A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(10)

I slide it forward and spin it around with one finger. He's in my first  period. Of course he is. Before speaking, I scan the rest of his classes  and feel both sad and relieved that we only have one other class that's  the same-photography. I had to pick an elective, and taking pictures  sounded easier than drawing them. I bet Wes actually has some skill,  though. He coughs lightly, and I slide his paper back to him, realizing  that I have yet to say a word.

"Lost?" I arch a brow as I look up. His blue eyes hit me the second I  give in, and my fingers grip the sides of my chair as my mind zeroes in  on the almost decade-old homemade card tucked in my backpack. I swear it  belongs to him-this is Christopher.

"I planned on being early so I could find my way around, but we had  weights in the gym." His words trail off and he picks the paper up,  squinting at me with one eye as he rubs his neck with his other hand. As  adorable as the stupid trucker hat is, his squinting and neck-rubbing  thing is better-or worse, depending on how I look at it. It's definitely  irresistible, which is messing with my whole resisting-him plan. Maybe I  just don't resist him.

"My dad's a big believer in building muscle … like … in every spare moment,"  I say through light laughter. Somewhere deep down, I feel the pang of  loss of the relationship I used to have with my dad, when I was little  watching him lift weights and he told me how muscle would make me  dominant in the batter's box. Wes's lip twitches on one side into a  faint smile, and a small chuckle leaves his mouth. It's also adorable,  and it erases that pang the second I see it.

"Yeah, I got the lecture at tryouts yesterday. That's why we were hitting at the field," he says.

Wes holds his breath, staring at me quietly, his lips forming a tight,  nervous smile. I feel like a little of the power has shifted back into  my reigns, and I don't really care if it's just because I know where I'm  going and he doesn't. I need whatever power I can get.

"You're in my first period. I'll show you where to go."

I zip my bag up and manage to untangle myself from the table and chair  without making a scene. I lead Wes through the doors and down the long  language arts corridor. His steps are a few behind me, and I'm tempted  to turn around to see if he's looking at me or is just distracted by new  classrooms and other students passing by. I never look, though, because  I'm pretty sure it's the latter, and I'm not up for feeling  disappointed this early. I'll stick with my fantasy where I'm the shit  and he wants me but can't have me-at least until I confirm this hunch I  have about his past.

"This is it," I say, turning quickly and pressing my back along the  door, my hand pushing down on the handle. Wes is staring at his  phone-totally not staring at me-and I feel just like I thought I would.  Disappointed.

"Thanks," he says through the side of his mouth, his eyes never  registering the fact that we're having a conversation, his attention on  the text he's drafting.

"Sure," I say, my response short, my eyebrows raised and my lips pursed  as I take in a slow breath and back through the door, spinning around so  I don't have to watch him ignore me. He said thanks. I guess that's  enough. It still felt … I don't know … rude?         

     



 

I move to the last row along the wall of windows and drop my bag at the  feet of the middle desk. A few seconds later, Wes shuffles in and nods  in my direction, taking the seat directly in front of me.

My brow lowers as he slides in and shifts to get comfortable. I glance to the rows of empty seats next to me. Why here?

I can't help but focus on his details from this view-the ones … behind.  His shoulders are wide, and his hair seems freshly trimmed. No split  ends in sight. It's still long enough though that the back dusts his  collar, curling at the ends from the shape of his ball cap, which I look  down and notice is tucked in the top of his backpack. I smirk, because  Wes is a rule follower. Dress code doesn't allow for hats inside. It's a  stupid rule, because it's not like we're wearing top hats or some  distracting thing on our heads, and some people would frankly be less  distracting if they covered that shit up with a hat.

There's still a good five minutes before the starting bell, so I lean  forward, tapping my pencil on the tag sticking out from his T-shirt.  "Your washing instructions are showing," I say.

"Thanks," he throws over his shoulder, reaching his hand to his neck and  tucking the tag in, ending that conversation just as quickly as it  started.

