Shot Through the Heart (15 page)

“We don’t do anything, at least for the moment.” I will myself to stay calm, even though my every instinct drives me to take action. “Round one isn’t finished, and we don’t know what Molly did for certain. Let’s take the next day or so to think things through.”

We walk in silence until we reach the hallway leading to Josh’s next class. Before making the turn, he says, “That was the worst lunch I’ve experienced in nearly four years at Eastwood High. That includes the Manager’s Special days.” He stops walking and his gaze hardens. “Figure out whatever it is you and Peyton…well,
whatever
it is. Soon. Then we’ll decide what to do about the rest.”

“Got it.”

I scoot into AP Calculus seconds ahead of the bell. Molly’s already at her desk, acting as if nothing happened. On auto-pilot, I open my textbook and turn to page forty, where we left off yesterday, while Mr. Whittimore begins his daily drone. I should be copying the sample problems he’s already written on the board, but my brain’s locked on a single number.

Two thousand dollars
.

Gone. Just like that. And not even because of anything I did.

I stare at my textbook, my vision fuzzing as Mr. Whittimore waxes poetic about infinite discontinuity, two words which pretty much sum up my day.

Two rows over, Molly coughs. I ignore her, but the sound gives me enough of a mental shake that I begin copying the sample problems.

Molly’s shenanigans may have killed my chances of winning Senior Assassin, but as much as I was hoping against hope to take home that money, I need to focus on the bigger prize that could escape my grasp: Peyton.

Chapter Thirteen |
Peyton

“Y
ou’re planning to tell me what that was that all about, right?” Kendall glares at me as we take our seats in Trigonometry. “Has Drew lost his marbles with Connor? He sounded like a complete stalker.”

Her voice holds a note of suspicion and I don’t blame her. She knows me well enough to recognize when I’m avoiding her, and when I bolted from the lunch crowd, avoidance was item number one on my agenda.

As much as I hate conflict, I hate conflict in the spotlight more.

But how can I possibly answer Kendall’s questions when I have so many of my own? Drew was spot-on about Connor and me; was he equally accurate when describing the flirtation between Connor and Molly? And what the heck was all that fake girlfriend business Josh was yammering on about?

All I know is that the longer Drew spoke—the more accusations he leveled at Connor and the less Connor said to refute him—the more the venom of Drew’s words penetrated the outer defenses of my heart, gradually seeping through until I realized that, yep, I’d allowed myself to fall for Connor. Way too hard, and way too fast. And before I had any confirmation Connor was truly falling for me.

He’d even tried to warn me yesterday, when he said he hoped I wouldn’t regret it. But did I take the hint? Of course not.

Classic Tessa move. Stupid.

There was no lunchtime student council meeting—I wanted time to clear my head—so the minute I realized Tina and Kendall were leaving the courtyard to follow me, I jogged toward our advisor’s classroom as if there were so they’d give up. When the coast cleared, I cut toward the library, hiding out until only a few minutes remained before class, taking deep breaths and consoling myself with the fact that—unlike Tessa—I haven’t done anything to mess up my life.

I’m merely experiencing a bout of heartbreak over a fling that hasn’t even lasted a week. No big deal. Right?

Unfortunately, the instant I left the library and rounded the corner to retrieve my trig book from my locker, Kendall accosted me. I was able to wave off her question then because there were so many people around. But now, as we’re sitting at the back of the classroom and the chairs around us are momentarily empty, she won’t be ignored.

“I have no clue, but I hope Molly calmed him down,” I say, faking astonishment over what happened at lunch. “He’s really angry about Senior Assassin, that’s for sure. If this is the way these hits go down, I’m not sure I want to enter next year. It’s not worth it.”

Kendall scooches to the edge of her seat and gives me a soft punch on the arm. “You are such a bad liar. You know I’m not asking about Senior Assassin. What’s up with Connor? Are you two together?”

I bug my eyes at her. “Are you kidding me? Connor? Strabinowski?”

“Yeah, that Connor,” she persists. “Are you?”

I glance around to be certain no one’s paying attention, then pull out the front of my white T with both hands to create twin tents. “Do you see monster boobs here? No? Have you ever seen me nominated for homecoming court or hanging with the super-popular crowd? Or involved in any sports whatsoever? Then believe me, I doubt I could ever get a guy like Connor. Half the girls in the school want to go out with him, and most of them are prettier and more stacked than I am.”

Kendall swats my hands away from my T-shirt as I add, “Even if, by some miracle, Connor were attracted to me, do you think he’d want to go out with his best friend’s sister? Puh-leeze.”

Doubt etches her features. “Then what was Drew talking about at lunch?”

I raise a shoulder, then let it drop. “Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe you’re right and he’s still in love with Molly. If that’s true, and if Drew’s gotten it into his head that she likes Connor, then maybe Drew’s paranoid and imagining things that aren’t there.”

“He did sound sorry. I’ll give him that.” Kendall pauses, then gives me a one-sided smile. “You’re so much prettier than you think, Pey. If Connor hasn’t asked you out, it’s only because you spend so much time studying he’s afraid he’ll be rejected. Not because of anything physical.”

“You’re so full of it.” I laugh, though not as much at her compliment as in relief at the change in subject. I don’t want her speculating about what Drew or his friends might have witnessed between Connor and me.

Our teacher, Ms. May, strolls in and urges everyone to take their seats as the bell rings. She deposits her empty lunch bag in her desk drawer, then circles to the board to start writing down the pages she plans to cover in our next unit. There’s a flurry of activity as everyone finishes up their conversations, settles into their desks, and readies their notebooks for class. I pull out my trig book and flip to the appropriate section.

That’s when it hits me. What
isn’t
there, tucked between the pages.

