A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)

by Ginger Scott

  For me.

  In the midst of it all, Christopher became an afterthought, and when I brought him up, I got the “Oh, him…yeah…” response with foggy looks and disinterested shrugs. Subjects changed quickly, and his name was lost to everyone but me. He had disappeared. The rumor that he was in the hospital for injuries proved to be a lie, and when I made Taryn ride her bike all the way to the Woodmansees’ house four miles away, all Mrs. Woodmansee could tell us was that Christopher went back into the system, that he wasn’t working out at their house. That’s also the day Taryn told me it seemed like I had a thing for Christopher Woodmansee. I told her she was being stupid, and I never brought him up to her again.

  Taryn didn’t understand. Nobody would. It wasn’t a crush or some obsession or whatever. It was a boy who saved my life, and I felt like I needed to at least tell him thank you. I needed to know he was okay, even if everything else was not.

  I’ve held on to this stupid thank you card I made for him when I was nine, stuffed it in the box with my class pictures and the few birthday cards I’ve gotten over the years from my grandparents. No cards from my mom in the box. No calls from her. No letters. I guess no broken promises either, that way. Though, I feel like when you have a child, you sort of make a quiet promise to always be there for them. So that one’s broken for sure.

  My mom, Kristina Winters, was living a double life. There was the woman who smiled at me, hugged me in the way I thought was a way a mom hugged her daughter, and coddled me when I came home from school every day—and then there was the one I never knew very well at all, other than the fact that she lies, and she never really cared much for her life here with me in Bakersfield. That Kristina was a stay-at-home mom who filled her day from the time I left to the time I got home with motel rooms and parked cars on the outskirts of town with the man she really wanted to be with. I was collateral waste. Just like my dad.

  I’m glad I don’t have any cards from her in the box. They don’t belong in here with Christopher’s card.

  It has to be him. I spent the night wishing I’d taken one picture of Wes Stokes, just his eyes. In my mind, they’re exactly the same. But now I worry that I’m imagining—pieces of my dreams finding their way into my waking moments.

  I pull the card from the box, replacing the lid and sliding it back along the floor under my dresser. The paper has yellowed and the edges are soft and slightly bent, but I can still see the vase and flowers I drew in pastels. I thought I was an artist then. The picture is so elementary now, but it felt important when I drew it. I flip the paper open and read my childish message: Thank you for saving me from the car. I’m glad you were in the race. I was hoping you would win. I hope you didn’t get hurt. Your friend, Joss.

  I smile as I read it back. I haven’t looked at the card since the day I came home from the Woodmansees with Taryn. I hid it from her after she teased me, and I slide it in my algebra binder now, my cheeks still burning with embarrassment. Years later, and I still don’t want people to think I have a crush on the weird kid.

  Taryn honks twice outside, so I zip up my backpack and grab a pack of cherry Pop-Tarts from the pantry on my way through the kitchen. My dad leaves for school early—he opens the gym for morning workouts for his players. I know sometimes nobody shows up, but he opens the doors every day anyhow—even some weekends. I think he just prefers to be in the car alone. The few times he’s driven me to school, all we’ve done is fight. He tells me how I’m throwing away my gift by not trying hard enough and by ditching practices, and I tell him I’ll listen the day he starts treating me like his daughter instead of one of the guys on his roster. Somehow, eventually, it always ends up with one of us bringing up Mom. She’s like our trump card; we throw her out when we want to really hurt each other. I say she left because of him, and he laughs, saying it’s the other way around. The real story is she didn’t want either of us; so, we both lose in the end.

  “TK would have a field day with your breakfast choice, Joss,” Taryn says, motioning to my cherry pastries. I smirk and roll my eyes, my stomach growling as I tear the package completely open and take a large bite out of one of the tarts.

  “I notice you’re a good twenty minutes early this morning. Someone you want to see on campus, Taryn?” I tease her.

  She texted me last night that he had called her. She didn’t give me details because he was on the phone when she sent the message. I’m assuming that’s what has her so amped for school this morning.

