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Chris stares at me, and for a moment I think he’s going to argue. Then he says, “Okay. But it might take longer.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Time is the one thing I have in abundance. Too much time. The thing I wish would go away so I could be graduated and drive Nigel out of here forever.

  Chris grins again. “Well, let’s get to work then.”

  Chapter 13

  Monday morning I walk to school, trying to tame the butterflies in my stomach. Dad will be home tomorrow.

  I sigh and think of nicer things. Like Chris.

  True to his word, Chris showed up at Nigel again yesterday. We spent hours working on him and circling each other, smiling. I was surprised how empty I felt when he said he had to go, that his parents wanted him home for dinner.

  I’d dropped my sandpaper into the box and dusted my hands; I’d finally taken my bandages off that morning. The skin beneath was pink and raw, but it was a relief to have my hand back. “Why don’t you stay, have dinner with me? I make a mean Top Ramen.”

  Chris didn’t even pause as he stacked his tools neatly into the toolbox he’d brought with him. “I can’t do that,” he had said sheepishly, glancing at the clock on his phone. “I’m already late. And dinner is kind of a thing at our house.”

  “So stay. Deal with it later—”

  “Tully,” he’d interrupted me, tone apologetic, but firm. “I can’t.”

  I panicked and had sent him on his way, ignoring the pleading looks he shot me through the driver’s side window as he turned the Jeep around and pulled out of the clearing. When his taillights disappeared under the trees I shook my head. The idea of me being with some guy who has a dinnertime curfew? It was laughable. Ridiculous. Frightening.

  Yet here I am, approaching school, walking faster than usual, anticipation fizzing in my stomach.

  I enter the building through one of the main doors and step into the lobby. Ignoring the clusters of people, the freshman darting across the floor, I pass the trophy case and pull my chin up, gripping the strap of my bag and putting my game face on. But two halls later, as I take a corner toward my locker, I hear it.

  “. . . slept with three of them. And one was the new guy.”

  “Chris? What would he see in Tully?”

  I stop dead.

  “I know, right? I mean, he’s hot.”

  The voices are coming from the locker bay around the corner to my left. Four more steps and they’ll see me. Not that I need to see them to know it’s Nicole Wade and Alexa Stillman.

  A long time ago Nicole and I were friendly. We got along anyway. But sophomore year, while I was coiled up trying to forget what had happened with That Man, she grew breasts and gained social prominence. I got hard, she got popular. She tried punching above her weight, taunting me. During chemistry at the end of sophomore year she told everyone I was sleeping with my cousin. I ignored her until the next day, when she sat in front of me in English.

  She’d coiled most of her hair on her head, but the very back hung down, a sheet of shimmering, blonde hair. Perfect.

  While she giggled and whispered, flirting with the guy at the desk in front of her, I took my scissors and carefully, slowly, cut a jagged, inch-wide strip out of the curtain of hair, as close to the nape of her neck as I could reach without touching her.

  She didn’t notice until after class when she was halfway down the hall and Derek Lang asked her if she was trying to start a trend.

  She’d glared at him for a second until he pointed at her head. “Your hair. At the back. There’s—”

  Nicole put her hand to the back of her head and screamed.

  Actually screamed.

  Then she whirled. “You!” She stormed up to me, put a finger under my nose and opened her mouth to scream at me.

  I reached for her hand and she gasped and yanked it down, behind her back.

  “Think very carefully about what you’re about to say, Nicole,” I said low enough that only she could hear. “Or I will cut off a lot more than your hair.”

  She’s a coward. She didn’t even reply, just teared up and threw herself into Derek’s chest. He led her down the hall to the office. But she told the dean she didn’t know who’d done it.

  Being feared has its upside.

  Her hair has grown back out now, of course, and she talks big when I’m not there, but it’s a joke. She’s terrified of me. Won’t even look at me when we’re walking down the hall. Chicken.

