How to Say I Love You Out Loud

by Karole Cozzo

Genres: YA Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

When Jordyn Michaelson's autistic brother joins her at her elite school, she's determined not to let anyone know they're related. Even if that means closing herself off to all her closest friends, including charming football stud Alex Colby. But despite her best intentions, she just can't shake the memory of kissing Alex last summer, and the desire to do it again.
Can Jordyn find the courage to tell Alex how she really feels—and the truth about her family—before he slips away forever?

Release date: August 4, 2015

Publisher: Feiwel & Friends

Print pages: 224

Sample

Chapter One



There's a particular kind of energy radiating from school on the first day, part nervous freshman energy, part rambunctious senior energy, and part look-how-I-reinvented-myself-over-the-summer energy. The vibe is the same every year, at any given school, even as the students change, as the timid freshmen become bored sophomores and a new graduating class takes over. The excitement will, very predictably, dissipate by Friday, but on the Tuesday after Labor Day, the return of students turns the school and parking lot into a veritable beehive alive with the buzz of frantic activity and socializing.

As I walk toward the front door, Erin Blackwell struggles to catch up with me while holding her Dunkin' Donuts coffee cup steady, her designer flip-flops slapping the concrete. "Hi, Jordyn," she greets me tersely.

"Hey, Erin. What's wrong?"

It's only 7:42 a.m., and we haven't even stepped into the building yet. I don't know how or why she already looks stressed, but she does. Erin is sort of perpetually stressed. As are a lot of kids at Valley Forge High School.

As am I a lot of the time, if I'm being honest. Stress is absorbed through osmosis around here.

"Ugh." Erin shakes her head in disgust. "It took me forever to get my contacts in, so my hair started to frizz, and it's so humid that the waves wouldn't hold when I finally did get around to doing it. The drive-through at Dunkin' was backed up, like, a mile, and they forgot to put the caramel in my cappuccino anyway. Which is all really unfortunate because now I'm late, and I look a hot mess, and I have A.P. Bio first period. I think Bryce is in my section, and it would have been really nice to actually feel like I have my shit together before walking in there." Finally she remembers to breathe. "How can I be so far behind before the day's even started?"

Erin's anxiety is so potent, I need to take a deep breath of my own.

Erin is a doe-eyed Bella Thorne look-alike, and I assess her long, strawberry-blond locks. "Your hair looks gorgeous. You look gorgeous. We still have twelve minutes before the homeroom bell. And I thought things were getting better with Bryce?"

She'd had a rough summer as she tried to move on from their dramatic breakup in June.

"They are. It's just hard being back at school." She frowns. "Makes me feel like things should go back to the way they were last year. Plus, I don't really feel like hearing him join in on all that BS where the guys rate the hottest freshman girls, ya know?"

"Well, I think you're one of the hottest junior girls." I smile and tug on the bottom of one impeccably curled strand of her hair. "He's going to see you and regret everything."

"Everything" being the girl from the Shipley School he hooked up with behind Erin's back.

Erin stops in her tracks and looks at me, chewing her lip. "Really? You think he'll even notice?"

I take a final deep breath as we approach the front door. It's only 7:43 and already I'm exhausted. "Positive."

We push into the fray and are swept up in the tide of students moving through the lobby. Dana Travers, senior cocaptain of the varsity field hockey team, rushes past us, sending a reminder over her shoulder. "Practice starts on time today, ladies. No first day excuses."

I nod, even though I lack Dana's zeal for competitive team sports. But I need some kind of athletic activity to round out my college applications and I'm a decent midfielder, so hockey it is.

A group of students from the exclusive Musicians' Guild are already disassembling their instruments after what must have been a very early morning rehearsal. As we move through the shifting crowd, which emits loud voices and sweaty energy, I notice a serious-looking kid leaning against the wall and pushing his glasses up his nose as he reads a physics textbook, one overachiever of many. We haven't even been to homeroom yet.

The atmosphere in the lobby leaves me feeling dazed and sluggish, and I struggle to wrap my head around the frenzy. I'm still on summer time. Life was much more relaxed when I was peddling Philly soft pretzels at the tennis club poolside snack bar, chatting with Alex when he appeared at the side window covered in dirt and grass clippings during a break from the hot sun and the demands of keeping the golf course pristine with the rest of the grounds crew.

