“Yeah…maybe.”
I take a deep breath. Kristen’s going to tel the whole school that I disappeared with Ty on Saturday. It’s seventh grade al over again.
Wait, what if they’re right? What if Ty only wants to devirginize me? But how would he even know? It’s not like Lacey and Kristen know everything. I could’ve screwed Mike’s friend Jake Reynolds, and they’d never know.
“So what do I do?” Kristen says.
“Play it cool. I don’t think he’l stay interested in Jordan for too long—especial y not when he sees how much time she spends with Sam Henry. JJ told me that Sam stays over at her house al the time. Like in the same bed!”
Kristen gasps. “What? That’s so weird. Maybe she’s not a virgin, after al . Maybe she’s a slut.”
Damn it, Henry’s like my brother—don’t they know that? Rather than deal with these awful girls face-toface, I decide to stay in the stal until they leave. And then I’m getting the hel out of here. I’d rather skip school than deal with the aftermath of Saturday night. When they’re gone, I tiptoe out of the bathroom and head for the front doors of the school. Halfway there, I see Marie, who rushes up to me, smiling. “Jordan! Oh my God—you and Ty? You’re so lucky.”
I feel bad for ignoring her because she’s actual y nice, but I can’t deal. Seriously.
Other girls in the hal way stop moving when they see me, giggling and whispering to each other.
Bates and Higgins walk up. “Yo, Woods,” they say.
“Great game Friday,” Bates adds, knocking fists with me.
“You’re a shoo-in for Alabama,” Higgins says, resting his arm on my shoulder. “I hope you’l put in a good word for me.”
Thank God—they don’t mention the hideous photo shoot either. Then a few other guys pass me and say hi, acting normal. But al the girls stare.
Then I see JJ, who walks right up and grabs my elbow. “Are you okay? Because if you aren’t, I’m gonna kick that pretty boy’s ass. Right now.”
What? JJ, Mr. “If You Share Your Feelings with Me I’l Snap Your Head Off,” is concerned about my love life?
“I’m fine,” I tel JJ, “But I don’t feel good. I’m gonna go home.” I take off again, and then I see him. Ty. Coming toward me and smiling. He waves. And I sprint for the front door.
Now I’m hiding in the potting shed, alternating between writing in my journal and repeatedly tossing a footbal up in the air and catching it. I like it in here. Makes me feel like a kid again, without any of these problems. After throwing the bal up and catching it for the thousandth time, I wedge the flashlight under my chin and begin to write:
The whole school knows about Saturday night
Saturday, disappearing with Ty was the right decision Right as eating peanuts at a baseball game
Right as the sound of coffee grinding on Saturday morning Today? Confused as hell
I can’t believe how much I’m beginning to love writing. Not just getting thoughts out of my head, but the chal enge of finding creative words and rhythms and fun descriptions.
Right as the smell of smoke following fireworks Stil , writing’s a weak thing to be doing. At least compared to playing quarterback. Or eating those scalding 911 wings that made me and Ty cry at the Titans game.
The door to the shed suddenly slams open and Henry crawls in next to me, watching as I hide my journal behind a watering can.
Running a hand through his curly blond hair, Henry hip-checks me and presses his shoulder against mine.
“Yo, Woods—how could you miss practice? You have the plague or something?”
“If I do, you’ve got it now too.”
“Why’d you skip school?”
We lean back against the shed wal , and I curl up under his arm and drop the footbal onto his lap. Faint sunlight shimmers through the grimy window.
“’Cause people were talking about me in the hal way.”
“So?”
“So that’s never happened to me before.”
Henry pul s me in closer and rubs my arm as I go on.
“I don’t want to lose the team’s respect. If I lose my confidence, I’m going to play like shit, and shitty players don’t get offered spots on Division I teams like Alabama.”
His eyes focus on mine and we stare at each other for a while. With his tan skin and emerald eyes, Henry is an extremely cute guy, and it occurs to me how many girls at school would love to find themselves in a potting shed with him. Then he says, “Want to play the hand-slap game?”
I sit Indian-style and Henry mimics me. He puts his hands out toward me, palms up. I place my hands on top of his. A second later, he yanks his hands out from beneath mine and tries to smack the tops of my hands, but I jerk away.
“Winner gets the footbal charm, right?” I ask, nodding at his chest.
“Hel no,” Henry replies, not missing a beat. He puts his hands back out, and we play several more times before he speaks again. “Today, in music appreciation class, Mr. Majors said we al have to choose an instrument and write a five-page paper about its origins. We also have to discuss the instrument’s relevance in today’s society. But don’t worry, I signed you up for a great instrument.”
“What?”
“The harpsichord.”
“What the hel is a harpsichord?” I exclaim.
“I dunno,” he says, smiling. “I saw it on a poster in the classroom.”
“You must be kidding. How could an instrument I’ve never heard of have any relevance in today’s society?”
“These things wouldn’t happen if you didn’t skip school.”
“What the hel , man? What instrument did you pick?”
“What the hel , man? What instrument did you pick?”
He shrugs. “An instrument that has a lot of relevance in today’s society. The guitar.”