Broken Beautiful Hearts(36)

The rotary phone on the counter rings. Miss Lonnie removes her gigantic clip-on earring before she answers it. She shoos us out with a wave. “Black Water High School, how can I help you?”

I scan my schedule as we leave the office. Precalculus first period, followed by AP English, chemistry, and lunch. European history and photography round out the afternoon. Who chose these classes? I don’t know anything about photography, and precalc first period requires being alert at eight o’clock in the morning.

Cam reaches for my schedule. “Let me see.”

I turn away before he snatches the paper. “I’m reading it.”

He circles behind me and reads over my shoulder. “I want to see which classes you have with me or Christian.”

I rattle off my schedule. “Happy now?”

“You don’t have any classes with either of us. Just lunch,” he complains.

“Are you worried that I can’t find my way around this gigantic campus?” Knowing Cam, it’s probably true.

I follow him around the corner to the vending machines, which are so old they don’t take credit cards. Cam hunts in his pockets for change. One machine is stocked with packaged doughnuts and baked goods and the other one is full of candy and chips.

“No soda machine?” Weird.

“We’ve got two at the end of the hall. When the machines were delivered, the building supervisor, Mr. Kent, wasn’t paying attention. He didn’t notice where the delivery guys put them until after they left.” Cam finds some change in his jacket and drops the coins into the slot. “Now he pretends this is where he wanted them all along.”

I glance down the hall.

Owen is standing at a soda machine.

He’s wearing earbuds and he seems oblivious to the noise around him. He pushes up the sleeves of his thermal, punches a number on the vending machine, and bends down to grab his soda out of the compartment. His forearm is covered with dark patches.

Are those bruises?

Those aren’t the kind of bruises you get from bumping into things.

Owen stands and I turn away, but I’m not fast enough. His eyes are clouded with emotion, as if he’s still sitting in the car with his mom. He sees me and the lines in his forehead relax. He shakes off whatever he was feeling and flashes me a smile that’s the perfect combination of sweet and sexy.

It’s the second time he’s caught me staring at him this morning. I feel like such a loser.

“What are you looking at?” Cam asks.

“Nothing. Stop asking so many questions. I’m not a science fair project. Point me in the direction of my first class. Room A-four.”

“Right this way.” Cam lifts the backpack off my shoulder.

I reach for the strap. “I can carry it myself.”

“If you want to put extra weight on your knee for no reason that’s your call.” He’s stubborn, a quality we share.

“Fine.”

When I turn around again, Owen is gone.

Cam walks me to class, and I find a seat in the back of the room.

I can’t stop thinking about the bruises on Owen’s arm until the bells rings and class starts. After that, I don’t have much time to think about anything because precalculus sucks at Black Water just as much as it did at Adams.

It doesn’t help that our teacher, Mr. Wickwheeler, is a beady-eyed jerk who probably became a teacher to torture kids. He gives everyone exactly two seconds to answer a question before he scribbles the solution across the whiteboard so fast that his comb-over flips the wrong way. He calls me Miss Rios, rolling the R in my last name in a dramatic attempt at a Spanish accent. When the prison bell finally rings, I’m tempted to lie to Mr. Wickwheeler and tell him that I’m Portuguese. Let him try practicing that accent.

Christian and Grace are waiting in the hall outside the classroom.

“You survived your first class with the Weasel,” Grace says, holding out an open bag of SweeTarts. “Congrats.”

“So I’m not the only one who notices the resemblance?” I pop a candy into my mouth.

Grace slows her pace to match mine. She’s dressed like most of the other girls, in a cute flannel and jeans with hearts embroidered on the back pockets. But Grace brought her A game when she picked out her footwear—red cowboy boots.

“Everyone hates the Weasel. He’s a jerk.” She picks through the candy bag until she finds a pink one.

“He kept pronouncing my last name in a crappy Spanish accent.”

Christian notices that we’re lagging behind him and waits for us to catch up. “Who’s a jerk?”

Grace shoves him. “Calm down, Wrecking Ball. We’re talking about the Weasel. None of the guys here are stupid enough to bother Peyton.”

“Wrecking Ball?” I ask.

“People call me that sometimes because of football,” Christian explains. He turns to Grace. “But you never do, Gracie.”

“Sorry,” she whispers.

This conversation just got awkward.

A chorus of high-pitched laughter cuts through the hallway. April and Madison are at the end of the hall, entertaining a group of guys.

“Enemy forces at twelve o’clock,” Christian mutters.

Grace steps away from Christian and lets him walk ahead of us.

“Don’t let April intimidate you,” I say. “She’s a bitch.”