Alec laughs. “You don’t approve?”
“No. I mean . . . it’s just . . . why would you do that?”
“For Sudbury High’s world-class foreign language program.” A smile plays at the corner of his mouth.
“Sorry, I just meant . . . Exeter is such a better school.”
Gregg laughs. “How long are you gonna dig this hole, Zeph? We’ve got a meeting with Coach.”
Alec’s gaze dips to my chest and I flatten my bag against me like a shield. He lifts his eyes quickly, a blush definitely blooming. “Do you play? Um . . . field hockey.” It’s impossible not to see his feet shift with embarrassment.
That’s when I remember the emblem on my sweatshirt, the two field hockey sticks crossed in an X. Duh. I clear my throat. “Um, yeah. Forward.”
“Zeph’s the captain of our field hockey team,” Gregg says.
“Cocaptain.”
“Still, the best Sudbury’s seen,” Gregg adds.
Alec’s eyes widen. “Impressive.”
His acknowledgement sends a shiver racing across my skin, like heat and ice tripping over one another.
“You playing this weekend?” Gregg asks.
“Thursday’s our last game of the regular season.”
“I’ll be there,” Gregg says as if this is news. He’s never missed one of my games. “You coming to Waxman’s kegger on Friday?”
“Probably.” Ronnie Waxman has a kegger every weekend. It’s pretty much the apex of Sudbury’s social scene.
“Come. You can help me show Alec around.”
Alec is cute and new. He won’t need a tour guide. “Sure, but keep in mind, this is Suckbury. You’re likely to be disappointed by local customs.”
Alec draws up the softest of shy smiles. “I don’t know, I thought French would be lame.”
My heart hiccups.
“Look, we gotta see Coach. Let’s roll.” Gregg slaps Alec’s back before he slips out the door. The classroom empties except for me and Alec, and Mrs. Sarter wiping down the board as if it’s an aerobic workout.
Alec takes a step back and motions for me to go ahead. “Ladies first.” He lowers his head as I pass, like I’m royalty. It makes me wonder if chivalry is standard private school curriculum.
Just as I’m through the door, I hear, “Zephyr actually?”
I spin to face Alec. I should respond with something brilliant but my voice betrays me.
“It was nice to meet you.” Alec’s damn shy smile softens his every beautiful feature.
“Thanks.” Thanks? I can only imagine what Lizzie would say if she were here. Not the most memorable first impression, Zee. I manage a nod and dart down the hall thinking Alec’s Zephyr actually was both adorable and clever. A dangerous mix.
When I get outside, Lizzie’s waiting for me in the courtyard, sitting at our picnic table. Her cropped hair looks ice white in the sun as she hunches over the small spiral-bound notebook she clutches with two hands. She flips a page, reviewing the shorthand reporter code I have yet to break. This is her process, the way she decides what story will appear on the front page of the school’s Sudbury Sentinel.
“This seat taken?” I sit, and swipe an impeccably julienned carrot from Lizzie’s lunch bag.
Lizzie lowers her notebook with a sigh. “This place might kill me, Zee.”
“Dramatic much?”
“I’m serious. There is exactly nothing going on at this school. Unless I’m expected to use my professional genius to dissect the nutrients in the caf’s tater tots or dig into the bizarre—and might I add—disturbing flirting rituals of some of Sudbury’s faculty.”
“Please spare us that.”
Lizzie smiles, her face softening. “I need to get out of here.”
“You and me both.”
Lizzie and I have wanted to be free of small-town Sudbury since we met in fifth grade. She’s always had plans to be a reporter in a big city. At twelve, she wore a fedora, complete with a tab of paper that screamed PRESS in orange crayon. While other kids played tag, Lizzie taught herself shorthand.
Me? A marine biologist working off the shores of Cape Cod. Or Cape Town.
Lizzie peers over her New York cool black-rimmed glasses. “I hear Sudbury’s snagged itself a transfer student.” She squints, scans the crowd in the quad.
“Alec. He’s in my French class.”
Her mood perks. “You met him? Any scoop there?”
“I’m not trained in human observation the way you are, Lizzie.” I pop the top of my Sprite and it hisses with release.
“Oh come on. There has to be something.”
I take a short sip. “He’s friends with Gregg. Plays hockey. Moved here from a private school.”