Leah on the Offbeat (Creekwood #2)(12)

Me too! I start to type. But it reads a little too much like OMG GARRETT I LOVE YOU PLS KISS ME. So I delete it, and then stare at my phone, and then retype it without the exclamation point, and then delete it again, until I finally give up and turn on Fruits Basket. This is what a mess I am. I can’t write a two-word text without losing my shit. And I’m not even particularly attracted to this boy. If I were, I’d be dead. RIP Leah Burke. She died of acute awkwardosis.

I need a distraction. God knows TV isn’t enough. I pull up some random fanfic on my phone, and then I take it down the hall. I can’t read Drarry in the living room, even when my mom’s not home. Drarry belongs in my bedroom. I don’t care if that sounds dirty.

But I can’t focus. It isn’t the fic’s fault. It’s well written, and Draco has some bite to him, which is refreshing. I hate when writers make Draco sweet. Sorry, but Draco’s a bitch. Own it. I mean, yeah, he’s a ball of mush underneath, but you have to earn it with him.

I guess that speaks to me, somehow.

But the distraction’s not working, so I shut it down. I stick my phone into its charger and then wiggle it around for a minute to trick it into actually charging. My phone’s a piece of shit. I crank up Spotify and log onto my art Tumblr, scrolling through my archives. I should upload something new. Or even one of my more decent older pieces. I have a whole bunch I’ve photographed and saved on my phone. All my ships, straight-up kissing: Inej and Nina, Percabeth, a few original characters. Plus a few random portraits of my friends, not that I ever plan on showing those to anyone. I did that once. Huge fucking mistake.

I scroll quickly past them, landing instead on a pencil sketch of Bellatrix Lestrange. It’s not the most polished thing I’ve drawn, but I sort of love her facial expression. And I don’t mind it being a little sloppy, since my Tumblr page is anonymous. If people think I’m a shitty artist, so be it. As least they don’t know I’m me.





5


MORGAN’S NOT AT SCHOOL ON Friday, and she’s not replying to my texts.

“That’s sort of weird, right?” I say to Anna at lunch. We’re the first two at the table. “Is something up with her?”

“With Morgan?” She bites her lip. I have the distinct impression that she’s avoiding my eyes.

“What, is she mad at me or something?”

“No, it’s not that.” Anna pauses. “I think she’s processing things.”

“What are you talking about?”

She looks up at me, finally. “She didn’t tell you?”

“Uh, she’s not returning my texts, so.”

“Yeah.” Anna leans back in her chair. “Well. She heard from Georgia last night.”

“The school?”

Anna nods, and something in her expression makes my heart sink.

“She didn’t get in,” I say quietly.

“Nope.”

“Was she wait-listed?”

“No.”

“You’re kidding me.”

Anna shakes her head.

“But she’s a legacy.”

“I know.”

“She must be devastated.” I blink. “How could she not get in?”

“I don’t know. It’s messed up.” Anna sighs and tugs the ends of her hair. “Maybe her SAT scores? I know she retook it a few times. I feel so awful. I think she’s in shock. And her parents just lost it. Like, they’re calling the school, withdrawing their donations. I don’t even know.”

“Jesus.”

“I’m going over there after school,” Anna says.

I nod. “I’ll go with you.”

“Yeah.” She pauses. “I don’t know if that’s . . .”

“She doesn’t want to see me?”

Anna doesn’t respond.

I flush. “Did she say that?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m so sorry, Leah. Ugh. This is so awkward.”

“Whatever. It’s fine.” I stand abruptly. “I’m gonna eat in the courtyard.”

“She’s just upset right now. You can’t take this personally.”

Okay, I hate when people say that. You can’t take this personally. It’s not personal, Leah. Morgan’s skipping school to avoid me, but it’s totally not personal. God. I know I should be sympathetic, and I know I’m a jerk, but it just hurts.

“Leah, it’s not about you. She’s just disappointed,” Anna says. “And probably embarrassed.”

“I know that.” It comes out louder than I mean it to, and a couple of freshmen turn to stare at us. I lower my voice. “I know it’s not about me.”

“Well, good. It’s not.”

“I just want to be there for her, you know? I want to make it better.”

Anna leans forward. “Yeah, I just don’t think you can make it better. You know? It’s obviously not your fault that you got in and she didn’t, and she knows that, but it’s still going to feel like you’re rubbing it in her face.”

“I’m not going to rub it in her face.”

“I know you’re not,” Anna says slowly. “Not intentionally. But don’t you see how it would feel like that?”