CHAPTER
1
Darla, my twelve-year-old sister, has shoved me halfway off the computer chair. “Brett, move!” she yells.
“Cool it!” I yell back. “I have to finish this essay.”
“I have to do my book report.” She stops shoving. “Dad! It’s my turn at the computer.”
Behind me, I hear the clink of cereal bowls landing on the kitchen table. “Why didn’t you do your book report last night?” Dad asks.
“Because I was doing other stuff,” Darla says.
“Same here,” I say. “We need our own computers.”
He sighs. Loudly. Opens the fridge. Looks in. Closes it.
I type the last sentence of my essay. Click Print. “Dad, you’re too paranoid.”
“There are online predators,” he says. “I want the computer where I can see what you’re doing.”
I get to my feet and grab the printout. Darla scoots into my place. “Ew, the seat is sweaty.”
“It is not.” I shove the essay in my notebook. Sit across from Dad at the table. “I wish you’d trust us more.”
“I trust you. It’s other people I don’t trust.”
“Yeah, whatever,” I mutter, grabbing the cereal box.
“Yeah, whatever,” Darla parrots. This is the only subject in the world my sister and I agree on.
I quickly go through a bowl of cereal. Banana. Big glass of orange juice. Football season is over, but I feel like I’m still in training. I pour another bowl of cereal. Grab another banana.
Dad frowns and shakes his head.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says, staring into his coffee cup.
I return the banana to the fruit bowl.
He grunts. Grabs the banana and tosses it at me. “Eat. You’re sixteen.”
Man, make up your mind. I shrug and start peeling it. “Not going out today?”
He shakes his head. “Water’s too rough.”
I look at him. He’s still not making eye contact. His shoulders are slumped. Most of the time Dad’s able to fish. But when he doesn’t, there’s no income. He’s too proud to talk about money. Doesn’t want to worry us. Which just makes me worry. Money … everything … was so much easier before Mom died.
“Burger King is hiring,” I say. “I saw a sign—”
“No,” Dad interrupts me. “Your job is school.”
I take a deep breath and finish the banana. “It’s okay about the computer. We can get by with one.”
“No we can’t,” Darla pipes up.
“Darla, shut up.”
Dad’s so preoccupied he doesn’t even scold me. I know the whole computer thing is more about money than cyber stalkers. Why can’t he just say that? Guys, we can’t afford another computer. Why does he have to be such a super parent?
I get up from the table. Clean my dishes and grab my backpack. “Well, see ya later.”
“Yeah. Have a good one.” Dad’s voice trails off. Like he’s got ten thousand things on his mind. Things I’ll never know about.
I’m standing at my locker. Hear, “Hey, Miller.” Fermio whacks his forearm against mine. I notice a new bruise on the side of his face. A big one this time. He and his dad must have really gotten into it. A couple other friends from the team—Josh and Keesy—hover next to Fermio.
“Hey.” I open my locker.
Josh says, “I saw an old Nissan at Earl’s this morning.”
“Oh yeah? I’ll have to check it out.” My 1996 Nissan pickup is too old and beat up to be cool. But it’s old and beat up enough to be cheap. Earl’s junkyard is my go-to place for spare parts.
I feel fingers tickling my sides.
“Don’t look now,” Fermio says, grinning and glancing behind me. “It’s Jillia the gorillia.” The guys laugh and take off.
I twist around. “Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” Jillia says, all purry and sexy. She wraps her arms around my waist. Her hair smells like apples. I cup her face in my hands and give her a long kiss. Taste her blueberry lip gloss.
“Yum, I want to eat your face.”
“I don’t think so.” She pulls away, wrinkling her nose.
“What?”
“Um, did you brush your teeth this morning?”
I slap my hand over my mouth. “No,” I say through my fingers. “Sorry.”
She smiles. Digs in her backpack and pulls out a mint. “Here.”
I toss the mint in my mouth. “I guess I was distracted.”
“About what?”
“Just … stuff. Family stuff.”
Her phone chirps, and she snickers as she reads the screen.
“Shannon?” I ask. That’s her best friend.
