ONE
Never underestimate the power of glitter. It’s Kindergarten 101, really. Squeeze an unrealistic amount of glue on construction paper. Dump a pile of glitter on top. Shake. And let dry. Glitter is like . . . little flecks of brilliance caught in a tube. A miracle in a jar. Because glitter can take any work in progress to that next level. It hides the most glaring of imperfections, works to bring out the best in everything. It takes the ordinary and turns it into something interesting and beautiful.
Refrigerator-worthy.
“Perfect.”
I stand back, hands perched on my hips, admiring my handiwork.
RAFFLE—$5.00 PER TICKET.
The pink words twinkle beneath the tarnished, gold-plated chandelier welcoming guests to the front office. I flick the edge of the poster board, and a few specks of glitter fall, shimmering to the tile floor. A trail of the rosy sparkles chased me the entire morning: from my bedroom to the car, across the parking lot, and down the hallway to here—the foyer of my high school.
I sweep my hands together, then smear my palms across my jeans. Wrong move. I brush my pants vigorously. When this doesn’t work, I remove a miniature lint roller from my purse, peel off the old adhesive layer, and run it across my lap until I’m sparkle-free.
The first bell rings and I bounce to attention, shoving the roller back into my purse. As classmates trickle inside, I sit up straighter, adjusting the cash box in front of me and planting a pleasant smile across my face. Business Friendly. They ignore me, pushing through the glass doors, cell phones pressed against their ears, mid-conversation, twirling through their iPod playlists in search of anthems to begin their day.
My cell phone buzzes, lighting, the vibration exaggerated against the wooden tabletop. Right on time. A photo of Blake, my boyfriend, flashes across the screen. The picture draws a smile—his gray-blue eyes, blonde hair glowing beneath the fluorescents, giving him an ephemeral, angelic appeal. I read the early morning text message wishing me a Happy Monday. He is nothing if not dependable, and I try to think if a school day has passed since we began dating where he hasn’t sent a morning message like this. I can’t, and craft a response.
As I’m typing, a book bag thuds to the floor and Savannah, my best friend, crashes into the chair beside me. She immediately lowers her head to the table, burying it in her arms.
“You’re here early. I’m kind of impressed,” I say, sending my text message and shutting the phone with a snap.
She groans. It’s muffled. Far away.
I glance over at her, not concerned in the least. I love Savannah, but she is prone to melodrama. “Good weekend?”
She lifts her head. Her straight, blonde hair is pulled away from her face with a headband. “Two days away from the love of my life and my weekend is supposed to be good?”
“I know you’re not talking about me,” I tell her. “Because I just saw you Saturday.”
“Let’s just say I can’t wait for lunch, k?”
“I believe you.”
She turns in her seat, studying the poster taped to the wall. “I guess you talked to the Wal-Mart people,” she says.
“I did. They offered an amazing discount on the game and the console. I mean, they’re practically giving it to us.”
She frowns. “They should. People were trampled over those things the day after Thanksgiving.”
“Which fully explains their willingness to give back to the community. And rightly so. It is a family store.”
“I don’t know why they don’t sell bullet-proof vests. God knows you need one to make it in and out safely.”
I force back the knowing smirk pulling at my lips. “Which is why I do all of my shopping . . .”
“Online. We know,” she interrupts, rolling her eyes. “It sucks that the rest of us haven’t reached your level of enlightenment, yet.”
“Keep striving,” I tease.
Mr. Connelly, one of the history teachers, navigates the crowd of students, weaving in and out as he passes through the lobby, a cup of coffee steaming in his hand. He pauses in front of us, the chandelier light reflecting in his shiny, balding forehead.
“Good morning, Jaden. Good morning, Savannah. What are we saving this time?” he asks.
I smile brightly, the spiel I memorized weeks ago poised on my lips. “The children of Bangladesh. Did you know malaria is one of the leading causes of death in children? It’s a totally preventable disease. If we can get treated mosquito nets in every home, the cases would cut dramatically.”
“Sounds like a worthy cause,” he replies. “As always. What are you raffling?”
“An ‘A’ in your American Government class,” Savannah grumbles, arms folded. I can almost read her mind: Because that’s the only way to get an ‘A’ in your class. Which is not entirely true . . . because I have one. In fact, it’s safe to say I’ve aced all of Mr. Connelly’s classes.
I throw her a dirty look. “Wii Fit.”
“I wonder which would bring in more donations,” he mutters thoughtfully, lifting his I READ THE CONSTITUTION FOR THE ARTICLES mug and sipping slowly.
“The ‘A,’” Savannah and I reply in unison.
He swallows. “Yes, well, thankfully there are laws in place for that sort of thing. So . . . I will buy my ticket,” he continues, reaching for his wallet, “in hopes that I win a Fit.”
Savannah snickers, turning her head away and covering her mouth to conceal her smile.
“I suppose you wouldn’t need an ‘A’ in your own class,” I muse, jabbing my elbow into her arm. She straightens, rubbing the affected area.
He shakes his head. “No,” he replies. “Not today.” He hands me a floppy five-dollar bill, soft and stained, which I trade for a ticket.
“Thank you, Mr. Connelly.”
“Thank you, ladies.”
Savannah bursts into giggles the moment Mr. Connelly walks away, the smell of his black coffee still lingering in the air around us. “Oh my God. Did he just call it a ‘Fit’?” she asks.
“Yeah, I think so. But, you know, it’s five dollars.”