To be honest, though, there's a part of me that has a hard time keeping pace with the student body at Valley Forge regardless of the season. This will be my second year at Valley Forge High School. My family moved to Berwyn from Lansdale, a town about thirty minutes away, last summer. At my old school, most kids didn't really care that much about their grades or extracurricular activities, knowing they'd end up in nearby state schools. My new classmates always seem to be looking over their shoulders to see who might be gaining on them. Last year, I felt like at the same time people were sizing me up as a new friend, they were assessing me as some kind of potential threat. To their class rank. To their first-chair position in orchestra. To their acceptance letter from Princeton.

I don't get it, or maybe they just don't get me. I prefer to fly under the radar, and I'm sure as hell not trying to steal anyone's spotlight. I hate the feeling of eyes on me, always have. I've had way too many eyes on me over the years, even if they weren't on me, per se. Even after a year, I'm still not sure how well I fit in here. Crammed like a sardine in the small upper lobby waiting for the homeroom bell, I feel strangely alone and disconnected.

Then I catch sight of something familiar, propped against the foot of one of the old wooden benches. It's a worn black JanSport, with ALEX written in Wite-Out across the front pocket. I perk up at once, instantly feeling more grounded. Alex is around here somewhere. He'll throw me my favorite smile-the one that makes it seem like we're laughing at some joke no one else gets-and this place won't seem as serious or intense.

Suddenly, I can't wait to see him. We haven't talked much in the past few weeks, because his family was on vacation and he stopped working at the club when two-a-days started for the football team. Sometimes I'd see him down by the field after our evening practices, but most nights he seemed kind of distracted, überfocused on football, I guess. Alex isn't the best player in the world. No matter how many wind sprints he runs or how much time he spends in the weight room, he's perpetually second string. You can tell it annoys the crap out of him, this one thing Mr. Perfect can't be perfect at. I find his frustration sort of endearing. And the rest of the team must find his persistence admirable, because they elected him cocaptain, second-string skills and all. He's just got those natural leadership genes, like a young, half Hispanic Barack Obama or something.

Alex is good people. And as if to prove my point, he walks through the door closest to the teacher lot, barely visible behind the tall stack of books he's carrying for Mrs. Higgins, our ancient librarian, who hobbles alongside him, smiling up in admiration.

I bite my lip to keep from giggling. My friend is such a Boy Scout. Seriously. I'm not kidding-he's an actualBoy Scout who's been working on this big Eagle Scout project in whatever spare time he has, which isn't much. But on a daily basis, he seems to go around earning merit badges in Helpfulness and Nobleness and all that good stuff.

"I'll be right back," I tell Erin, and take off in his direction.

He notices me over the top of the books and grins instantaneously. "Air Jordan, there you are!"

I smile in response to today's selection from his litany of ridiculous nicknames: Air Jordan ... M.J.... Twenty-three ... or as he called me for a while in Spanish class last year, Veintitrés.

I can't think of a single thing I have in common with the basketball icon Michael Jordan, other than my name, which is Jordyn Michaelson. I'm five foot three, with hazel eyes and wavy dark shoulder-length hair cut in layers. Female. And white-sadly so, being that summer just ended. But for whatever reason, Alex is amused by the stupid nicknames. Thing is, as stupid as I find them, it's impossible to look at his face when he's busy cracking himself up and not feel amused, too.

His brown eyes get all sparkly, and his wide grin of even white teeth gets all goofy. Combined with the close-cropped black hair and slight widow's peak, all I see is a little boy looking for mischief. Alex is one of those people who looks right at you, for real, and practically dares you to make mischief with him.

Hurrying toward him, I realize I'm opening my arms to give him a hug, even though hugging isn't something we usually do. There are unspoken boundaries we have not dared to cross, not even dared to approach, since last year. I'm so focused on Alex that I don't even notice Leighton Lyons, our other hockey cocaptain, trotting across the lobby from the opposite direction, until we have a full-on collision. Our shoulders slam into each other's and I stumble backward, off balance, my heavy backpack nearly pulling me down.