“Yeah.” She smirks. “Says she’s gonna beat my ass at batting drills today. I don’t think so.” Jillia fingers her keyboard.
“I gotta hike it,” I say. “See you at lunch.” I kiss Jillia’s forehead in case my breath is still gross.
My first class is drawing. Which is in the art building on the other side of campus. I can hardly draw a straight line, but I needed an elective. Guys on the team say Mr. Spencer is cool. An easy A. It’s only the third day of the second semester, so too early to tell. I do like the art room. It’s so … un-academic. About twenty easels and stools are scattered around in a jumbled semi-circle. Each easel holds a large pad of paper.
It’s late when I get to class. I grab the last untaken spot along the side of the room. The bell rings just as I land my butt on the stool.
There’s a message in big letters on the whiteboard:
Mr. Spencer will be 30 minutes late.
Continue perspective exercises.
Perspective. Okay. I was kind of focused on a phone-app game yesterday. I glance at the guy next to me. He’s drawing a 3-D box. “Oh, right,” I say, still not sure.
He looks over at me. Smiles. I’ve seen him around once or twice but don’t really know him. “Horizon line?” he says.
“Uh-huh.”
“Vanishing point?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Were you even here yesterday?”
“Uh … huh?”
He laughs. Reaches over with his pencil. Draws a line across the top third of my page. “Horizon line,” he says. His arm extends close to my nose. A rich, soapy scent wafts over. I suddenly wonder if my breath is still bad. Wish I had another mint. Then wonder why I care.
He puts a dot on the middle of the line. “Vanishing point. Where all three-dimensional objects end?”
“Right. It’s coming back to me now.”
He smiles again. “I’m Zach.”
“Brett,” I say. “Thanks for the help.”
“No prob.” Zach turns back to his easel. I catch his profile as I glance at the boxes he’s sketching on his drawing pad. I notice his tanned skin. The outline of his biceps under his tight long-sleeved T. He looks over. I flick my eyes back to my easel. Grip the pencil in my fist. Feel the point dig into my skin. What is wrong with me?
CHAPTER
2
I want to think I don’t ask for Zach’s help again during class. That when he reaches over to my drawing pad, I don’t smell his delicious arm again. That while Mr. Spencer lectures, I don’t keep glancing at Zach, imagining what his biceps look like with his shirt off. But I do.
When Mr. Spencer says, “Okay, time to clean up,” I’m confused. Like I’m waking up from an hour-long daydream. I sit on my stool, listening to pencils clattering on wooden trays. Paper rustling. Kids chattering. Then the bell rings. Like a slap to my face, the ugly noise jolts me back to reality.
What am I doing?
I jump off of my stool. I have to get out of here. Now. I quickly rip the page from my easel. Crumple it in a ball.
“Hey, didn�
�t you hear?” Zach says. “We’re supposed to sign our pages and turn them in.”
“No. I didn’t hear,” I say without looking at him. My face is burning.
“O-kay. See you tomorrow.”
I run out of the art building. Throw my drawing in a trash can outside the door. I barrel through the main hallway. I can’t get the embarrassed heat out of my face. The jittery, disgusted feeling out of my stomach. I was lusting after a guy! I shove through a crowd of gossiping freshmen.
“Hey!” one of the girls yells at me.
I slam into a kid who’s texting.
“Watch it, dude!” he whines.
I reach my locker. Turn my combination. Pull up on the latch. It doesn’t open. I try again. It still doesn’t open. “Crap!” I take a deep breath. Press my forehead against the locker. Cool it, I command myself. Just cool it. I try my combination again, slower this time. The door opens. I grab a textbook. Slam my locker shut.
By now the hallway is less crowded. The commute between my first and second period classes is way too long. I barely have enough time to get to English.
“Hey, Miller.” It’s Aguilar, fast-walking next to me. He’s on the football team. He’s also in my next class.
“Hey, Aggie,” I mumble.
“Did you write that essay?” he asks.
My mind is so whacked, it takes me a second to figure out what he’s talking about—this morning, the computer, my pushy sister. “Um, yeah.”
