Pivot Point (Pivot Point #1)(46)

“He is still so whipped,” Rowan says. He takes a few steps toward me, and I grab my pool stick and put the table between us, pretending to study the ball positions.

“Do you like him?” Rowan asks.

The change in his tone surprises me. It went from player to nice guy with the single question. “Trevor?”

“Yeah.”

“No, we’re just friends.” I think I’m being truthful, but Rowan raises an eyebrow like he’s suddenly gained the ability to detect lies and he finds my answer false.

“Then what is it about me that you don’t like?” he asks.

“Honestly?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You come on too strong, very touchy. It’s uncomfortable. And you remind me of this not-very-nice guy from back home.”

“That’s not good.”

“No, it’s not. But just this conversation is making you less like him. This is what girls like, sincerity and honesty.”

“So you’re saying you like me now?” he says, his cocky smirk coming back onto his face. I sigh, but then he adds, “Just kidding.”

I laugh. “Good. Now whose turn is it?”

“It’s mine.”

He hits a blue ball into the corner pocket.

I pick up the square piece of chalk and twist it between my thumb and forefinger, my gaze drifting to Trevor and Stephanie. She has a sour expression on her face (surprise, surprise) and is talking with big hand gestures. Trevor is staring at the chip bowl, his normal relaxed posture replaced by a rigid back and tightened jaw. Are all relationships just a series of fights strung together?

I’ve never had a boyfriend and have kissed only one boy, not counting Searches. Joey Turner. I met him at the bookstore when I was fourteen and assumed we were made for each other, brought together by our common love of books. Turned out his mom had dragged him to the bookstore. Of course, I didn’t find out any of this until several days and several kissing sessions later.

“For what it’s worth,” Rowan says, standing by my shoulder and bringing me out of my memory, “he seems much happier since you’ve started coming around.”

“What? Who?”

He nods his head toward Trevor. Obviously I had been caught staring. “This last year has been hard on him. With his shoulder and everything. Then you show up and … I haven’t seen him smile and laugh so much in a long time.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

I smile. I’m glad Trevor enjoys himself around me, because I enjoy being around him too.

Rowan lines up his next hit, and I ask, “So all these injured players you’ve been telling Trevor about, did they all get injured while playing the same school—Lincoln High?”

“Yes. That’s why it’s so suspicious. Am I the only one who finds that suspicious?” he asks the ceiling.

“No. It’s definitely odd.” That confirms it for me—some football players at my old school are purposefully thinning the competition. But who? Is it the whole team or just a few rotten players? It’s one thing to use powers to do better at something, like Laila had said, but to me it’s completely different to get ahead by hurting someone else.

A few more people show up during our game. Rowan does end up crushing me, but at least he doesn’t try to give me a conciliatory hug.

“Do you know where the bathroom is?” I ask Rowan.

“Yes.” He points. “It’s down the hall, third door on the right.”

“Thanks.”

On my way back from the bathroom, the sound of someone humming the theme song to Star Wars comes out of a slightly open door on my right. I peek in and see Trevor’s little brother, Brody, sitting on his bed looking at a book. The door creaks a little when I bump against it, and Brody stops humming and looks up.

“Hi, again,” I say. “What are you reading?”

“Star Wars comics.” He holds up the book.

“Awesome. That’s Episode One, right? Have you gotten to the part where Anakin enters the race yet?”

His eyebrows shoot up. “I just passed that.”

“Can I look and see what else you have?” I point to a bookcase in the corner.

“Sure.”

The bookcase is a disorganized array of graphic novels. Some are stacked sideways, others with their bindings toward the back. The sideways ones are one thing, but bare pages to the front make my teeth hurt. I turn several around. There are a few books I’ve had my eye on so I take them out and study the covers. “Are these any good?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t read those. You should ask Trevor. They’re his.”

I pause halfway through flipping a page. “Oh, is this Trevor’s room?”

“Yeah, I come in here to read his comics.”

I look around and realize it’s nothing like an eight-year-old’s room. There’s a large bed with dark bedding against one wall, a desk topped with stacks of paper against another, and several pairs of big shoes spilling out of a messy closet—the boy needs some serious organizational intervention. I put back the books in my hands, resisting the strong urge to organize them. On the wall above his bed is a large eye painted in shades of black and red. The pupil has the scene of a city in it. “That’s cool.”