I right myself and rub my shoulder, grumbling inwardly. Girl really needs to learn that other people inhabit this planet. Where is she headed in such a hurry?

When I look up, I get my answer, even though it's not one that makes sense. Not. At. All. I see her arms wrapped around Alex's torso, beating me to the punch with a hug. Then I watch as she does one better and plants a quick, flirty kiss upon his lips. "Hey, babe."

I stand and stare in disbelief, like an idiot, waiting for it to compute. Which it doesn't. Leighton hugging Alex. Leighton kissing Alex. Leighton calling Alex babe. What? When? How?

But none of it cuts as deeply as him casually looping his arm around her waist and turning to talk to me like none of this requires an explanation. Like none of this should bother me in any way. At least he has the decency to ask if I'm okay, which Leighton does not. "You alright, Jordyn?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Even though suddenly I'm not. There's a sick feeling in my gut as the realization sinks in that suddenly everything is different.

"Please," Leighton interjects. "She takes harder hits than that on the field every day." Pinching Alex's side, she smirks at him. I notice how they stand exactly eye to eye, the same height, and I feel small and insignificant. "We're just as tough as you guys, right, Jordyn?"

"Umm, sure."

"It's so good to see you," he says, smiling all the while, but rubbing her hand with the pad of his thumb while he says it. "I was so pissed I had to miss the staff party. You'll have to give me the recap."

I swallow my feelings and try not to bat an eye. "Yeah, it was quite the event. They added karaoke this year. And to be honest, I really would have been okay with summer ending without having to see Mr. Jacoby perform 'Happy' in a bathing suit."

Alex throws his head back and laughs, his full belly laugh, the one that always makes me feel like tiny seeds in my heart are blooming. His laughter nurtures some kind of longing that has no business being rooted there. His arm around Leighton's waist makes those little sprouts of wistfulness wilt and topple as quickly as they sprang up.

"Please tell me you were a backup dancer for him at least."

"Absolutely." I smile in spite of myself, in spite of the Leighton-shaped elephant in the room, and shake my head. "You know me so well."

"Did Petersen show up really drunk again?" he asks, referring to the president of the club. "Hit on any of the lifeguards who aren't even legal yet?"

Leighton tugs on the bottom of Alex's shirt before I get a chance to answer. "Hey, listen, I need to talk to you about some Athletic Council stuff real quick and I've got to run to the ladies' before homeroom, so can we..." She's talking to Alex but looking at me, waiting for me to make myself scarce.

"Yeah, sure, babe." He nods quickly, the word sounding even more wrong coming from his lips than hers. Alex tightens his grip on her and turns in the direction of the side hallway, where there's some space. He talks over his shoulder as they walk. "We'll catch up in history, okay, Michaelson?"

I nod, ignoring the tightness in my throat. Before, his use of my last name used to feel intimate. Now it reminds me that I'm a buddy and nothing more.

This is what you wanted, I remind myself as I turn away from the train wreck and walk back toward Erin, who's talking with our friend Tanu. Just friends, right? You're lucky you walked away with that much.

But I guess I'd thought ... I guess I'd thought that somehow, by keeping him as a close friend, I could still call Alex mine. It was easy enough last year when he wasn't dating anyone. Having Alex as a best friend was an acceptable consolation prize when I couldn't have anything more. I'd grown comfortable with the idea and never given much thought to how things might change.

I sneak a quick peek over my shoulder. Leighton's back is against the wall and Alex has one arm above her head, keeping her in place, his body pressed against hers. I wonder what Athletic Council business has anything to do with their mouths mashed together like that.

Erin is much less discreet. She gapes, openmouthed, at the happy couple. "Wow, Leighton and Alex, really? When did that happen?"

"Oh, sometime this summer. Someone posted a picture on Facebook," Tanu says.

I wonder how many hours each day Tanu spends on Facebook. I also wonder if I'm the last person to knoweverything.

