“What an ass.” Ryan blew out a breath.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “But what do you think their secret weapon is?”
“Nothing. I think he was yankin’ our chain. Dude, you need to change out of those swim trunks and start acting like a man again.”
Point taken. I nodded in agreement. It was time to get my mind off of Chloe and back on what was important.
CHAPTER 4
Chloe
The uniform was the worst part of marching band.
Standing in front of the full length mirror in the band room, I took in my reflection. I wore a black uniform with an orange sash, and my hands were encased in black gloves. A black hat with an orange plume attached was perched on my head, making me look like a bird. It was super attractive, let me tell you. I considered myself a pretty stylish person. Clothes and fashion were something I enjoyed. I liked shopping and coordinating outfits. Since I was a little girl, picking out my clothes in the morning was a monumental event which included me pulling out most of my closet and mixing and matching until I had it just right. Sometimes my mom would get so frustrated she’d put on the timer and make me pick something to wear before it went off. But looking nice had always been important to me. Glancing back at my reflection, I frowned. Guess I’d have to give up on that notion tonight.
Gianna and Jasmine came up behind me filling the rest of the mirror, and they looked identical to me. At least I wasn’t alone in my misfortunate outfit. In fact, when I took the field at halftime I’d be surrounded by hundreds of other students all wearing the exact same uniform. I adjusted the hat on my head, blowing out a breath. I’d worn dark makeup tonight – red lipstick, kohl-lined eyes. A small part of me had hoped it could redeem this. But who was I kidding? There was no way to make this better. It was what it was.
Instruments sounded throughout the room as kids warmed up. Turning away from the mirror, I saw Preston approaching.
He shot me a shy wave. “Hey, Chloe.”
“What’s up, Pres?” I said, and his cheeks flushed.
When he passed me, Gianna’s eyebrows shot up. “What was that?”
I shrugged. “What do you mean?”
“Since when are you buddy-buddy with Preston Johnson?” Jasmine asked.
“I’m not. I just met him today,” I said, unsure of why it was such a big deal. First I wasn’t supposed to like Holden, and now I couldn’t talk to Preston? These two had too many rules. I was going to have to carry around a handbook or something.
“Pres?” Gianna cocked her head to the side.
“Oh, come on. You know me. I’m all about the nicknames,” I responded, and both girls smiled.
“True. You are the only person who calls me Jazzy.”
“And me Gigi.” Gianna giggled.
The first time I’d called her that she said it made her sound like a fifties movie star. But even then I could tell she liked it.
“Trust me, you need to stay away from Preston.” Jasmine leaned in close. I caught a whiff of her apple shampoo and fruit-scented lotion. “He’s a total nutjob.”
My stomach tightened. When my gaze located him across the room, he was pulling his trumpet out of the case. He seemed harmless. “What makes you say that?”
“I heard he talks to himself,” Jasmine offered.
“Yeah, and kids from his elementary school said he used to wet his pants in class, and not just in kindergarten. No, they said it happened all the way into third grade,” Gianna added.
I grimaced. “Seriously, you guys, this is nothing but rumors. You two should know better than anyone how mean kids are. You can’t believe everything you hear.”
“I know, but I still don’t trust him,” Jasmine said, finality in her tone. “He creeps me out.”
“Yeah. I had him in art last year and he always drew disgusting, bloody pictures. He’s twisted. I’m sure of it,” Gianna shuddered, glancing over her shoulder.
It was clear I wasn’t going to change their minds. Their opinion of Preston was rock solid. I caught a few students chuckling and pointing in Preston’s direction. He sat in the corner by himself, yanking the hat down further on his head. It made me feel even worse for him. It was one thing to be picked on by the jocks and popular kids, but to be picked on by one of your own? That was brutal.
Mr. Grant interrupted my thoughts by rounding us up. It looked like it was ‘go time.’ Nerves attacked my insides. It was our first halftime show, and I didn’t feel like we were ready. But we had a competition this weekend, and Mr. Grant wanted us to perform it at least once before then. I had no desire to make a fool of myself in front of the football team and their parents, but I didn’t really have a choice.