“I didn’t. Not a good way to start the semester, right?”
“Right, I guess not.”
Aggie talks. I listen. I’m glad for the distraction. By the time we reach English, I’m feeling a little better. The weird art room is behind me. My English class, with its identical desks in nice, neat rows, calms me. Everything is as it should be. I’m as I should be. Whatever happened in art class, that wasn’t me. I don’t know who that was.
That afternoon, I’m halfway to the softball field. I shove my hands in my hoodie pockets. It’s a typical overcast day in Elkhead Beach, Oregon. I see Fermio walking up ahead. “Fermio, wait up!” I yell.
“Going to softball practice?” I ask when I catch up. The bruise on his cheek has broadened out. It’s gotta hurt. I won’t ask what happened. If he got stung by his drunken dad, he’ll just get all pissy. Claim he walked into a door.
“Of course.” He smiles. “It’s cold today. You know what that means.”
“Um, rack-hugging jerseys?”
“Yeah, dude.”
“Anyone’s rack in particular?” I’m smiling too. Talking about girls is, well, comforting.
“I may have my eye on a certain outfielder.”
He must be talking about mega-hot Angela Cornish. “You and every guy in school. And she’s a junior.”
Fermio shrugs. “I can try.” Then he says, “You are so lucky to have the gorillia. Which I completely don’t get. You’re butt fugly. And totally gay.”
I stare at him.
“I mean, what is with your shoes?” he says.
My shoes? I look down. He whacks the underside of my nose with his fingers. “Gotcha.”
“Fermio, you dickwad!” I can’t believe I fell for that first-grade prank. I slug his shoulder. Hard.
“Hey!” He stops walking and rubs his arm. “Joke, okay? It was just a joke.”
“Fine. Whatever.” I’m suddenly not in such a great mood.
He grabs my elbow. “Ooh, lookee, lookee.” He points toward the bleachers.
We’re a few yards from the softball field. At first I don’t see what he’s so fired up about. Then I notice Nate and Ryan climbing into the stands.
Fermio holds out his fist. I bump it. Game on.
We climb into the metal bleachers. When Ryan sees us, his eyes widen. He turns pale. He taps Nate’s forearm. Nate looks up. But instead of turning pale, his jaw clenches when he recognizes us. He sits straighter.
It’s just a practice, and the stands are almost empty. But Fermio sits right behind Nate, me behind Ryan. We don’t say or do anything. Just let our hulking presence sink in. Jillia trots onto the field.
“Yo, Jillia!” I scream.
She sees me and waves. Sends me a beaming smile. Man, she’s beautiful. Even her ponytail is sexy.
“Dude, your girlfriend is hot,” Fermio says. He presses his knee into Nate’s back. “Don’t you think she’s hot? Don’t you wish Jillia was your girlfriend?”
I don’t think it’s possible for Nate to sit any straighter. But his back stiffens like he’s got a metal rod for a spine.
“So why are you here?” Fermio asks, his knee still pressed into Nate’s back. “Cheering for Coach Ferguson?”
I snort a laugh. Coach Ferguson is bald and potbellied and must be close to a hundred. Though it feels a little like I’m torturing a rabbit, I push my knee into Ryan. “What about you? You got the hots for Coach Ferguson?”
Ryan twists around. Glares at me. “We happen to like baseball, okay?”
“Except this isn’t baseball, dweeb,” I say. “It’s softball.”
“Or maybe you guys don’t know the difference between boy sports and girl sports,” Fermio says. His eyes widen, and he hits his forehead. “Dude,” he says to me. “That’s what their problem is. They don’t know the difference between boys and girls.”
“You’re the ones with the problem,” Ryan says. His face is bright red. “Your pricks are bigger than your brains.”
Fermio grabs a handful of Ryan’s shirt and yanks him backward. “You stupid faggot.”
Next to Ryan, Nate jumps up and faces us. The motion is so sudden, Fermio lets Ryan go. “Come on,” Nate says to his friend.
“No!” Ryan scrambles to his feet. He’s shaking, balling his hands into fists. “They can’t get away with this.”
