Don't Kiss the Messenger (Edgelake High School, #1)(2)

“We’re a little crowded in here,” she said. She walked over and tried to tug a chair off the top of the stack but it was stuck.

“Here, let me,” said Late Boy. He towered over her, broad shoulders flexing under his T-shirt as he pulled the chair off.

“You can sit at the end of the table,” Watford said, and pointed in my general direction. I moved my books and coffee mug over to give him room, irritated by his intrusion into my space. I usually shifted my face so only my left profile was exposed, especially under the scrutiny of male eyes. But aside from shoving the hood of my sweatshirt around my face, I had no way to hide. Even my long, dark hair wasn’t an option, uselessly constrained in a French braid.

Sitting down, he unzipped a canvas backpack and pulled out a notebook. It was a fancy one, bright orange and opening at the top instead of the side like my spiral-bound Mead. Out of his back pocket he pulled a mechanical pencil. Its metal casing gleamed. It looked heavy.

The professor interrupted my observations. “In case anyone else is lost, this is Honors Shakespeare. If you’re not signed up to take Honors Shakespeare, you may want to leave now.” A girl giggled. Someone shifted in their seat. No one left. Professor Watford began introducing herself again. The smooth alto tones faded into the background as I continued to watch Late Boy. He was writing something in his notebook. His head was bent over the page, light brown hair obscuring his face. He was left-handed. A regular spiral notebook would have been awkward.

“Now that I’ve told you a bit about me…”

I had missed it all.

“…I’d like you to partner with the person next to you and take turns interviewing each other. Then we’ll go around the room and you’ll introduce one another.”

…

EMMETT

I looked up from my notebook and raised my eyebrow at the teacher. She was going to make us do an icebreaker? In an advanced class?

The girl next to me shifted in her seat. When I looked over, my eyes were immediately drawn to a thick, puckered line that ran all the way down the side of her face, splitting past her cheek, nearly grazing her lips. It branched out in small, spider veins like the path of an intricate web. It was intriguing as hell, like staring at a bolt of lightning flashing against her skin.

I met her eyes—dark brown and impenetrable, with an air of confidence that bordered on hostile. I’ve been around a lot of athletes and they carry an arsenal of attitude. I’m used to these kinds of expressions on the field. But women don’t usually look at me like this, putting up a Do-Not-Mess-With-Me force field.

She kept her eyes on mine, like this was some kind of a stare down and the first person to look away was a coward. I didn’t even know this girl, but one thing was certain—she was a force you didn’t want to mess with. I started to smile because her badass scar completely fit.

She looked surprised, like she wasn’t used to drawing smiles out of strangers. I nodded in her direction.

“Ladies first,” I said, after it was apparent she wasn’t jumping at the chance to do an icebreaker. It took her off guard.

She raised her eyebrows. “Do I detect southern manners?” she asked.

“Does southern Pennsylvania count as the South?”

She leaned her head to the side.

“Why were you late?” she asked. “Freshman?”

“Transfer.” I sounded more irritated than I intended. But I knew I didn’t look like a damn scrawny-limbed freshman.

“Well, if being female wins me the coin toss, I guess I’ll interview you first,” she said.

“Okay, shoot.”

“Who’s your hero?” she asked.

I frowned just a little. “I thought we were covering the basics. You know? Name, major, hometown?”

“That’s boring. If we have to engage in this ridiculous exercise, I’d at least like to ask real questions. Who’s your hero?”

“My dad.” The answer blew off my tongue before I could hold it back. This was the last place I wanted to bring up my dad. It wasn’t an icebreaker. More like an ice generator.

She shook her head. “That doesn’t count.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It needs to be a public figure,” she clarified.

“Mike Reid,” I said without hesitating.

“Mike…Reid. I’m drawing a blank.”

“He played football for the Cincinnati Bengals.”

“Your hero is a pro football player?” she asked, sounding disappointed. And bored.

“In between seasons he was a concert pianist with the Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra. After he retired from football he became a singer/songwriter.”

This detail seemed to peak her interest. “You’re a fan of football and music?”

“Yeah. A fan.” I smiled, looking down as I fiddled with my pencil. I noticed she was staring at my arm, which I realized was invading her work space. I pulled it back, and she looked at me like she was struck with sudden déjà vu. She tilted her head back like she was trying to see me from a different angle.

“What?” I asked.

“Were you by any chance playing the piano in the atrium before class?”

Now I cocked my head to the side. “Yeah. We all have to do volunteer hours. I was getting mine over with before the season starts.”