The Natural History of Us (The Fine Art of Pretending #2)(7)

I chuckled, the last bit of anxiety fleeing. “You got it.”

Ms. Kim sent me a wink and opened a folder, withdrawing a white piece of paper. Glancing at it, she raised an eyebrow and said, “I take that back. You’re not just a regular student.” She lifted her gaze to mine. “You’re a very intelligent student with an insane course load. Are you aware that you’re in all honors courses and that you’re entering school mid-year?”

I straightened my spine and replied, “I can handle it.”

Her eyes narrowed as she watched me for a long moment, and then she nodded. “Know what? I believe you.” She grinned softly and held out her hand. “Here. Your homeroom is listed at the top and first bell rings in ten minutes.”

It happened in the span of a heartbeat.

The door opened behind me, her gaze shifted toward the newcomer, and the hopeful bubble I’d been floating in all morning popped.

Have you ever had one of those moments when it was as if you were outside your body, watching events and knowing the outcome, but completely unable to stop it from happening? Where everything unfolds in slow motion and you’re forced to witness the inevitable ending in silent horror? That’s what it was like for me, watching the class schedule slip from her hand, through my weak fingertips, and flutter softly to the ground.

Maybe it was too soon.

For the first time since I’d convinced my parents to let me come here, true doubt washed over me. Staring at the discarded schedule, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d pushed for too much, too fast. If I really should sit out another semester.

Mom would be euphoric. If I went home, Dad would dance a jig. I’d be back in virtual bubble wrap, right where they wanted to keep me.

And I—I’d prove that I really was as pathetic as I’d thought.

A dark head suddenly appeared in my vision, blocking my view of my schedule lying helplessly on the brown tile. Blinking away memories of my hospital bed and the sad faces of the nurses, I focused on the gelled strands below me and then the pair of equally dark eyes that replaced them. Eyes that stared into me with a sharp smugness like they could read all my secrets. And see straight through my blouse.

Whoa, hot boy alert!

A slow lopsided grin stretched the boy’s mouth, confirmation of his mad mindreading skills. He held up my schedule and asked, “Slippery fingers?”





FRIDAY, JANUARY 7TH


21 Weeks until Disaster

?Freshman Year





JUSTIN

FAIRFIELD ACADEMY BASEBALL FIELD 3:25 P.M.





She was back.

I’d been beginning to think I’d imagined her. After rocking my world with her breathy hi, her thick strawberry blonde hair, and eyes that stunned me senseless, the girl had just disappeared. She wasn’t in any of my classes, I never saw her waiting after school, and as dumb as it was to admit, I’d actually looked. Casually at first, just curious, then more determined when she never showed. I could’ve asked the guys, but then they’d have known a girl had gotten to me. And that, like a jackass, I’d never even gotten her name, much less her number. But now, here she was. A goddess cheering in the stands, watching as I was about to make the team.

Hot girl was a baseball fan. That worked well for me.

“Friend of yours?”

I tore my gaze away from the bleachers and found a guy smirking above me. He was the same one who always cracked jokes in my math class. “Not yet,” I replied, emphasis on the yet, letting him know I had dibs. I switched sides, stretching out my other hamstring and added, “Just laying groundwork for now.”

If stalking the hallways counted as groundwork.

Hoping to learn her name, I looked up and casually asked, “She in any of your classes?”

“Nah, I’d remember a sweet face like that.” He stole another peek and whistled low. “And into baseball, too? Damn, dude, what is up with you and girls? Every time I see you, you’ve got another one wrapped around you. You’re like the chick whisperer.”

I laughed and shook out my legs, muscles warm and ready. Girls were one of the few things that came easily to me. That, and playing ball. “What can I say? I have a gift.”

With nothing left to stretch, I pushed to my feet to assess the competition. Sophomore team tryouts started in five minutes, but the diamond began filling with guys about a half hour ago, math-class dude being one of them. It didn’t matter, though. One way or another, I was making an impression today.

Fairfield Academy had one of the best programs in the state. They were district champ three years running and bi-district champs the year before that—the year Coach Williams took over. The man knew his shit, he was tough but fair, and I was determined to play for him. I’d even approached him in the fall to see how I could prepare for today.

“Think you got a shot at making it?” I asked, curious what position this guy played. Cool or not, if he was a catcher I’d have to beat him out. No way could he outplay me. And there wasn’t a chance in hell this meant more to him.

“Hope so.” He hopped up and adjusted his ball cap. “From what I hear, Coach skips playmakers through to Varsity at the end of the year.” I nodded, having heard the same thing, and he looked me over, sizing me up before holding out his hand. “Carlos Ramirez, shortstop.”