  “He’s actually waiting for me,” she says, her red lips curved into a smug smile under her sunglasses. “We talked on the phone all night. I am going to crash hard at practice.”

  “Look at you,” I say through my full mouth. I grin at her and nod my head in support. “So where’s he meeting you this morning? Hot date under the bleachers?”

  “No!” She scrunches her face, looking at me briefly before returning her eyes to the road. “He’s going to your dad’s workouts, actually. I said I’d meet him by the gym.”

  “Uggggghhh,” I grumble, small crumbs falling from my lips. I catch them in my lap and wrap up the second pastry in the napkin, tucking it in the front pocket of my backpack for later.

  “You don’t have to come inside. Besides, your dad’s always busy talking to people. He won’t even notice us,” she says.

  I purse my lips because I know better. My dad will notice. He’ll wonder why I’m here early and not working out myself. Then he’ll ignore me, in front of everyone, which actually feels worse than having him ride my ass about being lazy.

  “Fine, I’ll drop you off at the front of the school so you don’t have to come with me. You can hang out in the library,” she shrugs. It’s a pissed off tit-for-tat kind of gesture, because she knows I hate the library. Nothing against books or reading—it’s just the place they send me for detention, and I get those…a lot.

  I don’t have my own car, so I always ride with Taryn. Her grandma wasn’t able to drive anymore, so she gave her car to Taryn. It’s a giant, white, Crown Victoria that looks like an undercover cop car until you get really close. I’d make fun of it, but I won’t have a car until I can find a way to afford one. No grandmas hanging up the keys and giving away cars in my family anytime soon.

  We drive up to the front, and Taryn slows at the curb. She doesn’t even feel guilty about any of this, flipping her visor down to check her blood-red lips in the mirror. She’s going to wear off all of that crap on her face; I’m not sure why she’s bothering to touch it up.

  “I guess I’ll see you in history,” I say, not bothering to look her direction as I kick open the door and push it closed behind me with my ass. She doesn’t linger, and I hear her cop-motor rumble through the lot to the other end of campus behind me.

  It’s early enough that the hallways are empty, which somehow makes everything feel darker. They pulled all of the lockers from the walls last year. Our principal said it was for safety reasons—one less place for kids to hide weapons. I kind of think they were hoping it would be one less place for kids to hide drugs, though. Finding what you want—pills and other shit—is pretty easy around here. I doubt stripping away our lockers is going to do much to stop the drug trafficking that happens in the school parking lot.

  They haven’t painted yet, so the walls are still full of holes and bare spots where metal doors once lined up. It looks like a warzone, which I guess is also appropriate.

  The library is at the very end of the main hall, five hallways jutting off it to other parts of campus. I notice a few students sitting at tables when I open one side of the double doors. They never look up at me, so I slide past them to the back. It’s the first day of school after break. Who the hell is studying now?

  I dump my heavy bag on a table in the far corner, then kick my feet up next to it with a weighty clunk. Mrs. Tierney, our librarian, clears her throat and wiggles her finger at me in a circle before pointing down. I bunch my brow and she raises hers, repeating the gesture. She wants me to put my feet
on the floor. I got it the first time. I just don’t like being pointed at with her spindly finger.

  I pull my feet down, but the second she looks away, I compromise and wedge my toes in the metal ledge right under the table top and lean my chair back on two legs. With my phone in my hand, I type Taryn a message: You’re a real bitch for making me hang out here.

  She writes back, sending me a picture of her lips. I roll my eyes and flip through my apps, finally settling on a game where I have to shoot paper airplanes into a trashcan. My dad won’t buy me a car, but a phone he’ll pay for. Thank god I have this paper airplane game.

  After about ten minutes, I’ve managed to beat my all-time high score, when I notice the main library door swing open again. Wes is holding a sheet of paper in one hand, his backpack slumping over his opposite shoulder. He’s wearing a different hat today—this one’s a brown mesh Padres hat, trucker-style. It’s fucking cute, and he’s lost, which makes him super compelling. I chew at the inside of my cheek, fighting the urge to bound to my feet and help him before some other girl does. Which is a stupid challenge, because I’m in here with two girls who are way more focused on studying for SATs than the soap opera that is Wes Stokes and how he fits into my twisted world.

