Shot Through the Heart (16 page)

I nod. This is a huge, huge honor. But in a bass-ackwards way, having it happen today deadens the joy.

“Until the team is complete and officially announced next week, you need to keep our discussion to yourself. We have a few applicants with good general knowledge whom we hope will serve as alternates, but they haven’t been notified yet that they didn’t make the team. I don’t want them hearing about it through the grapevine.”

“Understood. Thank you,” I manage.

“Hand in your homework Monday. That will be thanks enough.”

•  •  •

I can hardly concentrate in AP Chemistry.

As Mrs. Wheeler explains hydrogen bonding, I flip back and forth from my own notes to those Connor took last year on the same topic.

I feel like such a loser.

If my friends knew everything that happened to me in the last week, they’d tell me that I should be proud of myself for being asked to join Academic Olympics. They’d also tell me that it’s okay to be a little upset about the fact Connor essentially kissed and dissed me. They’d urge me not to take it so seriously and to be happy with the fact that I spent two afternoons doing nothing but making out with Connor Strabinowski. They’d say that I should view it as one might view an afternoon at Six Flags: great fun, an adrenaline rush, but not something you should feel bad about
not
experiencing on days you’re not there.

I know, logically, that they’d be right. But as I read Connor’s neat, blocked handwriting and admire the organization of his notes, my heart won’t follow my head. I don’t know anyone else whose brain works like Connor’s. Like
mine
. Spending time with him felt like it was about a lot more than rolling around on the sofa. I could’ve sworn our connection went beyond the physical.

But maybe that’s my lack of experience. Or my horrible genes. Example one—Tessa—is a lesson in what not to do. Example two—Josh—constantly has girls making fools of themselves over him, yet for some reason, he’s never had a serious girlfriend.

I close Connor’s notes, then flip to a blank page in my own notebook to continue taking down Mrs. Wheeler’s explanation.

I don’t want to see his handwriting anymore. I don’t want to know how his mind works when he’s sitting through a class or how brilliant he is. I’ll start obsessing and turn into one of those girls who thinks,
we’d be perfect together…if only he liked me.

But maybe he does.

The insistent voice in my mind won’t shut up as I recall the way he untangled my hair on the sofa yesterday. How he cushioned my head so my neck wouldn’t get sore. How long we talked, and how fun and freeing it felt.

I suck in a deep, clarifying breath as I take comfort in the atomic structures Mrs. Wheeler is describing. This makes me a freak of nature, I know, but I’m most at ease with things that are predictable. Like atoms. Mathematical formulas. Experiments that can be replicated.

Connor? Yeah, not so predictable.

I missed my trig homework because of Connor. Not that it was his fault—it was definitely mine—but brain farts like that could easily become habit.

I mean, what if I blow Academic Olympics? With a guy like Connor making googly eyes at me, it wouldn’t be difficult to do. Everyone would know I didn’t study hard enough and they’d know exactly why. And for what? A guy who probably isn’t as into me as I am into him.

A guy in the back row raises his hand to ask a question about covalent bonds, something we’ve already covered thoroughly. Another voice from the back echoes the question. I discreetly peek inside the envelope Ms. May handed me last period, riffle through the edges of the pages until I locate the application form, then hide it beside the notebook on my desk.

As Mrs. Wheeler is forced to answer questions about material I’ve already mastered, I read through the application, filling it out as I go. First there are basics like my phone number and e-mail address, parent names and contact information, then more detailed info like a one-sentence bio with your current school and your aspirations (junior at Eastwood, hopes to become an engineer) and certifying that I am not on any other school or organization’s Academic Olympics team (laughable). There’s a space for my parents to sign, certifying that they understand that I am on the team and what the travel requirements will be once the competition begins.

