why she was talking to me.
That went well.
Tucker is sitting in the driver’s seat when I reach his truck, tapping his fingers against the door.
“Sorry for the delay,” I say, climbing in the passenger side.
“Forget your way around?” Tuck asks. His gaze immediately focuses on the ripped papers I’m holding, one eyebrow rising.
“Nah. Medina stopped me after gym. He wants to draft me for the team.”
“You going to play?”
“Of course not.”
Although taking the starting quarterback spot from Hathaway is a lot more tempting after discovering he’s dating Elle. I wouldn’t hate watching her cheer for me either.
“Why not?” Tuck asks.
I lift an eyebrow. “You serious? The job you got me, for one.”
“Uncle Hank is cool. He’d let you shift around hours. As long as the cars get fixed, doesn’t matter what time it is.”
“I don’t want to play football,” I tell him.
A partial lie. A partial truth. I resent most of the ridiculous pageantry of high school, but I do enjoy playing.
“You’re good.”
“I know I am. Doesn’t mean I want to play with these dicks. One month, I’ll be eighteen; I won’t even have to show up to school at all.”
Tucker groans as he turns the key in the ignition. The truck rumbles to life a few seconds later. “Don’t be stupid, James. Get a diploma at least.”
I tap the dashboard. “It’s ten to three, man. Let’s go.”
“Pay up first.”
My jaw works a couple of times as I glance over at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Rearview mirror’s got a great view of the parking lot.”
I exhale.
“She looks good, right?”
I never told Tuck what happened with Elle, but he made a lot of assumptions. Most of which were correct.
I don’t respond. I just tug a twenty out of my pocket and toss it toward my best friend. “Gas money. Not for the dumb bet I didn’t agree to.”
There’s no way I’m telling Tuck not only did Elle talk to me, but that was technically our second conversation today.
The pack of cigarettes has been in my back pocket all day, so they’re a bit crushed. They still light. Unlike my school in Jacksonville, Fernwood High follows the honor system. No random locker searches or metal detectors or drug dogs roaming campus. I pull my phone out too.
It wasn’t Tuck who texted me ten minutes ago. It was my dad.
SPERM DONOR: Talk soon, kiddo. Wish things had worked out differently.
“I thought you quit?” Tuck asks.
I drop my phone in my lap. “Shut up and drive.”
Tuck flips me off before shifting into drive. “I missed you, man.”
I blow a stream of smoke out the window. “Yeah. Same here, Franklin.”
I did miss Tuck. I missed my brother, Cormac, and my mom and Reese and the other friends I left behind here. I even missed having seasons. Florida was basically an endless stretch of humidity.
But the honest answer to what—who—I missed most?
The girl I made certain hates my guts.