The Girl Who Fell(2)

My weak voice spills into the still air. “Uh . . . Je suis . . . Je suis . . . stuck.”

The classroom skitters with laughter. In the front of the room, Jeremy Lang repeats my words: “Je suis stuck! Classic!” Mrs. Sarter winces with disappointment and reprimands him. She does this in lowly English, and her scrunched expression makes me think it physically pains her.

Suzanne Sharper’s arm flies into the air, pole straight—the answer practically bubbling off her overeager lips. Mrs. Sarter calls on Suzanne and nods at her correct la reponse. She turns to the whiteboard, writes the answer in measured purple strokes.

Gregg leans over and whispers, “Page eighty-four, genius.”

“Right.” I flip to that section of my book.

“Way to have your head in the game.” He flashes me his press-popular smile, now twisting with a smirk.

“You could have helped me out.”

He cuts his eyes to the front. “Who says I knew the answer?”

“Pa-lease.” Gregg speaks French better than Mrs. Sarter on account of his dad being French Canadian. I straighten in my chair and smooth the pages of my book. Gregg slips me a small rectangle of a note, a makeshift business card. He’s printed FRENCH TUTOR across the front using the red Sharpie marker he carries for autographs. He’s scrawled his cell phone number on the bottom right-hand corner. I snark a glance at him and his self-satisfied grin. Then I can’t help the way my eyes move beyond Gregg to find New Boy’s profile.

I pull my attention away. What am I doing? I tuck Gregg’s fake business card into the pages of my textbook and find number ten. I put my finger on it as if to physically plant my brain in this lesson even as the sentences morph together, indecipherable. My insides collapse into a warm sensation. Can a crush take hold this quickly?

Lizzie likes to say I “crush without the mush,” which is her headline-clever way of reminding me I steer clear of deep commitment in the boyfriend department. Unless you count my two years in a junior high nonrelationship with Matt Sanders, which I don’t. Or going to the senior prom with Zach Plummer when I was a freshman and being embarrassed by his drunk self all night.

But since my dad ditched me and Mom this summer, Lizzie’s worried my inability to commit may have more to do with burgeoning abandonment issues. “Crushing is safe,” she said. “It only involves one person . . . you. And you can be in control.”

I prefer to believe my preference for remaining romantically unattached stems from the fact that I have a carefully mapped-out plan for my future, and there’s no point in hijacking that with unnecessary dating drama now. The best boyfriend in the universe will be at Boston College. With me, next year. See? Perfect. Hooking up with a guy in Sudbury will only anchor me to a place I’ve wanted to escape since I was a freshman. So why can’t I help but wonder . . .

If New Boy smells like oranges . . .

Has a British accent . . .

Plays sports . . .

Has secrets he’ll tell only me?

When the bell rings, I jolt.

“Twitchy much?” Gregg jokes while gathering his books.

I stuff my books into my bag, stand, and force myself not to watch New Boy. I take one last look at the maple tree outside. The finch is gone. A spiral of panic swirls in my stomach. Nothing seems grounded lately.

And then Gregg’s voice: “Zee, this is Alec.” I turn and New Boy appears from behind Gregg like a shadow.

My heart quickens. The classroom goes fuzzy around the edges, as if my brain is only capable of taking in this one boy and nothing else. I try to appear calm. “Hey.”

“Your name is Z?” he asks, with a distinct lack of British accent.

My pride ruffles. “Zephyr, actually.”

His eyes throw an apology. “What does it mean?”

“What does Alec mean?” I counter. I’m aware my reply is obnoxious, but that question has always annoyed me.

“It means ‘gentle breeze,’ ” Gregg says. “But I called her Zipper until we were about seven.”

I redden.

“Her parents were hippies.” Gregg knows my family story almost as well as I do.

I think of my mother, stuck in her unmovable fierceness, and my father, God knows where right now, and I don’t see a shred of hippie. “They were young,” I clarify. They were only nineteen when I was born. I can’t imagine having a kid next year. Talk about hijacking college plans.

“Well, it’s a cool name,” Alec says. Damn if my blush doesn’t deepen. But something else. Does his face redden too?

“Alec’s transferring from Phillips Exeter,” Gregg tells me.

My eyebrows knit. “To here?”