The Better to Bite(6)

I slammed my locker and turned around—and slammed right into some guy with light coffee skin, close-cropped black hair, glasses, and a voice that cracked when he hurriedly apologized.

“Don’t worry about it,” I murmured because I was the one who’d hit him. Then I took a good look at the guy. He had a green schedule card in his hand—his shaking hand. He had the fresh-faced, scared look that only a high school freshman can be marked with.

Poor guy. Tall, a little too thin. Probably one of those kids who’d hit a growth spurt over the summer. He’d sprouted up tall, but the muscle hadn’t caught up yet, if it ever would.

He offered me a quick smile. “I-I’m trying to find Mrs. Parker’s room.”

A jock stopped right by us then. Over six feet, t-shirt stretched with his muscles, and a goofy hi-there grin on his face. “I can help you with that, kid,” he said as he pushed a hand through his blond hair.

The “kid” blinked. “You can, Troy?”

Troy, huh? I raised a brow and waited.

“Sure.” That smile stretched, showing bright, white teeth. “Here’s what you do, FM. You go back out the main entrance, slide around the back of the building and pass the shop room. Mrs. Parker’s class is on the east side of the school yard.”

FM? For Freshman?

The freshman nodded eagerly. “Th-thanks, Troy!”

Troy must be someone important the way the guy was all wide-eyed now.

The freshman turned away, and I heard Troy snicker.

I knew I shouldn’t, but I still had to ask, “FM doesn’t stand for freshman, does it?” Because that would have been too easy.

Troy glanced at me, his brown eyes shining with laughter. “Fresh meat.”

Right.

“That’s what we always call the first crop that gets bussed in.” His gaze slid over me. “And you must be—”

But I was already hurrying away from him. I freaking can’t stand bullying. I grabbed the freshman’s shoulder and yanked him around. Sometimes, I can be a lot stronger than I look.

The guy yelped a bit, but calmed down when he saw me.

“Mrs. Parker’s room…” The location immediately clicked in my mind, and I pointed back behind us. East yard, my ass. “Go back, turn left at the stairs, and it’s the first room you’ll see.”

His eyes widened.

“And you really might want to stop by the office and grab a school map.” So you don’t get punked every class change.

His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he nodded quickly. “Th-thank you—”

I offered my hand. “I’m Anna.”

His fingers—cool and stronger than I’d anticipated—closed around mine. “James. James Colter.”

Great. Did this count as making friends? Helping a lost freshman?

James scampered away. I turned back and found Troy glaring at me. Ah…making friends, making enemies…only four minutes of the day down.

I brushed by Troy.

“I was only havin’ some fun,” he muttered.

“So was I.” I didn’t glance back at him. Sometimes, you could just smell a jerk. I hurried forward. My homeroom was just ahead and—

Bright blue eyes met mine. I stumbled a little. There was no mistaking that gaze.

Or him. My “hero” strolled down the hall, a few guys surrounding him. He had a shirt on today, because, well, he’d have to wear one at school…a black shirt and faded jeans. His hair was pushed back, his voice rumbled and—

And yes, he totally walked right past me without saying a word. But one of the guys with him—a guy with truly bleached blond hair, like almost white hair—let out a long, wolf whistle.

Perfect. My day was off to a kick-ass start.

The bell rang just as I slipped inside the classroom.

***

I survived the morning. Figured that I’d have two classes with Troy, and since teachers love to assign seats to students based on alphabetical order, Troy (who is Troy Long, tight end for the Haven Hornets football team, yeah, go Hornets—or something) sat behind me in both classes.

Hello, hell.

I also had a class with my not-so-heroic hero. Turned out that my catcher’s name was Rafe Channing. No, we didn’t sit close to each other, and, yes, he continued his lovely trend of acting like he’d never seen me before in his life.

Some boys were just born charmers.

When lunchtime finally arrived, my stomach had knotted with hunger. I hadn't eaten breakfast—I usually never do—so I was ready to eat.

But I also knew the lunch time drill, and since I hadn’t exactly made a bosom buddy during the day, I had no idea where I was supposed to sit.

The juniors and seniors had the “privilege” of eating behind the school on non-rainy days. There were plenty of picnic-type tables out there, and by the time I came out with my tray of ambiguous goodness, the tables had already started to fill.