  “I heard she got so wasted she was, like, taking off her clothes. And the guys were all grossed out—”

  With a snort, I take a step around the corner. Nicole and Alexa’s mouths drop open.

  “You got something to say to me, Nicole?” I ask.

  Both of them blanch. Nicole cuts a glare at Alexa, like somehow she’s to blame for me showing up. But Alexa doesn’t even notice. She’s too busy hiding behind her dark waves and picking at her nails.

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “We were having a conversation. Had nothing to do with you,” Nicole says finally.

  I tip my head to the side and give Nicole a blank look. People find an expressionless face way more intimidating than a glare. I should know. My dad mastered it years ago.

  There’s this awkward moment where no one says anything. Then Alexa pulls her phone out of her pocket and points at the screen. “We have to go meet Soph,” she says as if I’m not there.

  Nicole pulls the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder. She takes the lead down the hallway, Alexa in her wake. I pat her hair as she passes.

  “Your hair is really growing out, Nicole,” I offer with a blazing smile. “I think I prefer it short.”

  Nicole flinches, but keeps walking.

  I watch them stalk around the corner, Alexa shooting a nervous glance over her shoulder before they disappear. I wait a few seconds because I don’t want to run into them again, then head for my locker. Problem is, I keep hearing my name repeated over and over, coated in whispers and scorn. I don’t know if Nicole started the rumor, or is just happy to perpetuate it, but it’s out there and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

  I ignore them all. But the squirmy, uncomfortable feeling won’t leave me, and I have to ask myself why. This isn’t the first time I’ve been at the center of school-wide rumors. Probably won’t be the last, but something about this makes my skin crawl. It takes me a minute to realize it’s Chris. I hate that they’re painting him that way when he’s so . . . not.

  I reach my locker and twist the combination lock.

  “Tully!”

  The knot in my chest unravels. My name sounds different on Chris’s tongue, like it’s a place to be.

  “There you are.” He leans against the locker next to mine. Today he’s wearing dark jeans, a thin gray long-sleeve shirt that matches his eyes, and a leather jacket.

  “Good morning,” he says.

  “Hi,” I manage, keeping my eyes on my locker.

  He either hasn’t noticed, or has chosen to ignore our audience, the way the flow of traffic has slowed. Everyone in the hallway pauses, waiting to see which way this will go. The gavel falls the moment I close my locker door and turn to leave. But Chris’s hand lands on the small of my back and he leans into my ear, landing a tiny kiss on my neck and whispering, “I missed you,” as if we’ve been apart for weeks.

  The eyes turn away and the whispers rise, and the words of caution I’d prepared die on my tongue. He’s happy to see me? There’s a lurch in my chest. I stumble.

  But Chris catches me, my hand.

  Irritation, apprehension, hate these people—

  I yank out of his grip and step back. His handsome face falls. He scans the hall.

  “What’s upsetting you?” he asks sharply. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. I’m just not into public displays.”


  I try to walk to homeroom, but he curls an arm around my waist and guides me into a nearby doorway of an unused room. It’s a small, dark space. Chris puts my back to the wall and plants himself in front of me. His shoulders create a wall, a shadow I can hide in.

  The gratitude jabs at me, competing with irritation. “You can’t steer me around like a car—”

  “What’s wrong?” he says, and there’s nothing light in it. No tease.

  “Nothing. I’m trying to get to class.” But I can’t meet his eyes. I feel naked in them. And not in the good way.

  He glances at the busy hall, the passing sea, before turning back to me. “They’re bothering you?”

  “They’re all staring,” I point out, irritated that I have to explain it to him.

  “So?”

  “So, they think we’re a weird couple and . . .” I curse under my breath and meet his bewildered gaze. “They’re right.”

  His brows knit together. “What are you talking about?”

  “We can’t be so obvious or they’ll . . .”

  “What, Tully?” Chris scoffs. “Have an opinion? Gossip? So what? Who cares what other people think as long as we’re happy?”

  “I just like to be private,” I mumble, cursing myself for the lie.

