Be the Girl(14)

“So, when did she and Emmett hook up?” I ask casually.

“The start of last year. That’s when she moved here. It didn’t take long for that to happen.” Jen’s eyes widen with emphasis. “She looks like that and Emmett’s like, Mr. Popular, in case you haven’t figured that out yet.”

“I took a wild guess.” I join in, pulling my bagel into bite-sized chunks.

“Yeah, everyone’s saying he’s going to end up in the NHL.” She shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t like hockey. But he’s nice. And smart. We were biology partners last year and he did his fair share of the work, and never made fun of people. Not like the other jock assholes who just want to get drunk and laid and be general jerks. Not that Emmett’s lacking in the ‘getting laid’ department. If the rumors after every party are true, those two are doing it every chance they get,” she says. “But at least he’s nice.”

My stomach squeezes. But of course they are. I would be, too. Even though I haven’t actually done “it” with anyone yet. But if I were with Emmett, I doubt I’d be able to keep my hands off him.

I squash that flare of envy, needing to get my mind off the boy next door. “So, what do you know about Mr. Kapp?” Emmett alluded to there being something worth gossiping about.

Jen freezes, her sandwich halfway to her mouth, exchanging a wary expression with Josie.





“Aria.”

My heart jumps at the sound of my name on Emmett’s tongue. I spin around to find him hovering over me, backpack slung over his shoulder, his wavy hair tousled as if he ran his fingers through it—or someone ran her fingers through it. His phone is in his hand. “Hey.”

“What’s your number? I should have it, in case of an emergency.”

I swallow against my suddenly dry mouth. “I don’t remember it. It’s new.”

He grins. “Gimme your phone.”

I dig it out of my side pocket and hand it to him, glancing around to make sure no teacher’s watching.

“It’s locked.” He holds it out for me to unlock with my thumbprint.

“Wow. Black home screen. This is a new phone,” he says, his thumbs flying over the key pad. “’Kay. I’m in there. And now”—he sends himself a text on my phone. A chirp sounds in his pocket with the incoming message—“I have yours.” He hands me my phone, his fingertips skating across mine, sending an electric current through my entire body. “See you later, AJ. Gotta run. Coach will kick my ass if I’m late.”

“Yeah. See ya,” I manage, staring at his retreating back.





“Well, girls …?” Uncle Merv pauses trimming the bush by the front porch to watch us approach, his wide-brimmed straw hat shading most of his face. “How was the first day of school?”

“Good. There are two new kids in my class this year. Adnan and Ophelia. Adnan is fifteen and Ophelia is fourteen. She has a dog named Rusty. He’s a mixed breed,” Cassie declares. Details I’ve already heard during our walk home, along with the names of every pet on the street, the names of the dogs at the shelter where she volunteers, and her favorite chocolate brands. Which is all of them, just ranked.

Uncle Merv’s eyes narrow. “And are these kids troublemakers?”

Cassie laughs. “No, Uncle Merv. I think you’re a troublemaker.”

He chuckles as he leans in to inspect a thorny branch. “You might be right.”

“Whose truck is that?” She points to the red pickup in our driveway, parked behind Uncle Merv’s silver Oldsmobile—that I haven’t seen leave the driveway since we’ve been here.

“That’s the plumber. He’s been here for hours. Woke me up from my nap with all the damn noise.”

Cassie giggles as she always does when he says “damn,” but then her face goes blank as she seems to process this new information. “There’s something wrong with your plumbing.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“So I’ve been told,” he grumbles.

“There is?” she corrects.

“Cassie!” Heather calls from her porch, waving her daughter home.

“Oh, I have to go. I have swimming tonight!” She rushes off, galloping across the grass toward her mother.

“Thank you for walking her home!” Heather smiles at me.

“No problem!” I sigh with the sudden peace. If Cassie’s not prattling, she’s asking question after question.

After question.

Two yard bags full of pulled weeds sit next to the freshly churned soil by the porch. “Mom was gardening?” I ask, though I know the answer. There’s no way Uncle Merv managed that himself. He can barely reach his shoes. Most days he wears slippers that he can slide his feet into, even outside.

“That woman can’t sit still, can she?” he mutters, his wrinkled fingers smoothing over a wilted leaf.

I sense it’s a rhetorical question, but I answer anyway. “By the time she goes back to work, this house will be turned upside down.”

He makes a sound, and I can’t tell if it’s a happy one or otherwise. “How was your first day, by the way?”

“Uneventful.”

“Uneventful is good, from what I remember of high school.” Fetching a spray bottle from the edge of the porch, he spritzes the leaves.