Chapter 36
Thirty-Six
CHLOE
The next morning before school, I try on four different outfits, frowning at my reflection. I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard, but I don’t want to look like a complete slob either. Someone should really make a wardrobe guide for these kinds of situations.
I text Charlotte for help. She has a student council meeting this morning, so there’s a chance she won’t answer. I pace around my room, staring at my phone and waiting for her to reply. After five minutes, I just conjure my fashionista friend in my head instead, because I’m already running late.
Dark jeans. Cute, simple shirt. Hair down.
I pull on my favorite jeans and a fitted t-shirt I shoved in the back of my drawer and forgot about.
I don’t know if it counts as cute, but I didn’t get it from a soccer tournament, so it’s definitely not my usual choice.
And it’s clean. But there’s no way I can wear my hair down.
I don’t have time to tame the waves. Oh well. Two out of three isn’t bad.
On my way to school, I turn over Kyle’s advice for the thousandth time.
The part about Rhoads not dating for the past two years because Graham asked me out first seems ridiculous. Rhoads Simpson could have any girl at school. He’s gorgeous, mysterious, and, actually, I’ve come to find out, a genuinely nice person when he’s being open.
If Rhoads had asked me out before Graham, would I have said yes?
I’d noticed him, of course. I would have had to exist inside a zipped duffel bag not to. But did I gravitate toward Graham naturally, or did I just take the first offer handed to me without really thinking about what I wanted?
My relationship with Graham was fine at the beginning. He was a gentleman. He treated me with respect. But as time wore on, we grew in different directions. We chose to spend more time apart than we did together.
And then there was the breakup. Oh, the breakup. Ours wasn’t the only relationship that ended that night, but my whole world stopped.
In our small town, school formals have some kind of power.
And the last one shattered me.
I blink a bunch of times to bring myself back to my drive to school, and away from the memory of standing in the prettiest dress I’d ever worn while the only boy I’d ever loved broke my heart in the middle of the gym-turned-dance floor.
I avoided that part of the school for the rest of the semester.
But I’m not thinking about that anymore. I closed that chapter.
Maybe Rhoads really is a good guy. I won’t know for sure if he won’t let me in.
The posters in the hall remind me, even if that’s true, it can’t matter as much as soccer right now. I’ve been a fool to let him distract me for so long already, na?ve for thinking that I can really play my best with half my mind elsewhere.
My team is playing for the soccer state title this weekend. That’s all I can afford to focus on.
I stop at my locker to shuffle my books, then head to Mrs. Pennington’s room. I’m actually early, for once, and there are only a few kids seated. When I get to my desk, something small and round sits in the center.
I pick up the glass orb by the wooden base. It’s the size of a peach, and its smooth surface cools my palm as I turn it. My breath hitches as two soccer cleats, probably meant for soccer Barbie, and a black and white ball flip through the blue and gold glitter.
I leave the snow globe on the corner of my desk, afraid it’ll break if I put it in my backpack with my heavy books, and equally afraid of what accepting it would mean, both to Rhoads and to me. It must be from him, unless someone else in this school has a secret snow globe hobby.
Charlotte raises her brows, a smirk playing at her lips, but she doesn’t say a word.
He arrives right before the bell, and his seat is far enough away from mine that there’s no talking to him in class. As soon as the end of class bell rings, he’s gone in a flash.
“Nice souvenir,” Anita says as my two best friends and I walk into the hallway. “What’s it mean?”
“No idea,” I say. “I’ll let you know if I ever find out.”
In my next class, there’s another snow globe waiting for me.
This one has shards of pink glass or plastic and miniature watermelons.
My heart constricts at the memory of Rhoads extending a crinkly paper bag to me after the first game of the season.
Watermelon hard candies. I guess he remembers, too.
In my third class, another one awaits. Colors swirl inside as I flip it over.
Blue and yellow and pink chase each other without mixing.
He must have used some kind of oil to keep them separate but mesmerizing.
Clear glass beads topple through, the tiny spheres breaking through the sea of color, like soap bubbles rising in the air.
It brings to mind not one, but two car washes that brought us closer.
I turn the dial on the front, and like a music box, a familiar piano song plays from somewhere inside.
There’s too many to carry now, so I wrap the globes in the extra clean shirt and shorts I keep in my soccer locker to keep them from banging against each other in my backpack.
By the end of the day, I can’t remember a single thing my teachers have tried to teach me. All I can think about is why. Why did he make these for me?
Could Kyle be right? And more importantly, do I want him to be?