  “You’re afraid. I could feel it,” he says, and now the frustration is his.

  I stick my chin up and poke him in the chest. “Get used to it, okay? That’s me. That’s who I am. If you don’t want to feel it, stop grabbing me!”

  “Tully, wait—”

  But I duck around him and out the door, weaving between groups and darting around corners until I can’t hear him calling my name anymore.

  Chapter 14

  I manage to avoid Chris until woodshop.

  His eyes latch onto me the second I step into the courtyard, but he can’t do anything with Mr. Garrison calling everyone to get inside and start working. He watches me approach, motions for me to go first through the door, then follows me to our bench. With every step I can feel him, the skin on the back of my neck heating.

  I bypass our table and head to the backroom. There’s an old flip-top stool in there. I want to see what kind of hinges it has and whether they’ll work for the bench I’m designing for Nigel. The stool is stored just out of reach, and before I can grab the stepladder, Chris reaches over my shoulder, lifting the stool so that his bicep bulges right next to my ear. He brings it gently to the floor.

  “Thank you,” I mutter.

  He doesn’t reply.

  Back at our bench, the room settles into the steady rhythm of sawing and hacking, and the ebb and flow of voices. I’m fiddling with hinges and screws and adjusting my design. Across from me, Chris is measuring and marking on wood. Tension ratchets up my spine because he keeps glancing at me.

  “Are we okay?” he finally asks, frowning at his wood.

  I blink. He sounds hurt. As if I’ve rejected him. “We’re fine.” I scan the room, but no one is looking at us. “I just can’t stand being watched. They’re all talking about Friday and making it . . .” I swear and twist my lips.

  Chris bends over his project, positioning a metal ruler with precision. He marks something off, then glances down at his notes. His voice drops further.

  “I don’t give two hoots what they think,” he says.

  I bite my lower lip and try not to laugh. “Why don’t you swear?” I ask.

  Chris glances up, his expression wry. When he realizes it’s a real question, he gives me one of his heartrending half smiles. “Why should I?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, surprised. “Maybe because you’re not a wrinkled old woman pulling a pension and a five-ton RV?”

  Chris laughs.

  “I’m serious.”

  He examines me from beneath his straight, heavy brows. Then he leans on his elbows until we are only a foot apart and I catch a hint of his aftershave. It makes my stomach clench.

  “You know what happens when you swear, Tully?”

  “What?” It comes out more breathless than I intend.

  “It’s the only thing people hear.” He waits to make sure I heard, then sits back again and gets to work.

  I’m left dissatisfied. “What do you mean?”

  He shrugs. “A couple of years ago I figured out that when anyone swears, those are the words that stick in people’s heads. It’s like everything else fades into the background.” He makes another mark on his wood, then drops the ruler to the bench top with a clatter. “I want people to hear what I’m saying. Not what words I use to say it.”

  I tilt my head. I’m not sure he’s right. But I can’t say he’s wrong, either. And it explains something about him. Something I hadn’t been able to put my finger on before.

  He’s . . . restrained.

  I can’t decide if it’s admirable, or misguided. But on balance, I decide that I respect Christopher Douglas.

  “Of course,” Chris adds, “there’s also the fact that it makes pretty girls talk to me.” He cuts me a grin that’s part sly, part sweet.

  I snort. “Even if you do sound like you have a penchant for doilies and apple tea?”

  “Chamomile tea, actually.” He grins. “Helps me sleep.”

  “Do you quilt in your spare time?” I shoot back.

  He shakes his head. “I prefer to knit.”

  I’m struggling not to laugh. “That must come in handy in the winter months.”

  “It does,” he deadpans. “I’ll make you a bobble hat, if you like? Consider it an early Christmas present.”

  “Only if you make a tea cozy, too. For the chamomile.”

  He gives a lazy chuckle. “Only if you promise to come over and share it with me.”

  Oh, Lord, that smile . . . “I’ve never flirted with a senior citizen before,” I manage.

