Don't Kiss the Messenger (Edgelake High School, #1)(8)

There wasn’t a single blurb on the festival this coming weekend, or any mention of the Nobel Prize-winning guest speaker.

The call of a seagull shifted my attention to the lake with its clutter of sailboats moored along the shoreline—my favorite view in Madison. Lulled by the hypnotic ripples of the water, I didn’t hear Tuck at first. He had to nudge my arm to get my attention.

“What?”

“I wish the water were this calm in the afternoon. Then we wouldn’t have to practice at the goddamn butt crack of dawn,” he said.

Realizing I hadn’t touched my sandwich, I picked it up and began fighting with the cellophane that seemed to be wrapped around it in a hundred layers. “I could never be a rower. I’d be staring at the water the entire time and forget what I was doing. It’s too calming.”

“We wouldn’t want you anyway. You’re too short. Your friend, on the other hand,” he said, pointing a thumb at Bryn. “We’d love to have her.”

“Wouldn’t you, though.” I took him in. “What did you do over the summer Tuck? Go be a Coast Guard in the Atlantic?”

He smiled. The breeze blew his amber hair over his eyes and he combed it away with his fingers. “Close. I was a bike messenger in New York.”

“Well, chiseled muscles explained.” I finally got my sandwich unwrapped.

“It’s my senior year,” Tuck said with a shrug. “Time I made the varsity boat.”

I looked over at Prentice as I swallowed a bite. “Maybe you can have Prentice’s spot,” I said.

“It’s a seat, not a spot,” Prentice pointed out.

“I don’t need to know the jargon. You wouldn’t want me anyway.”

He smiled easily. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“What about you, CeCe?” Aisha interrupted us. “Any hotties in your classes yet?”

I licked some mustard off of my finger. “You know me, so many I can’t keep count. I’m going to have to start a hook-up list and keep it on my refrigerator.”

Prentice interjected with utter seriousness, “I think there’s a phone app for that.”

“Gross,” said Tuba.

“Come on CeCe,” Aisha pressed. “Name one guy.”

I smiled. The volleyball team was always playing hopeful matchmaker to me. Every season it was a new attempt to convert my single status. Their efforts never panned out. I glanced over at the student newspaper. “I got stuck being discussion partners with Emmett Brady in my Shakespeare class.”

“WHAT!” Even Prentice and Tuck seemed excited. It was a little creepy.

Bryn squealed in delight.

“CeCe, you’ve talked to him?” Aisha asked. She acted like this simple interaction qualified me for knighthood.

Bryn clapped her hands together. “I have to meet him,” she said. “We’re transfer twinners.”

I almost gagged on my bite of sandwich. “I’ll still be your friend, despite that awful comment,” I told her.

“What’s he like?” Aisha asked me.

“He’s interesting,” I said honestly. Unpredictable. A little strange.

She waved her hand for more.

“He plays music,” I offered.

No one else seemed interested in this detail. I found the fact that he could perform music a lot more interesting than his football status.

“Well, CeCe, if he isn’t on your hook-up list, I’ll add him to mine,” Bryn offered.

I scoffed at the idea. It was sweet of Bryn to feel obligated to ask, as if I had seriously considered the idea. Her cluelessness was adorable.

“He’s all yours,” I said, and mustered up my best look of indifference.





Chapter Three


Emmett


I walked inside The Music Room and Coffee House and was met with the welcomed sound of Tchaikovsky streaming through the speakers, the scent of brewed coffee and the mish-mash of college and high school students. This place was becoming my refuge. It was an old two-story house next to the music theater, converted into an artsy coffee shop. It had a creaky upstairs mezzanine where I could sit above the fray, but still see the action below.

Most athletes hung out at the McClain center. An entire floor of studying tables and tutoring groups were dedicated to keeping student athletes academically eligible to play sports. It was not an easy task.

I handed the barista my two dollars and glanced around the packed room, looking for an open table when I saw the last person I had ever expected to see in this sanctum. The girl with the scar, that definable lightning bolt that made her stand out, whether she wanted it to or not. She walked downstairs, wearing jeans and a white tank top. Her hair was dark and wet, like it was recently washed. It fell long past her shoulders. When she turned, it suddenly registered this was the girl I had seen during practice—the one in the baseball cap. I watched her pass the other customers and head toward the counter. There was no doubt it was her. She had the same focused, purposeful movements. The same unwavering attention. I watched her while the two girls in my head metamorphosed into one.

“Double-double mocha, CeCe,” the barista called out while I was filling my thermos.

She walked up and grabbed a drink, topped off with whipped cream.

“Thanks, Maggie,” she said. I raised my eyebrows. So, apparently, this was her usual hangout. She set her cell and earphones on the counter to get a better grip on her drink. I walked up to her.