He appears out of nowhere and puts a hand on Sam’s tense shoulder.
“Don’t be stupid,” he says, his voice warm-honey smooth and, somehow, infuriatingly calm. “It’s not worth it, man.”
Sam hesitates, and before the sensibility of Brendon’s words can sink in, one of the Spanish teachers pops his head into the hall. He takes in the scene—Sam with his fists knotted in Lowell’s shirt, the obscene graffiti on the locker—and frowns. Maybe, I think, this means someone in charge is actually going to notice the crap that’s been drawn on my locker and do something about it.
“You two.” He points to Sam and Lowell. “In here. Now. I’m writing you up.”
Sam reluctantly releases Lowell’s shirtfront. Lowell sneers and storms into the classroom without looking back, leaving Sam and Brendon to stare at each other, and then at me.
What, am I supposed to be impressed by this display of unleashed teenage testosterone? Because I am so not. I’m just pissed. Sam has no business getting in the middle of things with Lowell and me. All he’s done is make it worse, because there is no way Lowell won’t find a way to get me back for this, even though it wasn’t my fault.
And what am I supposed to do when Sam isn’t there to swoop in and save me from the big bad wolf?
Of course he wasn’t thinking about that. He doesn’t understand how this is all a balancing act. Yes, someday I am going to pay Lowell and Derek both back for the way they’ve treated me, and it will be a very sweet revenge indeed, but I can’t afford to be reckless about it like Sam just was.
“I’ll see you later,” he says to me, but I just give him a cold look in return.
When he’s gone, Brendon puts a hand on my arm and says, “Are you okay?”
Touching. He’s actually touching me. Acknowledging my existence. This is new. Even through the fabric of my sweater, I can feel the warmth of his skin. But it’s not like before. No butterflies. I feel like I should be more excited about this.