#famous(20)

That didn’t work so well when random sophomores kept pulling you in for selfies.

“I’ve really got to get to class,” I said to the third girl to scooch close and pout her lips for the phone over her head.

Sophomore #3,972: didn’t hear or didn’t care. She took another shot. “Thanks, Kyle,” she said. Like we were friends or something.

I fake smiled and pulled away, edging around a group of band geeks huddled against the windows.

“Ky-LE. What’s up, bro?” A heavy hand clapped me on the back. It was attached to Lamont Davis, all six foot five of him. He was grinning chummily from the middle of a pack of football guys in letter jackets. Lamont’s crew: all waiting for Lamont’s cue on when to laugh.

“Hey, Lamont.” Lamont didn’t suck, but we’d never been friends, and I had nothing to say to him. After the last hour, and that conversation with Rachel, I didn’t have much to say to anyone.

“We were just talking about the kegger at Anderson’s Friday,” he said, nodding toward one of the guys. “His parents are at some medical conference. You in, bro?”

I’d gone to a few football parties. Emma’s friends on the Wolfettes always went, and the parties always got huge. But I’d never been invited directly before.

“Yeah, for sure. Sounds fun.” I smiled at Lamont and tried to push past him. He stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.

“Bring your new friends, huh?” Lamont tilted his head at a couple sophomores surreptitiously snapping photos. One was Erin Rothstein’s little sister, with her same tight blond curls and exaggerated curves. The rumor, mostly spread by guys like Dave and Lamont: “Baby Rothstein puts out.” I tried not to look disgusted.

“Flit that you’re coming,” Anderson chimed in, eyeing Lamont eagerly. “And that you’ll be waiting to meet them in my bedroom.” A couple dudes laughed.

I could imagine it: dozens of underclass girls sloppy on free beer. When I turned them down, what would happen? Looking at Anderson’s sneer, I had a pretty good idea.

“Dude, don’t make it like that.”

“Like what?”

I couldn’t exactly tell Anderson I thought he was a massive skeeze.

“I don’t want to be, like, bait for freshmen.”

Lamont snorted exaggeratedly. He’d positioned himself so I couldn’t get past him without pushing by. “It’s not like we’re desperate for you to be there, bro.”

“No, I didn’t mean that.” Lamont: suddenly bigger. He wasn’t just six-five, he was a thick six-five.

“You’re lucky I even asked you.” Lamont shoved me with the hand he’d left on my shoulder. It wasn’t hard, but I hadn’t been expecting it, and I stumbled backward. I could feel his cronies watching.

“You’re right.” I nodded, a little frantic. Lamont leaned in, his already-small eyes narrowed to tiny slits. I could feel the muscles in my arms and stomach tensing, ready to strike out at a moment’s notice. Or take a punch. He leaned back, sneering.

“You know what? Screw that. Don’t come. I don’t want you there.”

“Lamont, I didn’t mean anyth—”

“I’m serious, you better not show up. You might think you’re hot all of a sudden, but I’m not impressed.” He folded his arms across his chest. It made him even wider.

“All right,” I said, voice flat. Why the heck couldn’t I keep my mouth shut? What did I care if Lamont’s friends were creeps? But at least he didn’t want a fight. Lamont had fifty pounds on me, easy.

He wouldn’t move, so I had to squeeze between his elbow and the guy next to him, a kid I barely knew named Judd, or maybe Josh. Judd-Josh snickered as I forced my way through.

“And Kyle,” Lamont yelled at my back, loud enough so everyone around us could hear. “Watch yourself. Not everyone is as nice to idiots as I am.”

I kept walking, head down, trying not to look at anyone.

He was right about one thing.

I felt like a massive idiot.





chapter eleven


RACHEL

WEDNESDAY, 3:15 P.M.

I walked into Chemistry tense, my whole body coiled tight like it was ready to spring at something—at someone—all nails and spit and screeching.

But nothing happened. I caught one eyebrow-raise from Jemma Aitkinson as I shuffled past her to my seat, but Jemma had always sucked. I wasn’t going into freak-out mode over Jemma.

No one talked to me in class. No one even looked at me. By the time the bell rang, I was starting to hope Mr. Jenkins had actually known what he was talking about.

He hadn’t.

It probably only took fifteen seconds to brush all the fries piled on the hood of my car to the ground. There were hundreds—krinkly ones from the cafeteria, skinny ones like at the McDonald’s near the hockey arena, even some waffle-cuts I didn’t recognize. They left different-shaped grease streaks across the hood, little ghosts of themselves that I’d have to find a car wash to get rid of if I didn’t want Mom to ask questions.

But with Jessie Florenzano’s braying laugh drawing a crowd that stayed just far enough away to not look like they’d done it, it felt like hours.





chapter twelve