First & Then(43)

“Really?”

“Uh-huh.”

It was quiet for a moment. When I glanced at Ezra, he had another strange look on his face. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but then Jordan strode up.

“Hey, Champ. Can I borrow Ezra for a bit?”

“Sure.”

Ezra glanced at me. “Are you … will you be okay?”

It was a weird question. Of course I would be okay. But I knew what he meant. Something told me that before Jordan, Ezra was no stranger to being alone at parties.

“Super duper,” I said, and then grimaced. “Yes. Yeah.”

Ezra’s lips twitched, an almost-smile, and then he headed off with Jordan.





22


My “office hours” for English that next week saw something new: an actual person come for actual advice.

I was drawing in the margins of my history notes when she came in—a tiny freshman girl with thick, dark eyeliner and straight hair, wearing a hoodie that was big enough to swallow her up.

“Mrs. Chambers said you help people with papers,” she said as a way of a greeting.

I closed my notebook. “I do,” I said, even though that may have not been the exact truth—I hadn’t helped anybody yet.

The girl flung herself down in the desk next to mine and handed me some pages. “I failed this. She said if I rewrote it, I could get points back.”

I flipped through the paper. It was an analysis of The Great Gatsby, the first major writing assignment of the semester. “You know, it doesn’t count as four pages if the last two don’t have writing on them.”

She made a face. “I don’t know how to write like she wants. It’s annoying. I just … don’t think like that.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Like the metaphorical resonance of gold shirts and stuff?”

She cracked a smile. “Yeah. Who cares?”

“Daisy cared.”

“Don’t even,” she said.

Now I smiled.

Her name was Alex, and together we broke her paper down bit by bit. What the thesis statement was. What could be expanded. What made no sense whatsoever. I wondered if this was how Rachel Woodson felt looking at my résumé—I knew what to move where and what could be fixed. But all I could do was guide her and let her fix it herself.

It was late by the time we finished. She had a solid outline to work from. Enough to get her started.

“You’ll be here next week, too?” she said.

“And the week after that, and the week after that.”

Alex nodded. “Good.”




Rachel ambushed me in the hall the next day. “Did you see it?”

“See what?”

“The issue is out. The issue with our article.”

“Our…”

She held up a copy of the Herald. There, on the very first page, under “by Rachel Woodson,” it said “and Devon Tennyson.”

“Wow,” I said. “I’m really in the byline.”

“You’re really in the byline,” Rachel said. “I think it turned out well. Maybe we could collaborate again.”

“Uh … sure.”

“Awesome. Your input would definitely be valuable to future pieces.” She forced the paper into my hand. “I’ll be in touch!” and then she hurried off.

I looked down at the paper. On the front was a large picture of Ezra, and underneath …

DOES HE DESERVE IT?

Ezra Lynley is hailed as the champion of TS football. But is it talent, or just cold, hard strategy?

Ezra Lynley, 18, tall, broad-shouldered, and inaccessibly handsome, spoke to correspondent Devon Tennyson about his time in the Shaunessy High School lineup and his move to the Temple Sterling team, denying any sort of a statistics “agenda.”

I blanched. Maybe he wouldn’t see it. Maybe he wouldn’t read it.

But the Herald was everywhere. Everyone had a copy. That picture of Ezra in midair over the end zone, his hands clasped around a football, was plastered all over the school.

And then there he was in the flesh, on the bleachers before practice, with the Herald spread out before him.

Bummer.

Ezra looked up as I approached. “‘Inaccessibly handsome’?”

“I’m really sorry.”

“Everyone’s entitled to their own opinion.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think that stuff. Statistics mongering and all that, I mean … well, it’s just ridiculous.”

“Really?”

I recalled all my former indignation on Cas’s behalf, and what I said to Emir at the season opener: He’s all right. Nothing special. I didn’t feel that way now. I had seen Ezra with Foster. He was kind to him. He was patient and loyal, and he was funny if you actually paid attention. There were good things about Ezra. He was just … quiet about them.

I sat down next to him. “Your achievements are your achievements, and you shouldn’t let anyone try to … to cheapen them.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Oh. Well, good.”

Ezra glanced at me. “But thanks.”