“The children of Bangladesh thank us.” She tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder.
“Jaden?”
I sit up straighter. “Yes, Mr. Connelly?”
“Will I see you in peer tutoring this afternoon?” he calls from across the busy hall.
“Absolutely,” I reply, lips stretching into my trademark smile: wide enough to show off straight and exceptionally white teeth—thank you, Crest Whitestrips—but not fake. Just . . . happy to help. Always.
When the two-minute warning bell rings, we split up. Savannah heads toward her first period class, while I stop by the school office to turn in our cash box for safekeeping and say hi to the secretaries. The halls are abandoned by the time I finish—silent—the lockers standing dormant and passive. A trail of crumpled papers and empty candy wrappers steers me to English. I bend down to pick up some of the larger pieces, dumping them in the trashcan by the water fountain on my way to Ms. Tugwell’s room.
I check the time on my cell phone just outside the door, lips pulling into a frown.
Ms. Tugwell won’t count me late, though. She never counts me late. No teacher counts me late. Ever. I slip inside the classroom and guide the door shut, easing it closed with my hand. Still, every head turns to me as the lock clicks. I feel my cheeks flush with heat and tiptoe to my seat at the back of the room as discretely as possible.
“This project will be worth thirty percent of your semester grade,” Ms. Tugwell says. She pauses, adjusting her glasses on the bridge of her nose, and peering at me with slightly magnified eyes. “Nice of you to take time out of your busy ‘saving the planet’ schedule to join us, Miss McEntyre.”
I smile cheerfully, even as my classmates snicker around me. “Poverty doesn’t sleep, Ms. Tugwell. If I don’t do my part, who will?”
“Indeed.”
Ms. Tugwell is, at the least, heavy set. She’s actually pretty large, and spends most of her time sitting in her chair behind her desk. She doesn’t really walk . . . more like waddles, and the ground beneath her trembles as she moves. Her glasses are at least thirty years out of style, and the lenses themselves are probably decades old, because she wears the same plaid jumpers that balloon at her waist . . . every single day . . . with her sneakers. She’s a good teacher—I like her—but every year, when a new group of idiot freshmen boys comes in. . . . I mean, “tugboat” doesn’t sound anything like Tugwell. But that doesn’t seem to deter some people.
My teacher shakes her head, but even so, I’m almost certain a tiny smile forms as she turns her attention back to the white board. I breathe a quick sigh of relief. No tardy.
“Moving on. This assignment will not be turned in for another two months, but that doesn’t mean you should wait until the last minute. You and your partner should make plans to meet as soon as possible, then regularly until it’s due. I’d suggest you get together before the end of today, so you can decide what literary piece you will focus on. You’ll find the list of acceptable works in the information packet on your desks.”
I skim the light blue pages, running my finger over the staple in the top left corner, then raise my hand. “When do we pick partners?”
Ms. Tugwell re-positions her glasses. “About three minutes ago.”
“Three minutes . . . ,” I trail off. Before I made it to class. Partners have already been picked. I force an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t here.”
“I know you weren’t, so I had the pleasure of assigning you one.” She grins knowingly, and I sit back, heart thudding rhythmically in my chest, waiting while she takes her time, studying her gradebook, stretching the suspense as far as she can possibly manage, until finally: “You and Parker will be working together.”
Parker.
Parker Whalen.
For a moment my breath escapes me. My heart slows to a crawl, and it pounds heavy in my ears. I glance to my right where, two rows over, Parker Whalen sits. He’s there, wearing his typical jeans, typical black crew-neck shirt, and typical black leather jacket. His motorcycle helmet, which for some reason he does not keep in his locker, rests at his feet just beside his black bag. Stereotypical bad boy motorcycle rider—lots of intimidating gazes and determined angst. I heard he was in a gang, but find that completely hard to believe because he never wears any colors, he never gets into any trouble, and he never speaks to anyone. The whole gang thing is about camaraderie anyway, and he’s always alone. Plus, it’s not like Bedford is brimming with criminals. There are what? Twelve hundred people in our town? We don’t even have a Wal-Mart for God’s sake—that’s a town over (thankfully). And to actually get any decent shopping done, we have to drive an hour and a half into Hamilton.
Parker Whalen.
I’m not sure why I’m even surprised. My guess? It took my classmates all of ten seconds to select their partners. Parker would have been avoided, leaving me, not present at the time, as the only viable option. I swallow a sigh. No big deal. It’s just a project.
There is nothing I cannot handle.
“Thanks,” I reply, forcing a smile.
I steal another quick glance in Parker’s direction. This time our eyes meet. They lock to mine, slicing into me, and I stagger against his frown, smile wavering; his hard stare, smoldering; his quiet intensity as it sparks through my veins, leaving my entire body prickling in bewilderment. It’s like he hates me already, and I haven’t even done anything. I shift in my chair, uneasy. Only after what feels like an eternity’s worth of awkwardness am I able to tear my eyes away, shrinking lower in my seat as I flip my notebook open to a clean page.
The moment the bell rings I cram my books into my bag and stand, slinging it over my shoulder. Not thinking, I look toward Parker’s desk. But his seat is empty. I just do see a flash of black leather as he escapes the room. I hurry after him, but by the time I reach the hallway, so has everyone else. Whichever way he’s gone, Parker has already disappeared into the swirling mass of students—laughing, talking, tossing things back and forth—and as hard as I search—twisting, turning, peering over heads—there’s no sign of him.
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