  He finally looks up at me, and my feet slip from their grip, my chair clunking forward and my butt sliding slightly off the chair. I have to lean over and grab the table to keep myself from hitting the floor.

  Shit. That was embarrassing.

  “Hey,” he says, unfazed by my chair aerobics. He slides a crinkled paper in front of me that looks like he’s just pulled it from his back pocket. My hair is flung in front of my face from all of my…flailing…so I push it back with both hands in order to see what he’s showing me. It’s his schedule, just as I figured.

  I slide it forward and spin it around with one finger. He’s in my first period. Of course he is. Before speaking, I scan the rest of his classes and feel both sad and relieved that we only have one other class that’s the same—photography. I had to pick an elective, and taking pictures sounded easier than drawing them. I bet Wes actually has some skill, though. He coughs lightly, and I slide his paper back to him, realizing that I have yet to say a word.

  “Lost?” I arch a brow as I look up. His blue eyes hit me the second I give in, and my fingers grip the sides of my chair as my mind zeroes in on the almost decade-old homemade card tucked in my backpack. I swear it belongs to him—this is Christopher.

  “I planned on being early so I could find my way around, but we had weights in the gym.” His words trail off and he picks the paper up, squinting at me with one eye as he rubs his neck with his other hand. As adorable as the stupid trucker hat is, his squinting and neck-rubbing thing is better—or worse, depending on how I look at it. It’s definitely irresistible, which is messing with my whole resisting-him plan. Maybe I just don’t resist him.

  “My dad’s a big believer in building muscle…like…in every spare moment,” I say through light laughter. Somewhere deep down, I feel the pang of loss of the relationship I used to have with my dad, when I was little watching him lift weights and he told me how muscle would make me dominant in the batter’s box. Wes’s lip twitches on one side into a faint smile, and a small chuckle leaves his mouth. It’s also adorable, and it erases that pang the second I see it.

  “Yeah, I got the lecture at tryouts yesterday. That’s why we were hitting at the field,” he says.

  Wes holds his breath, staring at me quietly, his lips forming a tight, nervous smile. I feel like a little of the power has shifted back into my reigns, and I don’t really care if it’s just because I know where I’m going and he doesn’t. I need whatever power I can get.

  “You’re in my first period. I’ll show you where to go.”

  I zip my bag up and manage to untangle myself from the table and chair without making a scene. I lead Wes through the doors and down the long language arts corridor. His steps are a few behind me, and I’m tempted to turn around to see if he’s looking at me or is just distracted by new classrooms and other students passing by. I never look, though, because I’m pretty sure it’s the latter, and I’m not up for feeling disappointed this early. I’ll stick with my fantasy where I’m the shit and he wants me but can’t have me—at least until I confirm this hunch I have about his past.

  “This is it,” I say, turning quickly and pressing my back along the door, my hand pushing down on the handle. Wes is staring at his phone—totally not staring at me—and I feel just like I thought I would. Disappointed.

  “Thanks,” he says through the side of his mouth, his eyes never registering the fact that we’re having a conversation, his attention on the text he’s drafting.

  “Sure,” I say, my response short, my eyebrows raised and my lips pursed as I take in a slow breath and back through the door, spinning around so I don’t have to watch him ignore me. He said thanks. I guess that’s enough. It still felt…I don’t know…rude?

  I move to the last row along the wall of windows and drop my bag at the feet of the middle desk. A few seconds later, Wes shuffles in and nods in my direction, taking the seat directly in front of me.

  My brow lowers as he slides in and shifts to get comfortable. I glance to the rows of empty seats next to me. Why here?

  I can’t help but focus on his details from this view—the ones…behind. His shoulders are wide, and his hair seems freshly trimmed. No split ends in sight. It’s still long enough though that the back dusts his collar, curling at the ends from the shape of his ball cap, which I look down and notice is tucked in the top of his backpack. I smirk, because Wes is a rule follower. Dress code doesn’t allow for hats inside. It’s a stupid rule, because it’s not like we’re wearing top hats or some distracting thing on our heads, and some people would frankly be less distracting if they covered that shit up with a hat.