"It was this superhot picture," she continues, causing the sick feeling in my gut to flare up. "He's in his football jersey and she's all blond and tan. They're like ... Tyler and Caroline from Vampire Diaries, that's what it makes me think of. Or more specifically, you know when Tyler and Caroline kissed for the first time? Season two, episode twelve?"

"No, I don't know." Erin laughs. "We don't all have a photographic memory like you do."

"Anyway, that's what the picture looks like. They look so good together. And I want a boyfriend."

Now Erin is frowning again. "Me too. The two of them are just so perfect. That really makes me miss Bryce."

I square my shoulders and bite back my irritation. "Let's talk about something else." If campus is a beehive, Leighton is definitely its queen. And maybe I secretly call Alex Mr. Perfect. Somehow it doesn't translate into them being perfect together. At least not to me.

I engage them in other mindless gossip, trying to keep my thoughts away from the truth of the matter, which is that the sight of Alex and Leighton kissing really makes me miss someone, too.

But how can you miss someone you never really had?

What right do you have to miss someone when you were the person who walked away from them?

We continue on toward our respective homerooms.

I became friends with Erin and Tanu last fall, when we were all in the same English class together, and they're my best friends here at Valley Forge High School. But I'm not the kind of girl who shares every little detail about herself, even with my closest friends. School and home are two separate parts of my life, and as long as it stays like that ... I don't know how "close" my girlfriends will ever really feel.

"Considering how humid it is today, does one of you have time to drop me off before practice? I really don't feel like walking."

Hockey practice is a bit of a sore subject with Tanu. She was also looking for a sport to complement the impressive academic and artistic sections of her résumé, but she didn't make the cut after tryouts in July.

Erin shakes her head, strawberry-blond curls flying. "Oh, hell no. You know I would if I could, but I'm not going to be the person walking onto the field late. Leighton would have my ass. She thinks it's really important for us to be on time."

Most things that are important to Leighton are important to Erin. Leighton is sort of her role model. Maybe even her idol.

"It's, like, a six-minute round trip!"

"Still. I don't feel like chancing it. Leighton says..."

I clamp my lips together to keep from groaning. Erin, God love her, starts way too many sentences with "Leighton says."

"... everyone always takes the guys' sports teams so much more seriously than the girls'. If we want to be taken seriously, and given as much credit for our hard work, we have to take ourselves seriously."

I consider offering Tanu a ride myself, but truthfully, I don't want to end up in Leighton's line of fire, either. Even if I find her intensity a little dramatic and largely unnecessary.

I wave good-bye to my friends as the bell rings. I'm alone again, and without the stream of chitchat to distract me, the scary feeling returns-like I'm slipping out to sea, as the one person I counted on to keep me anchored around here is now tied to someone else.

* * *

My morning passes in a quick blur. Homeroom. A.P. Psychology and Sociology. English Literature. I'm anxious to get to Advanced Placement U.S. History, even though the size of my textbook rivals that of a med school anatomy reference book and the essay tests are rumored to be a bitch. At least I'll get to talk to Alex. Alone. He'll give me some kind of explanation for that scene in the lobby. He has to, right?

I pick a desk in the front left corner, pull out a fresh notebook, and wait. Just before the bell rings, Alex ambles in, book bag hanging loosely from his shoulders. I perk up without meaning to; at the sight of him my heart drops into my stomach, where it flutters around like a happy butterfly.

He's not yours, I berate my poor, delusional organ. Silly for you to act like that.

But it's hard not to react, and my chest constricts with something like pain as I study him. The best part of his arrival has nothing to do with how good he looks, or how good he smells, for that matter. It's the way he looks, which is right at me, like no one else is in the room. His eyes brighten and crinkle at the edges, his easy grin blooms, and he makes a beeline for the empty seat behind me.

"M.J., thank goodness." He slides into the seat and taps the back of my chair with his foot. "What's happening? How's your day been since I saw you last?"

"It's been good. Same ol', same ol'."

"Missed you in Spanish. It was boring without you."

"I don't feel bad for you. I don't know why you don't just test out."

Alex's full name is Alejandro and when he forgets to downplay it, his accent is spot-on. Last year he entertained himself by capturing our teacher and classmates in perfect caricature on my paper textbook cover.