"Okay," I mouth to myself, tilting back in my chair. I pull a pencil  from the front pocket of my bag and twist my hair over my head, pushing  the pencil into the knot through the side to hold it in place. It's  winter, and it's seventy-four degrees. I'm hot.

A few more students trickle in, and I glance at the door, noticing them  notice Wes. He's hard to miss. And not just because he's somehow a  little better looking than every other guy at South, but because he's  also noticeably bigger. His legs are straddling the chair in front of  him, and his body has to sit back at a slant just to fit in the seat. I  laugh silently when I realize how much he looks like a giant at a tea  party, but the longer I let my eyes zone out at his form, the more my  mind drifts to curiosity.

"Hey, so … " I say, scooting forward again. He still doesn't turn to face  me, merely tilting his head to the side, his phone still in his hands. I  chicken out on asking him if he by chance used to be called Christopher  and instead ask about the code-red texting he's rapt up in. "Is there a  crisis or something? You're kinda lighting up that keyboard with your  thumbs."

He sighs and leans his head forward, swiping his phone off and twisting  to one side to push it in his back pocket. He shifts in his seat  completely to look at me, and I find home in his eyes the second he  does.

Christopher.

"TK's ditching first period," he shrugs.

I laugh out a short breath and offer a closed mouth smile, silently studying his face while we talk.

"I guess that means Taryn will be missing first period too," I say,  knowing that if they're ditching first period, I probably won't see them  until lunch.

"TK makes stupid decisions sometimes," he sighs, and the hairs on my neck stand ready in defense of my friend.

"Meaning?" I lower my brow.

"Nothing," he says with a slight shake of his head as he spins back  around in his seat, bending down along the way to pull out a notebook  and pencil. I don't like how he ends conversations. He always has the  last word, and it leaves my stomach feeling gross.

"He's a big boy," I say. He responds with a short breath, and I know  he's rolling his eyes. I notice that his tag has curled back out from  his collar, and my lip ticks up in a smirk. I'll keep it to myself this  time. Tiny win, yeah!

"So … " I start again, glancing to the last few students as they straggle  in through the door. Mr. Coughlin isn't here yet; I still have time. And  now that I'm a little pissed at Wes the Rule Follower, I feel brave  enough to test my theory. "You all just moved here, but did you ever  live here before?"

I watch his back for any reaction. After a second or two, he takes a  deep breath. "We lived in Nevada," he says, his pencil balanced between  two fingers, bobbing up and down against his notepad.

"I meant, maybe … I don't know, before you were adopted?" I ask.

"Still Nevada," he says, his voice sounding bored. I nod behind him, my head accepting Nevada, but my gut rejecting it all.

"Oh, okay. You just … " I halt, biting my tongue and giving myself a short  breath to make sure I say this exactly the right way. "You remind me of  someone … " I settle on that, and I watch his shoulders, hoping for a  memory to be triggered-for something. All he does is shrug, though.         

     



 

"Hey, how'd you know how to get to my house?" I ask, fitting in one more  question as Mr. Coughlin steps through the door and claps once, a  leftover habit he's had since teaching first grade years before. It's  funny how it makes seventeen-year-olds jump the same as seven-year-olds.

"We knew where coach lived," he says over his shoulder. I squint my  eyes, not sure if I should believe him. "He said we could stop by  whenever we needed anything, gave us directions at the end of tryouts  yesterday. Your dad seems like a good guy, said his players are like  family. Must be weird for you, players dropping in for dinner or  whatever."

He sort of chuckles out that last part, amused as he imagines an open  and welcoming house. I hold my mouth firm and keep the painful laugh I  want to respond with inside this time. "Yeah, he's a good coach like  that," I say in an even tone.

Truth is, other than Kyle, one of my dad's players has never just  dropped by for dinner. If someone did, though, I have no doubt they'd be  treated like royalty, and nothing like family at all. If his players  were like family, they'd feel like ghosts that drift around our house,  only acknowledged when they really screw up. I wish he treated his  family like his players.