  There’s still a good five minutes before the starting bell, so I lean forward, tapping my pencil on the tag sticking out from his T-shirt. “Your washing instructions are showing,” I say.

  “Thanks,” he throws over his shoulder, reaching his hand to his neck and tucking the tag in, ending that conversation just as quickly as it started.

  “Okay,” I mouth to myself, tilting back in my chair. I pull a pencil from the front pocket of my bag and twist my hair over my head, pushing the pencil into the knot through the side to hold it in place. It’s winter, and it’s seventy-four degrees. I’m hot.

  A few more students trickle in, and I glance at the door, noticing them notice Wes. He’s hard to miss. And not just because he’s somehow a little better looking than every other guy at South, but because he’s also noticeably bigger. His legs are straddling the chair in front of him, and his body has to sit back at a slant just to fit in the seat. I laugh silently when I realize how much he looks like a giant at a tea party, but the longer I let my eyes zone out at his form, the more my mind drifts to curiosity.

  “Hey, so…” I say, scooting forward again. He still doesn’t turn to face me, merely tilting his head to the side, his phone still in his hands. I chicken out on asking him if he by chance used to be called Christopher and instead ask about the code-red texting he’s rapt up in. “Is there a crisis or something? You’re kinda lighting up that keyboard with your thumbs.”

  He sighs and leans his head forward, swiping his phone off and twisting to one side to push it in his back pocket. He shifts in his seat completely to look at me, and I find home in his eyes the second he does.

  Christopher.

  “TK’s ditching first period,” he shrugs.

  I laugh out a short breath and offer a closed mouth smile, silently studying his face while we talk.

  “I guess that means Taryn will be missing first period too,” I say, knowing that if they’re ditching first period, I probably won’t see them until lunch.

  “TK makes stupid decisions sometimes,” he sighs, and the hairs on my neck stand ready in defense of my friend.

  “Me
aning?” I lower my brow.

  “Nothing,” he says with a slight shake of his head as he spins back around in his seat, bending down along the way to pull out a notebook and pencil. I don’t like how he ends conversations. He always has the last word, and it leaves my stomach feeling gross.

  “He’s a big boy,” I say. He responds with a short breath, and I know he’s rolling his eyes. I notice that his tag has curled back out from his collar, and my lip ticks up in a smirk. I’ll keep it to myself this time. Tiny win, yeah!

  “So…” I start again, glancing to the last few students as they straggle in through the door. Mr. Coughlin isn’t here yet; I still have time. And now that I’m a little pissed at Wes the Rule Follower, I feel brave enough to test my theory. “You all just moved here, but did you ever live here before?”

  I watch his back for any reaction. After a second or two, he takes a deep breath. “We lived in Nevada,” he says, his pencil balanced between two fingers, bobbing up and down against his notepad.

  “I meant, maybe…I don’t know, before you were adopted?” I ask.

  “Still Nevada,” he says, his voice sounding bored. I nod behind him, my head accepting Nevada, but my gut rejecting it all.

  “Oh, okay. You just…” I halt, biting my tongue and giving myself a short breath to make sure I say this exactly the right way. “You remind me of someone…” I settle on that, and I watch his shoulders, hoping for a memory to be triggered—for something. All he does is shrug, though.

  “Hey, how’d you know how to get to my house?” I ask, fitting in one more question as Mr. Coughlin steps through the door and claps once, a leftover habit he’s had since teaching first grade years before. It’s funny how it makes seventeen-year-olds jump the same as seven-year-olds.

  “We knew where coach lived,” he says over his shoulder. I squint my eyes, not sure if I should believe him. “He said we could stop by whenever we needed anything, gave us directions at the end of tryouts yesterday. Your dad seems like a good guy, said his players are like family. Must be weird for you, players dropping in for dinner or whatever.”