Pivot Point (Pivot Point, #1)(55)

“Ah, well, he’s sort of taken.” He points to a gorgeous cheerleader waving her pom-poms around down on the field. Just the kind of girl I would expect a guy like Trevor to be with.

“How can someone be ‘sort of’ taken?” Laila asks.

“He broke up with her about a month ago, but she keeps coming around, and he’s too nice to tell her not to.”

“Wow,” Laila says. “We just have to put a quarter in you, and you spit out all kinds of information.”

Rowan’s face reddens. “What about you guys? What’s your school like?”

Laila shrugs. “Just your average high school.”

“Then how come you never host sports there?”

“Because our stadium is a piece of crap. And our school would rather spend the money busing us all over the place instead of fixing it. The school is run by a bunch of idiots.” We had been trained by the Containment Committee the day before on what we were and were not allowed to say to outsiders. This is an example of an acceptable answer. Well, close to acceptable. Laila probably found the irony of her last sentence hilarious.

Rowan tilts his head and seems to be studying her sincerity.

“Wait?” she says with a gasp. “Has our real secret been blown? This guy’s good. He found out we’re all superheroes-in-training and that we’re hiding out so no one will know our secret identities.”

I barely hold back the laugh that wants to exit through my nose.

“Funny.” He laughs.

“You’re adorable,” Laila says. “I bet you’re feeling the desire to buy me a soda right about now, aren’t you?”

His eyes widen a little and I know Laila had probably made him think that right before she said it. “Yes. I’d love to.”

“You going to be okay for a minute alone, Addie?”

“Yeah, of course. Be nice to the boy.” When she leaves, I turn my attention back to the field and notice Duke on the sidelines looking up at me. He waves, then blows me a kiss, and my cheeks go red. A few girls behind me let out a dreamy sigh. I lift my hand in a half wave. When Duke goes back to his game, I self-consciously glance toward the Norm student section. Trevor is gone.





CHAPTER 24


NO[R]M?i?nal: adj. being true in name only but not in reality





After doing our round in enemy territory—Lincoln High’s student section—and finding nothing except some friends to chat with, Laila and I settle in for the second half of the game. When the whistle blows, indicating the start of the quarter, I’m surprised Trevor isn’t in his seat, watching intently. I scan the sidelines to see if he’s talking to Stephanie. He’s not. Stephanie’s in the middle of a high kick.

“Hey,” I say to Laila. “I’m going to see if I can find Trevor. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay.”

Now that the game has started again, the blacktop behind the stadium is deserted. The lights from the lone building—the snack hut—create a glowing island in the otherwise dark alley. I immediately see the broad back of Trevor, standing at the counter, giving the cashier some money. When she hands him his soda, he turns away from the stadium steps where I stand and walks into the darkness. I have to run to catch up to him.

“Trevor,” I call, breathless.

He turns. “Oh, hi, Addison.”

“What are you doing? Aren’t you going to watch the rest of the game?”

“I … no, actually.”

“Why not?”

He takes a swig from his soda. “I just feel a little stiff. Thought a walk would help.”

“That’s a good excuse, but what’s the real reason?”

He smiles. “Did you inherit some of your father’s lie-detector genes?”

“Maybe,” I say, even though the only bit of Discernment I have has to do with manipulating time. The reason I know he’s lying is because he’s not acting like himself. He’s been even quieter than normal all night, which isn’t saying a lot, because he’s pretty quiet all the time.

“I guess even though I’m usually good at not thinking about ‘would’ve-beens,’ I’m having a hard time tonight. I’ll blame it on the team we’re playing.”

“Let’s just blame everything on them.”

“Sounds good.”

I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. He just quietly drinks his soda. I know the would’ve-been that he’s having a hard time not thinking about—his injury. But I wonder if there’s more to it. “What are you thinking about?”

He rubs his shoulder. “The doctor says I can throw again next week, but I realize I’m never going to play competitively again.”

I nod.

He takes another long drink from his soda, finishing it off. He seems to be stalling, maybe waiting for me to leave, but I don’t want to. I want him to talk. I want to be here for him. “It’s not that I’m not strong enough,” he finally says.

“Of course not,” I agree too quickly, then laugh a little. Technically I shouldn’t know that, but I just happened to have seen him with his shirt off and took plenty of time appreciating the evidence of his statement.

“I am.”