Chapter 4
I pull at the collar of my uniform shirt before going back to staring blankly ahead. The teacher is going on about all of her first day bullshit. This is my third class of the day. At this point, it all sounds exactly the same.
It doesn’t help that my stepdad, Scott, was in a good mood today. Hugging on my mom. Joking around with me. Staring into my eyes and asking me about my life. I know that should be a good thing, and when I was younger and didn’t know shit, it was. But now I know better.
My mom can usually tell how unsure I am inside. She always says, “Disfrútalo mientras puedas.” Enjoy it while you can.
It’s hard to sit and enjoy his good mood when I’m constantly on edge—waiting for something random to send him back into his shitty attitude.
And unfortunately for me, that edginess has transferred into the school day.
I tap my foot nervously as she continues talking. Something about a big field trip later in the year that we should all be excited about.
My hand shoots up. “Can I go to the bathroom?”
The teacher does a twitchy motion. I can tell she’s really annoyed that I just interrupted her speech. But I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin. I need to get out of here. Besides, being on the football team, even as a sophomore, I can pretty much do whatever I want.
She lets me go, and I practically burst out the door—definitely not heading in the direction of the bathroom. Maybe a little walk around the campus will help set my head straight so I can get through the rest of this day.
I loosen my green-and-gold tie a bit so it won’t feel so suffocating and trudge my way down the hall, running my hand across the rows of sleek green lockers.
I’m alone in the hallway. The only sound being the clicking of my dress shoes against the polished tile floor.
Right when the silence starts to settle me, an angry voice interrupts it.
“Fuck you, you fucking fuck. Piece of shit. Mother—”
Some kid is trying to get into his locker up ahead. I walk toward him, watching as he waves his keycard in front of it and curses every time it doesn’t open for him.
“Hey,” I say.
“Oh, shit!”
The kid whips around in my direction—and this may sound a little weird, but I don’t know how else to describe it—my breath leaves my body.
His hair is dyed a pale purple—like a lavender color—and styled in some way that looks effortless and also like it takes him a long time to get it that way.
He has these really long lashes. Longer than I’ve ever seen on another person—they practically touch his eyebrows and they’re coated in a glittery purple mascara.
Everything about him comes together so well.
I can’t help thinking how pretty he is. Like a doll.
But, I mean, that’s not quite the right word. He’s a guy. And I wouldn’t say guys can be pretty. And yet…
“Are you going to help me or not?”
I snap out of my staring and look down at his unamused face. I’m taller than almost everyone at six-foot-two—and I’ve probably got some more growing to do—but with this kid, I feel like I have to crane my neck even further to look down at him.
“Huh?” I ask dumbly.
He thins his lips, like he’s so annoyed that I can’t seem to follow a simple conversation. It draws my eye, and when he releases them, I notice that they’re pink and shiny. I can’t stop staring at them.
He clears his throat, making my eyes snap back up to his.
“Isn’t that why you’re here?” He switches to a super high-pitched voice and puts a distressed look on his face.
“I’m such a little damsel. Oh, no! My locker!
Heavens!” His voice returns to his bored tone.
“And then you’ll come over and punch it open or do some other macho shit. ”
I smirk, which somehow spreads into a slow smile. He’s feisty. It’s fun. Even this short conversation with him has been entertaining.
I have plenty of friends. Grant is my best friend, who is grumpy as fuck. And then the other guys on the team, who talk football and girls and shit.
But none are like this guy.
I get the feeling that keeping this energy around might be a nice addition.
As a friend, because what else is there?
A breathy laugh puffs out from between my lips. “I like you.”
His eyes widen and he shakes his head. “No thanks. Look at you. You’d split me in half.”
I choke on nothing. “The fuck?”
He nods, like it’s such a shame but still true. “I’m sure you’re nice, but whatever you got packing in there”—he motions to my crotch—“is too much for me.”
I blink a few times before quickly shaking my head. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean—” I cut myself off, because I don’t really know what to say, and also, I suddenly feel uncomfortably hot.
He regards me, squinting his eyes and then sighing in understanding. “Oooh. I see. You’re a homophobe.”
“What?! No. I didn’t mean that. I just meant… as a friend. You’re funny.”
“Hmmm,” he hums. “Okay. My bad. Seemed like you were really checking me out.”
I flush again. A hot feeling rising in my cheeks. “Well, no. Sorry. You’re really—” I almost say pretty, but again, that’s not okay to say. “But I’m just—”
He waits, but when it becomes obvious that I’m too tongue-tied, he shrugs.
“None taken.” Then he turns away, effectively dismissing me and trying to open his locker again.
I step up to him, being overwhelmed by the smell of strawberries. It’s pleasant, sneaking inside my body and calming it more than the walk was. I pound my fist against his locker, popping it open.
He lets out a loud, exaggerated ha, and looks back to me, crossing his arms. “How’d you do that?”
I shrug. “Macho shit.”
He smiles but doesn’t say anything, so I speak again. “You’re new here?”
“Yep,” he says as he turns to the locker and starts unloading books out of his bag.
“You’re a sophomore?”
“Yep.”
“Cool. Me too. They don’t usually let people in after freshman year… how’d you manage that?”
“Well, it’s really quite simple. All you need to do is be stuck in foster care for years because no one wants to adopt the small, obviously super gay kid.
Then finally get adopted by this old couple that are very weird and quirky but also really cute who happen to be rich as fuck and can cut the school a huge check and then BAM! You’re in.”
I laugh again. I seem to do that a lot with him. Then a thought hits me. “Wait, did you get adopted by Harold and Nancy?”
“Yes,” he says hesitantly, eyeing me as he closes his locker.
I smile brightly. “Those are my neighbors. Aren’t they like seventy years old?”
He tilts his head back. “I think so—maybe almost seventy.”
“I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other then.”
He rears his head back, giving me a disbelieving look. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I haven’t decided how I feel about you yet.”
“That’s very honest of you.”
He shrugs again and abruptly slams his locker before starting to walk away. I sputter a weird surprised sound. “Uh, okay. I’m Javier, by the way!” I shout down the hallway.
“Declan,” he shouts back without turning around.