Nate looks Ryan in the eyes. “Don’t sink to their level,” he says calmly.
Ryan takes a deep breath. Flexes his fingers. Nods. They climb up the steps without looking back.
“Was it something we said?” Fermio calls sadly after them. Then he waves with a limp wrist. “You boys are so sensitive.”
Ryan and Nate sit in the opposite corner of the stands, as far from us as they can get.
Fermio laughs. “Excellent.” He holds out his hand. I slap it.
I glance out at the field. Jillia is looking back at me. She’s frowning, shaking her head. I shrug my shoulders. Then I notice Angela Cornish in center field. She’s staring into the stands at Ryan and Nate, a worried look on her face.
CHAPTER
3
There’s a familiar smell coming from the oven when I get home. Dad sits at the kitchen table. It’s like he never moved from this morning. I set my backpack on the floor. “Tuna noodle?” I ask, heading to the fridge.
“Yeah.” Papers are scattered over the table. I take a look as I pour a glass of orange juice. There’s a gas bill. Cell bill. His business ledger. Dad’s pressing his forehead into his left palm. Twiddling a pencil in his right fingers.
I shove the carton back in the refrigerator. Clear my throat. “So … um … how are things?”
“Things are fine,” he says without looking up. His standard answer.
I linger there a second. Wonder if I should push it. Find out how much I should be worrying. But he won’t be honest, so why bother? “Okay,” I say. “Fine.”
I pick up my backpack.
“I’ve got a fishermen’s association meeting tonight. Take the casserole out at five forty-five. And eat with your sister, please.”
I take a deep breath. “Sure.” I carry the juice to my bedroom. Flop onto my unmade bed. Stare at the Oregon Ducks poster on the wall over my weight set. I miss football. With practices and games, I have no time to think. I don’t like thinking, which means I don’t like down time. I’d try out for the baseball team, just for something to do during the spring, but I’m a terrible batter. And I don’t want Dad putting out more money for another sport. Plus, Darla’s been chirping lately
about joining 4-H. I think they have to buy cows and goats and stuff. Knowing Dad, he’ll try to make it happen.
Argh! I pound my head with my fist. Enough already. I hate thinking. As my mind wanders to homework, it flits by first period—art. Zach. I jump off the bed. Dig my phone out of my backpack and text Jillia. Ask if she wants to come over for dinner and homework. Let out a relieved breath when she texts back, “Yes.”
I love Jillia’s shoulder. I love how it brushes my arm as she rinses dishes. I know it’s crazy, but I’d like this moment to last forever. Me and Jillia, side-by-side, washing dishes. I can imagine us like this twenty years from now. Married. In our own house. I lean down, nuzzle her ear. “You are amazing.”
She giggles.
“How do you spell serendipity?” Darla asks.
I glare at my sister. “Do you have to use the computer right this minute?”
“Yes.”
“It’s okay,” Jillia assures me. “S-e-r-e-n-d-i-p-i-t-y,” she spells out. “What are you writing?”
“I’m finishing a book report.”
“I thought it was due today,” I say. “What was all that crap this morning about having to use the computer?”
She shrugs. “Don’t say crap.”
I want to strangle her.
The romantic moment killed, Jillia and I quickly finish the dishes. We head to my room. I start to close the door.
“You’re not supposed to close the door with a girl in there!” Darla yells from the computer desk. “I’ll tell Dad!”
I poke my head into the hallway. “Then I’m never driving you and Larissa anywhere! And we’re just doing homework. So mind your own business.”
She doesn’t say anything. I close the door.
“So, what homework are we doing?” Jillia asks, unzipping her backpack.
I grab her hand and lead her to my bed. “Sex ed.” I pull her on top of me and start kissing her.
She hesitates at first, then kisses me back. Her lips are so soft. I move down to her neck. Her neck is so soft. My hands are wandering everywhere. To wonderful, soft places. She’s breathing heavily. I love it when she breathes like that. It’s such a turn on.
“Brett,” she pants. She grabs my hand that’s moving toward her breast. “Wait a sec.”
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