  “See, that was your first mistake. We get the cheap movie tickets.”

  We both break at the same time. He laughs like he does everything else—open and unashamed. It lights up his face and makes me want to think of something else to keep him laughing because it lights me up, too. I’m giggling—giggling!—into my notebook, and trying to come up with a witty retort when clomping footsteps make their way toward us.

  Rudy stalks up to our table, pushing his dark hair out of his eyes and scowling. He’s wearing the same jeans and T-shirt he wore on Friday.

  I shudder. Chris sees my reaction before he can see Rudy. His face falls and he tenses immediately, like he might launch himself off the stool.

  “What do you want?” I snap at Rudy.

  He sneers, then turns his back to Chris, leaning against the bench and fixing me with a scowl.

  “You owe me,” he says. “You think your little magic pills come cheap?”

  “Not as cheap as you,” I snap. “You broke the rules, Rudy. Game over.”

  Chris is glaring at Rudy’s back, but he hasn’t moved. I’m praying he won’t. Rudy’s a lot stronger than he seems and he’s not drunk. Chris won’t find him as easily beaten as he was Friday.

  Rudy glances in Chris’s direction, then back at me. “You think because he got lucky, you don’t need me anymore, Tulip?”

  I throw down my pencil and sneer at Rudy’s hawkish face. “No. I think you proved you’re an asshole so I want nothing to do with you.”

  Rudy doesn’t even flinch. “He has no clue what he’s getting into, does he? When he finds out, you think he’s still gonna want to ride off into the sunset with you?” He blinks at me innocently. “Or . . . wait. No, I get it.” He snaps his fingers. “You’re riding him—”

  I leap off my stool. “Shut the f—”

  But Chris’s hand is already on Rudy’s shirt, yanking him off the bench. In one movement he’s shoved Rudy back into the aisle and put himself between us. “Leave. Now,” he says, low and hard.


  Rudy laughs. “Wow, Tulip, you got him well trained. What are you going to do?” He spits at Chris. “You think you can kick my ass when I can see you coming?”

  “If I have to,” Chris says seriously. “Better if you leave.”

  Rudy gives me a look of disbelief over Chris’s shoulder. I want to cringe. I know Chris means well, but he has no idea what he’s dealing with here.

  “I’ll talk to you later,” I snap at Rudy. “Go.”

  Rudy’s hands come up like he’s being held at gunpoint. “Don’t let me get in the middle of this little lovefest.” He points a finger at me, then Chris. “No, really, you two make a great couple.” He winks at Chris. “I can tell you how your dick works so you don’t embarrass yourself. And give you some tips. She likes it when you—”

  Chris takes a step, but I duck past him and push Rudy’s chest, my cheeks hot. “Shut the hell up!”

  Rudy grabs my arm. “He’s slumming, Tulip. I give it a month,” he hisses in my ear.

  “You think so?” I answer. No way I’m letting Rudy know he’s hit a nerve.

  “Get your hands off her,” Chris threatens, trying to step around me.

  “That’s enough!” Mr. Garrison thunders up the aisle.

  Rudy just pulls me in closer. “No one knows what a dirty girl you are better than me,” he whispers.

  “Takes one to know one,” I whisper back. Then I grab his balls and twist.

  Rudy makes a squeaky noise and bends at the waist like a snapped twig. His face turns purple and he crumples to the floor right at Mr. Garrison’s feet. Mr. Garrison slides to a halt, his mouth open. “Really, Tully?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Garrison,” I say without meaning it.

  “Yes, sorry,” Chris echoes with a lot more sincerity.

  Mr. Garrison surveys Rudy, red-faced and groaning on the floor. When he looks back up his tone leaves no room for mistake. “You two can help Mr. Koswalscki here to the nurse’s station, then take yourselves to the principal’s office.”

  I gape. “But Chris didn’t even do anything!”

  “Then I’m sure Mr. Wallace won’t punish him,” Mr. Garrison says.