Then I get to the last paragraph, which requires a separate signature:

I understand that participation in Academic Olympics requires a minimum time commitment of five to ten hours per week through April. This is to include “prep session” meetings which may take place either before or after school—whichever time is most convenient for the current year’s team members—as well as home study in my specific subject areas. Home study for Academic Olympics shall be in addition to my regular classroom work, though classroom work must take priority. I understand that other members of the Academic Olympics team rely on my attendance at prep sessions and that I may miss a maximum of three (3) sessions unless permission is given beforehand by the team’s advisor. I will not miss any meeting without first notifying the team’s advisor. I understand that Academic Olympics shall take priority over all other extracurricular activities.

Finally, I understand that being selected to a position on the Eastwood High Academic Olympics team is an honor and a privilege, and I hereby promise to act accordingly.

I read it twice, then sign. Time at Six Flags is officially over.

Chapter Fourteen |
Connor

M
y dad claims that—as long as the recipient isn’t allergic—flowers make the perfect apology gift, because they’re the least likely to be misinterpreted. Unless you’re buying a female something she’s specifically told you she wants, you can get into real trouble with gifts of, a) food (is he insinuating that I’m too thin? too chunky?), b) clothing (ditto, if you get the wrong size), or c) jewelry (if he thinks I’m the turquoise type, he must not understand me at all!)

On the other hand, it’s harder to misinterpret flowers. If a woman doesn’t much care for a particular kind of flower, she can pull it out of the bunch, trash it, and keep the rest. And since flowers only live so long, she’s not obligated to wear/display/gush over it for the duration of your relationship the way she is, say, a bracelet that isn’t her style.

When Dad explained this, Mom was sitting next to him on the couch, nodding right along. I was only thirteen at the time and more interested in watching the Celtics playoff game on TV—I think a Dad screw-up and subsequent flower delivery at our house prompted the conversation—but the info remained filed in the deepest recesses of my brain.

Even so, given how well those cellophane-wrapped beauties worked out for Drew, my wallet remained in my back pocket after I eyed the brightly colored batches of roses, daisies, and lilies at Sunny Haven Florists fifteen minutes ago, despite the efforts of the florist to find, in her words, “something simple, yet heartfelt.”

Plus, even though I’m here to apologize, I’m not a hundred percent sure I have anything to apologize for.

I press the Lindor’s brass-framed doorbell again, willing Peyton to hurry up and answer while simultaneously looking over my shoulder in case Joe Delano’s hiding in the bushes, waiting to nail me with a water balloon.

Five seconds tick by. Then ten. Twenty. I think I hear movement in the house, but no one’s coming to the door.

I should’ve bought the flowers.

Peyton would peek through the window, see them, and know I’m serious. I’d be ahead of the game without having to open my mouth instead of standing here in the drizzle looking like the world’s biggest idiot. At this rate, I won’t have any better luck explaining myself to Peyton than I did dealing with Molly’s flirty text messages. Problem is, now the stakes are now considerably higher.

I pull my phone from my pocket and scan the screen as if I’m reading a new message, playing it cool in case I’m being watched from inside the house.

If she doesn’t come to the door, then what?

Peyton didn’t answer her phone after school yesterday. I know she was home, because Josh called last night to double-check our calc homework and mentioned that Peyton was hunched over her desk working on a trig assignment. Since she hadn’t asked him about lunch, he didn’t bother going in her room to explain his fake girlfriend idea. So when she didn’t return my message last night, I wrote off her lack of response as dedication to study and didn’t read anything into it.

But then she didn’t answer when I texted her before my soccer game this morning. Nor did she come to the game, despite the fact she’s come to all of my—well, Josh’s—games both this year and last.

Home and away.

I received no response to the text I sent after the game letting her know that, while we lost on penalty kicks, she missed out on a lot of excitement.

Stupid as I can be about girls, it’s not tough to figure out that Peyton’s avoiding me. However, the last thing I planned to do was show up at Josh’s and loiter on his front stairs in an attempt to talk to Peyton, the equivalent of gifting Joe the perfect two-for-the-price-of-one shot should Josh answer the door.