“Oh, no,” I groan, closing my eyes. I didn’t. Couldn’t have. I pull my notebook from under the trig text, flipping through the pages of formulas and class notes, then through the stapled homework papers in the front pocket. But I know in my heart that I won’t find it.

“What’s wrong?” Kendall hisses.

I shake my head even as tears start to burn the back of my eyes. Between Tessa’s phone call and Connor’s unexpected visit last night, I completely spaced getting back to my trig assignment. The part I did finish is still sitting on my bedroom desk.

Worse, today’s homework was worth double points, since it’s an end of unit review. I can’t believe it.

Bile rises in my throat. The assignment wouldn’t have taken long. I could’ve whipped out the problems before school, during lunch—which would have saved me the agony of listening to Drew—or even in the library while I was hiding from Kendall and Tina.

Kendall’s eyes grow wider when the teacher calls for everyone to turn in our assignments. I’m the only one with nothing. While Ms. May’s back is turned and papers are rustling around us, Kendall whispers, “You whiffed it?”

I try to act casual, as if missing the assignment’s no big deal. In the grand scheme of things, it’s probably not. It’ll drop my grade by a point or two at the most, since I aced the last two exams, and no one is that close to passing me in the race to be next year’s valedictorian. My classmates miss assignments here and there all the time, usually when they’re under a lot less stress than I’ve been under the last few days.

Still, they were points I wanted. Complete gimmes.

The rest of the class period, all I can think about is the fact that, for the first time in my entire life, I missed turning in homework on time.

At the end of class, as I bend to retrieve a dropped pencil, the teacher calls me to her desk. I ignore Kendall’s concerned frown and make my way to the front of the room as if all is well.

“You go ahead,” Ms. May says to Kendall when she loiters in the doorway. After Kendall reluctantly vanishes into the hallway, Ms. May turns to me. Lines form divots between her brows as she rests her elbows on her desktop. “I didn’t see you pass in the homework. You don’t have it?”

“No,” I say, my ears burning hotter by the second. “I’m sorry.”

“Is something wrong?” Concern fills her voice. “I ask because it’s rather out of character for you to miss an assignment, Peyton.”

I shake my head. Having to explain myself should be easy—Tessa and Josh would be able to talk to their teachers about missed assignments without a second thought—but it’s all I can do not to cry in front of Ms. May. So much of who I am lies in the fact that I’m a perfectionist when it comes to schoolwork. “I got distracted last night and forgot. It won’t happen again. I promise.”

She studies me for a long moment, then straightens in her chair. “I rarely allow this, so don’t expect it in the future, but if you turn in the assignment before first bell Monday morning, I’ll give you half credit.”

“Thank you.” Half credit beats a zero. “I’ll definitely have it by then.”

Her smile is sympathetic. “You have AP Chemistry with Mrs. Wheeler next period, right?”

At my nod, she asks, “Did you finish your homework there?”

“Yes.” A few minutes before Tessa called, thank goodness.

“Good.” She rolls a pencil back and forth on her desk as she considers me over her dark-rimmed eyeglasses. “Mrs. Wheeler and I were discussing you just this morning. As you know, we sponsor the Eastwood team for the Academic Olympics. We choose four people for the team each year, two who concentrate on the math and science categories and two who concentrate on the liberal arts.”

“I was planning to apply for the team next year.” Hoping not to sound too self-confident about my chances, I add, “If it’s something you think I’d be qualified to do, that is.”

“Well, we haven’t formally announced this year’s team yet,” she says. “We made our selections last week, but one of the two math and science members quit once he saw the preparation schedule. We’re now in need of a replacement whose strengths lie in those areas. Eastwood High usually performs well precisely because we believe in rigorous preparation for our team. It’s tough to find someone who has the knowledge base to compete at that level, who performs well under pressure, and who’ll be up to the commitment.”

I tell her that I’m aware of the intense prep schedule. What I don’t tell her is that I know because Tessa, for all her flightiness, would’ve been perfect for the team academically her senior year and was hot to complete an application the minute they became available. She changed her mind and stuffed the entire packet into the recycling bin once she read the full description of the time involved and realized it would keep her from spending every second of her after-school time with her then-boyfriend, a guy who ended up dumping her to ask out one of our cousins. Thankfully, she told the guy where he could stick it, but in the meantime she had it out with my parents when Dad found the half-finished paperwork. I had to shut my door and wear headphones to drown out their argument.

Ms. May stills the pencil. “Would you be interested in competing this year?”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” She can’t hide her smile. “I assume your reaction means you’d consider it?”

“Of course.” I wipe my palm against the front of my jeans so she doesn’t see how shaky her words have made me, then play it off by shifting my books from one arm to the other. “I thought the Academic Olympics was only for seniors, though?”

“Traditionally, yes, it’s seniors who compete, but the rules do allow for any high school student to be rostered. Mrs. Wheeler and I believe that you have both the intellectual curiosity and dedication to be an asset to the team. Your math and science grades are exceptional and you’ve always been a very reliable student.” She pins me with a meaningful look. “That’s what we need.”

When she emphasizes the word
reliable
my throat tightens. Not that missing a single day’s homework makes me
un
reliable, but there’s an embarrassment factor to having been described with that term by two of your toughest teachers and then belying that description within hours.

“It’s quite prestigious, so I hope you’ll participate. It would certainly appeal to college admissions officers to see junior year participation on the team. On the other hand, Academic Olympics is, as I’ve said, a significant time commitment.”

Ms. May stands as students start entering the room for her next class. She shuffles through the metal in-box on her desk, then hands me a packet of papers. In a confidential voice, she says, “The information is all here, including a parental consent form for travel to the competition in April. Assuming you’re willing, fill out the paperwork over the weekend and give it to me on Monday. In the meantime, if you have any questions you should ask Mrs. Wheeler or me in private.”