In Harmony(5)

He turned to me, a glimmer of regret and pain floating in the bloodshot depths of watery eyes.

“Nineteen now?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Isaac?”

I froze, my hand on the door. The seconds stretched.

Happy birthday, son.

“Don’t forget to get the sausage.”

I closed my eyes. “I won’t.”

I went out.





My blue ‘71 Dodge, parked to the side of the trailer, was frozen up. I managed to get it started and left it idling to warm up while I scraped ice off the windshield. The dashboard clock said I was late for school. I puffed clouds of curse words in the air. Walking into a class already filled with students was low on my list of favorite things.

I took the icy roads from the scrapyard at the edge of town as fast as I dared, through the main drag and across town to George Mason High School. I slid into a parking space, then walked fast into the building, blowing on my fingers. The warmth inside eased some of my irritation. When I got the hell out of here, I’d move somewhere where it never snowed. Hollywood worked, but I wanted to act on stage more than film. Or I’d hit it big in New York and it could snow all it wanted; I’d keep the heater on in my place all the time and never think twice about the cost.

I strode down the empty hallway and into Mr. Paulson’s first period English class. Thankfully Paulson was a little scatterbrained—he was still organizing himself at his desk and I slipped past him, eyes straight ahead and ignoring my classmates. Intent on the third-row desk where I always sat.

A girl was in my seat.

A breathtakingly beautiful girl in an expensive coat with a fountain of blonde, wavy hair spilling down her back. Sitting in my damn seat.

I stood over her, staring down. It was usually enough to get people the fuck out of my way. But this girl…

She looked up at me with eyes like pale blue topaz and a defiant smirk on her face that belied a sad, heaviness that hung over her. Her gaze darted to the empty desk beside her, and she raised a brow.

“Everything all right, Mr. Pearce?” Mr. Paulson called from the front of the room.

I held the girl’s stare. She stared right back.

I snorted and slouched into the empty chair on her left, stretching my legs into the aisle. Doug Keely, the captain of the football team two seats over, hissed between his teeth to get Justin Baker’s attention. Justin, a baseball player, looked around. Doug jerked his chin at the new girl, eyebrows up, and mouthed the word hot.

Justin mouthed back, Smokin’.

“All right, class.” Mr. Paulson stood at the front of the room. It was only a few minutes after eight and he already had chalk dust on his pleated pants. “I trust you all had a restful holiday break. We have a new student at George Mason. Please give a hearty Mason Mavericks welcome to Willow Holloway. She comes to us all the way from New York City.”

New York.

The classroom rustled as kids turned to give Willow the once-over. A few raised hands in a cursory greeting. A murmured “Hey,” here and there. Only Angie McKenzie—the yearbook editor and queen of the geek squad—gave her a genuine smile that Willow didn’t return.

She mustered a throaty “Hi” that sent a shiver up my spine. Willow Holloway looked like her namesake—beautiful, delicate, and weeping. Not on the outside, but on the inside. Martin Ford trained me to observe people by how they inhabited their bodies instead of what they said or did. This girl ran deep. Her eyes had given her away when we’d locked stares.

Of course she’s sad, I thought. She had to trade New York City for Harmony-fucking-Indiana.

“Scorching,” Doug whispered to Justin Baker, drawing the word into three syllables and Justin grinned.

Fucking meatheads.

But they weren’t wrong. All through class, my eyes were drawn to Willow Holloway, keenly aware of how opposite we were. She wasn’t immaculately put together—slightly disheveled, with long, thick hair that looked a little wild. But her boots and jeans screamed money. Her oval face was porcelain smooth, as if she hadn’t spent a day in her life working under a harsh sun or biting wind. And as of that morning, she was likely a good two years younger than me.

Too young, I thought, even as my eyes stumbled on the swell of breasts under her cashmere sweater and got stuck there, along with that mass of just-climbed-out-of bed hair that my hands itched to touch.

Who’s the fucking meathead now?

I shifted in my seat, reminding myself I had all the legal-aged ass I could handle, one text or phone call away. Still, for the rest of class, my entire damn body was acutely conscious of Willow beside me. When the bell rang, I lingered in my seat to watch her rise. She gathered her books with a lackadaisical confidence, as if she’d been at George Mason for years instead of minutes.

She turned to me with a dry smile. “You can have your seat back tomorrow.”

I met her gaze steadily, silently.

She shrugged, and walked away, flipping that incredible mass of soft hair over her shoulder. It swished to one side, then the other, settling in a curtain reaching nearly to her waist.

Forget it, I told myself. Too young, too rich, too…everything you’re not.

I’d been poor as shit for my entire life. I’d learned to roll with it most days. Other times, like this morning, it punched me in the teeth.