Don't Kiss the Messenger (Edgelake High School, #1)(12)

“That name sounds familiar,” Bryn said. “How do I know him?”

CeCe drummed the cover of her book, hinting.

“I hear he’s into comic books,” I helped.

“How is that supposed to help me?” Bryn said. “Is he on the basketball team?” she asked, and we both shook our heads. “Soccer?”

CeCe stared helplessly at Bryn.

“You don’t know who Neil Gaiman is?” I asked Bryn.

She lifted her shoulder with a seductive roll. My eyes were temporarily distracted, lingering on the curve of her neck, the swanlike slope of her shoulder. “This is a big campus and I’m new. I don’t know everyone.”

CeCe gave her a pained look.

“What? What’s the big deal?” Bryn asked.

“He’s just this really famous author,” I said.

Bryn blinked at CeCe. “You’re dating a really famous author?”

I laughed and CeCe stepped around us.

“I better get going,” she said. “I don’t want to keep Neil waiting. Have fun at the study tables,” she said over her shoulder as she headed through the tunnel.

“Wait,” Bryn said after her, her voice panicked. “I’m going to get lost in here without you.”

CeCe looked back at us over her shoulder.

“Just avoid the morgue in the basement—it’s haunted,” she said. “And watch out for the trolls that live in the walls, oh, and the Minotaur, but you’ll hear him before you see him.”

“See you later, CeCe,” I shouted after her. Her face looked a little put-off by my smile before she turned away.

Her footsteps echoed down the tunnel until they disappeared. I looked back at Bryn. Her eyes were downcast, focusing on her tennis shoes.

“Well, I have class. So…” She turned and started to walk toward the red exit sign.

Before I knew what I was doing, I fell into step next to her. I couldn’t pull myself away. My steps matched her long strides. I took in her profile, the soft slope of her nose. The pale pink outline of her lips. Her perfect lips.

She glanced at me with surprise and her feet faltered.

“Oh. You’re headed this way?” she asked. “I thought you had practice?”

“I’m off,” I said, hinting. I was about to offer to walk her to class. Was that old fashioned? Creepy? Lame? What if I asked her out right now? Desperate, or romantic? God, I needed to get a grip. This girl was making my head spin.

“Oh.” Her eyes widened. Her teeth tugged at her bottom lip. “Well, actually, I forgot, I have to talk to Coach. About. Something. He’s waiting.”

She flipped her purple tote bag around and opened the front flap. She pulled out a pen and grabbed my hand. She was writing something, scribbling quickly. I wasn’t looking at the writing—I was concentrating on her long, sinewy fingers. My skin heated up under her touch and I had to fight the urge to pull her fingers back when they slipped away.

“Message me,” she said.

She bolted into the locker room, and I watched her disappear behind the door. It shut with an echoing slam. I looked around the empty hallway and stared down at my hand, mesmerized by the ten digits splayed there in large, loopy writing. I tucked my fingers around the numbers and squeezed. The hook went deeper.





Chapter Four


CeCe


Saturday night I was sitting at my desk, when I got a text message from Bryn.

Bryn: Code red!

I stared at the message. Did an eighth grade boy steal her phone and start sending prank texts?

Me: What the hell?

Bryn: Emergency. Need help. NOW.

Nightmare scenarios ran through my head. A car accident? A bike accident? Wait, did Bryn bike?

I stood up, texting back.

Me: What happened? Are you alright?

Bryn: Meet me at Murphy’s. HURRY!!

My heart settled at the mention of Murphy’s, a campus hangout in the Student Union that stayed open until midnight. It couldn’t be dire.

I grabbed my student ID and went downstairs. Tuba was sitting on the couch attempting to study while watching When Harry Met Sally. She looked up at me with a frown.

“I can’t focus,” she said.

“You should know better than to try and study while watching anything written by Nora Ephron,” I scolded her. I zipped up my cream-colored fleece, stuck my thumbs through the thumb holes, and pulled the tie out of my braided hair. It fell long and wavy around my shoulders. I instinctively brushed it over the right side of my face.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I’m meeting Bryn. She sent me a distress signal, some kind of emergency.” New images ran through my mind. A stain on her shirt? A blemish? Dry skin?

Tuba smiled and slammed her book closed, thankful for the needed excuse.

“I better come. Bryn might need extra support.”

“That’s so selfless of you,” I noted.

Tuba stood up. “I’m a regular Mother Teresa.”

...

Tuba and I walked into Murphy’s, a student restaurant that offered a wide assortment of fried food, pool tables, dart tables, and overhead TV’s. The walls were decorated in school posters, trophies, and other memorabilia. I usually monopolized the juke box in the back corner. It had classics like Patsy Cline and Johnny Cash. Currently “Baby Ride Easy” was streaming through the speakers. It immediately brought a smile to my face.