Peyton would understand if I waited ‘til Sunday—at say, five minutes after noon—to swing by.

But then Josh texted to say he was making a dash for Cumby’s.

I figured Joe couldn’t hit both of us at once and made my way out the bulkhead door to my backyard, leaped the fence, then hightailed it to the florist before heading for Peyton’s.

Only to stand outside empty-handed, getting drenched, and waiting for Joe to discover I made a prison break so he can drench me some more.

Finally, footsteps beat against the hardwood floor in the front hall, followed by the sight of Buster’s face plastered against the small window beside the door. He leaves a trail of slobber on the glass when he sees me.

“Hey, old boy.” I crouch down to his level. “Would you mind telling Peyton that I’d love it if she’d answer the door? Joe Delano is going to see me here and do serious water damage to the front of the house if she doesn’t, and I don’t want to risk having Mr. And Mrs. Lindor mad at me. If they don’t let me come over anymore, who’s going to sneak treats out of the jar for you? And where am I going to practice my free throws? The entire future of Eastwood’s basketball team could be at stake here.”

Buster lets out a low woof at the same time Peyton flips the lock.

“You are so full of it.” Her tone is detached as she crosses her arms in front of her and watches me straighten. My heart goes right to my throat at the sight of her standing there. She’s wearing an old Red Sox T-shirt that skims her body in all the right places. Her hair is in loose, undone waves around her shoulders, and she’s sporting a blue pen mark on her right cheek. For a split second, I don’t care if she’s angry with me. She’s spectacular.

“Missed you at the game against Sudbury this morning,” I say, for lack of a better opening. “Josh scored the first goal.”

“So he told me, in excruciating detail.” She leans against the door frame. She’s not smiling, but she’s not frowning, either, which I take as a good sign. “But he’s not here. As much as he wants to win Senior Assassin, he decided to make a Cumby’s run. Don’t know why he’s so obsessed with Chill Zones lately, but there’s a lot I can’t explain about Josh.”

“Just as well, even if he is risking two grand over a sugar addiction.” I slide my hands into the side pockets of my cargo shorts. “I came to see you.”

“Oh.” A car zooms by. Instead of looking at me, her eyes track the vehicle as it passes.

“I assume that’s not Joe, but may I come in? I wasn’t kidding when I told Buster that Joe’s probably around, ready to spray me with the nearest hose. I can’t yell at Josh for going to Cumby’s if I end up getting eliminated myself.”

Her expression remains blank as she steps back from the door, opening it wide to let me inside.

I ease past her, then slip off my shoes and place them in the same spot between the floorboard heater and entry rug I’ve claimed since I was a toddler. Other than the sound of Buster snuffling near my feet and the dense
tick tick tick
of the grandfather clock, the house is silent.

“Your mom and dad around?”

“Golf fundraiser for the Eastwood Boosters.”

“Oh, yeah. I saw that was today.” Geez, but this is awkward. Before any other inane comments escape my mouth, I cut to the kitchen and take my usual seat at the counter. I move a half-eaten bowl of shredded wheat aside and pull out the barstool beside mine. “We should talk about what happened at lunch yesterday.”

“We don’t need to.” She remains a few steps away from me in the archway that separates the kitchen from the front hall. “I mean, you don’t owe me an explanation.”

“That ‘you don’t owe me an explanation’ sounds awfully well-rehearsed, which means I really
do
owe you an explanation.” It also means that she’s probably been thinking about our horrific lunch for nearly twenty-four hours, long enough for Drew’s words to have upset her to the point she skipped this morning’s game.

She curves an eyebrow. “And the way you sat down, offered me a seat, and said ‘we should talk about what happened’ wasn’t rehearsed?”

“Nope. Planned. But not rehearsed.” I can’t contain my smile. “Maybe I should have rehearsed it, though, because this is beyond uncomfortable, and I don’t think I’ve ever been uncomfortable around you before.”