Chapter 3 Easton
Easton
We dare you to ask Maddie Miller on a date.
I stare blankly into my messy locker, Marcus’s words echoing in my brain, my constant companion over the last two days.
The hallway fills with students and I spot Maddie Miller at the far end, surrounded by her adoring pack of fangirls—phones out, all of them preening and fussing with their hair, pursed lips and all.
Nothing new there.
I’ve seen her videos, of course. I don’t know shit about social media, but I know it’s important to Maddie and that she has a decent following.
Rooted to the ground, I watch the girls in my peripheral, trying not to seem obvious—I wouldn’t be caught dead outwardly staring. Maddie’s feet move in a practiced dance…long legs…short skirt…cropped shirt.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”
Holy shit.
I accidentally slam my locker shut, startled at the voice.
Turning my head, I see Harper Conrad twirling her locker combination. Her teasing interrupts my mental flatlining.
“I wasn’t staring at Maddie Miller.”
We both know I’m lying.
We both know I was staring; I just wasn’t planning on getting busted doing it.
I consider my staring research for the Dare. After all, why the hell would I want to ask Maddie on a date when she’s surrounded by her minions? I have to do recon work so I’m not forced to waltz over there when she’s with other people—I’m an idiot, but I’m not crazy.
Unfortunately for me, Maddie always has an audience.
“I never said you were staring at Maddie, I said ‘Take a picture, it’ll last longer.’ ” Harper laughs, cramming a pink canvas tote into her locker. “You just outed yourself.”
Harper fidgets with her books, nodding toward Maddie. “Why don’t you just talk to her? She won’t bite.”
Is it that obvious I want to talk to her?
“I don’t want to talk to her,” I argue. “And I know she doesn’t bite.”
“I mean, she might,” Harper teases. “She only looks sweet.”
What point is she trying to make? Is she implying that Maddie isn’t nice?
Why is this any of this Harper’s business?
“I wasn’t staring.” I say it again in case I wasn’t clear the first time.
Harper yawns, busying herself by grabbing a paperback off the top shelf of her locker. Not a textbook—we barely have those anymore ’cause the school gives us computers—but an actual paperback novel. I can’t see its cover, but it’s white and blue and has the word jock in its title.
“Whatever you say, dude.” She chuckles.
Dude?
Why does she make it sound like an insult?
I open my mouth but quickly snap it shut; I don’t know Harper well enough to continue arguing with her.
Say less.
But Harper isn’t through chatting with me.
“I don’t understand why everyone is so afraid of her,” she goes on, stacking the paperback on top of some notebooks.
“She does nothing but take selfies and put them on the internet. Big whoop.” Harper slams her locker shut.
“Not that it surprises me a guy like you is as basic as the rest of the male population.”
A guy like me?
Basic?
What does that even mean?!
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I blurt out.
My locker neighbor shrugs. “You know—you all want to date someone like her.”
Someone like her? Obviously! Maddie is beautiful and pretty and cute.
“I am a f-freaking winger for the the—the…hockey team!” I stammer, floundering. “There is nothing basic about me!”
She snorts.
Actually snorts while she laughs.
“Winger but not the captain? Yikes.”
“Wow. That was really…” I plow a hand through my hair, letting out a puff of air. “Rude.”
Harper spins on the heel of her pristine white sneakers, squeaking as she stalks down the hall toward the cafeteria.
Why is she being so fucking rude?
I wasn’t aware that Harper Conrad didn’t like me—I thought everyone liked me, I’m a decent guy—but you learn something new every day.
Harper Conrad and I rarely speak—we’ve had lockers near each other for three years but no classes together.
My brain ticks off details about her, most of them things you can discern about someone simply through observation:
She’s not in any sports—at least, none that I know of.
She is taller than most girls but shorter than me.
Dark reddish-brown hair.
Freckles.
Wicked grin.
Arrogant hair toss.
Gets decent grades but not at the top of the class. Then again, neither am I.
Doesn’t have a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend.
Seems to like the color pink, as I’ve seen some locker decorations fall out from time to time. And she has a pink book bag.
Brat.
I watch Harper retreat until she’s swallowed by a sea of students, the warning bell ringing, her reddish hair finally disappearing from sight.
I stand here with no books in my hands, nothing for my biology class, already late.