Be the Girl(13)

It’s quiet for a moment as Ms. Moretti sizes me up. How much has my mother told her? Not too much, I’d imagine. The whole point of moving here was to have a fresh start, and I won’t have that if Mom drags out our baggage and puts it on display.

Finally, Ms. Moretti shuffles some paperwork on her desk before sliding a page across the desk toward me. “One of the best and easiest ways to make new friends is through sports and clubs. I’ve taken the liberty of highlighting a few of the best ones.”

I scan it quickly. Lo and behold, “cross-country” is highlighted in bright yellow. Twice.

“Your mother may have called me and may have mentioned that you placed second in provincials.” She grins sheepishly. “I’m the coach. I’d love to see what you can do.”

“I haven’t been training. I doubt I’d be a good addition.”

She waves it away. “I’ll bet you’d surprise yourself. We practice three times a week, before school. More, as we get closer to regionals. Please consider it. We haven’t had any luck placing in years. Even with Emmett Hartford on the team. Between you and me, we could really use a win.”

My heart skips a beat. “Emmett’s on the team?”

“Yeah. You’ve met him already, I take it?”

“He’s my neighbor.” My cheeks heat, and I hope she can’t see it.

“Well, he’s also quite the athlete, though his heart is tied up with hockey. I think he uses this for his morning workout.” She leans in and whispers conspiratorially, “So come out and help us win a trophy for our display case!”

I can’t help but smile. So far, Ms. Moretti is about as opposite to my last guidance counselor as you can get. Aside from the physical attributes—Mrs. Forester was gray-haired, had yellow teeth from smoking a pack of cigarettes a day, and her style consisted of shapeless dresses and UGGs—she didn’t give a rat’s ass what happened to me or anyone else, as long as she got to retire with her pension at the end of it all. She even said as much to me once.

Meanwhile, here’s this youthful, compact woman across from me, wearing a flirty eggplant-colored dress and a smile, making a genuine effort to motivate me.

Little does she realize, she’s dangled a gorgeous, dimple-cheeked carrot in the air that I can’t ignore.

I hesitate. “So, when does training start?”





I assumed all high school cafeterias were the same—dark, crowded, and comparable to the prison meal rooms you see on TV. And, before a renovation two years ago that saw a giant addition built onto the back of the school, the same probably could’ve been said for Eastmonte Secondary’s cafeteria.

I inhale the smell of gravy-laden meat wafting from the lunch line as I take in the bright space—double-story ceilings and a full panel of glass that overlooks the sports field and track and allows in ample daylight; everything is in soft shades of gray and tan with a mixture of round and rectangular tables that seat anywhere from two to twenty people. They even have television screens mounted on the walls!

I spot Jen waving me over to a table by the window and relief swarms me. I duck my head, trying to ignore the glances. In a school of sixteen hundred and sixty-six students, being the new girl is still notable.

“How was the rest of your morning?” Jen asks around a mouthful of her ham-and-cheese sandwich. She’s sitting beside a small Asian girl with a heavy bang cut just above her eyebrows; she peers up at me with a timid smile.

“Okay.”

“This is Josie. Josie, this is Aria.”

Josie nods at me, and while her mouth moves, I don’t actually hear the hello that comes out.

“Hey.” I dump my own lunch—an apple and cream-cheese bagel—out of my lunch bag, starved. Emmett was right—the late lunch sucks. “Math with Mr. Lewis.”

Jen grimaces. “I had him last year. He’s tough.”

“So it seems.” His thick gray mustache lifted with his easy smile as he strolled around the classroom handing out a three-page pop quiz full of equations for us to complete. It’s meant to help him gauge what he’s working with. A pop quiz, five minutes after sitting down. And I don’t think I answered any of the questions right.

Next to that, Biology with Ms. Singh was a breeze.

“At least one more class and you’ve made it through your first day, right?”

“Right.” And English has always been my favorite. I glance around at the sea of faces. I recognize one or two from my classes, but that’s all.

A burst of laughter carries over the loud buzz of conversation. I glance over to see Holly strut down the stairs from the second floor with a tall, willowy brunette, turning heads as she strolls toward the lunch service line, her toned thighs flexing with each step on those wedge sandals. She waggles her painted fingers at a table nearby, nodding as they point to the vacant seats beside them, mouthing “Thank you!”

“Is she for real? Holly Webber, I mean.”

Jen’s blue-gray eyes flash to the blonde bombshell, where they sit a moment. “Why are you asking?”

“No reason. She just seems so perfect.”

“She does, doesn’t she?” Jen picks at the top of her bun, breaking off bits of bread to make it look like something has nibbled on it.

Josie doesn’t say a word. I have a feeling we won’t be having many conversations.