"It's alright. I like having one class where I can actually coast." His brow wrinkles in confusion as he stares at my notebook. "Didn't you get your iPad?"

"Oh, right." I shake my head, because I don't think it was really necessary for every student in the building to be issued a brand-new iPad for school use. I hold up my notebook before swapping it with the iPad in my bag. "I was actually going to use a notebook to take notes. Silly me."

Alex chuckles as he powers up his own device. "Here's what I don't get." He glances up at me, dimple flaring in his right cheek. "I mean, if you're going to be sitting right in front of me taking notes, why wouldn't you just e-mail me the file? Just seems to make more sense, right?"

I cock my head and smile. "I'm not taking notes for you."

Then Alex stares at me for a minute, all thoughtful like, like he's seeing me for the first time that day. My flat-ironed hair, carefully made-up eyes, and the brand-new sundress/cardi combo I wear with my own designer flip-flops, just because everyone is wearing this brand of designer flip-flops.

And in case I haven't mentioned it, I greatly prefer not to stand out. Even if I think sixty dollars is a ridiculous amount of money to pay for rubber shoes.

"Hey, you look really nice today. I like your hair like that."

"Nice try. I'm still not taking notes for you," I repeat, turning around as I notice Mr. Carr working on projecting the syllabus onto the screen of the smartboard.

I stare down at my desktop, taking a deep breath to steady myself, unnerved by Alex's compliment. He offered it so easily, like it's something he would say to anyone. Like there's no reason he should hesitate at all in complimenting me, because after all, we're just friends.

Like last summer wasn't last summer. Sure, all last year, we managed to ignore it. But now it feels like the night of the staff party has been ripped right out of our own personal history text.

Mr. Carr continues to have technical difficulties, and I brace myself and spit the question out without bothering to turn around. "How come you didn't tell me about Leighton?"

Because someone has to acknowledge her, for crying out loud. If we are actually going to go on being, you know, friends.

I hear his breathing catch and then nothing but silence. I have to turn around and confront the topic head-on, even though I really don't want to. Only he's not looking at me anymore.

"C'mon, Jordyn," he mumbles, tracing mindless patterns on his desk with his fingertips.

"C'mon what?"

His fingers still and finally he looks up at me. His eyes are hesitant, expression unguarded, and for just a second we're not pretending. No one's forgotten about last summer. "It feels weird to talk about it with you. I just ... couldn't."

Everything feels like it's unraveling at once, and way too quickly, so I force a bright smile and shake my head. "We talk about everything, Alex. When did you two start ... whatever?"

Alex rubs at his jaw, uneasy, and can't hold my gaze as he answers. "We're working together on the Athletic Council. Because I'm captain this year, I'm automatically on the committee. So after some of the meetings in August, we just ended up hanging out. People were always over at her house, swimming and stuff."

Something inside of me crumbles, because Alex has never hung out at my house and probably never will. I hope the internal demolition isn't written all over my face.

"Oh. That's cool. Sounds like you had a fun end of summer."

Then he's looking right at me again, like maybe he doesn't buy a word of it, but luckily Mr. Carr has had a breakthrough and clears his throat to get the attention of the class. I whirl around like the model student I am, relieved the conversation is out of the way, convinced I was convincing.

* * *

Even though I'm used to working nine to five during the summer and heading straight to practice afterward, I feel ten times as tired as I did last week with the prospect of hockey practice looming. My feet drag and my shoulders are slumped under the weight of the textbooks in my book bag as I head toward the locker room to change for our first after-school practice. I drop my gym bag on the bench next to Erin's and we exchange nothing but weary hellos as we change into our sports bras, gym shorts, T-shirts, shin guards, and cleats.

The senior girls are a different story entirely. They emit a frenzied energy as they call loudly to each other across the room, laughter and snarky comments about butt size echoing off the open lockers and cinder-block walls. They're pumped for the season, and locker doors are slammed, shoes are knotted hurriedly, and hockey sticks are tossed jauntily over their shoulders as they try to get down to the field as quickly as possible.

Their energy is just as palpable on the open field as it was within the confines of the locker room. Leighton, standing next to Dana, bounces on the balls of her feet as she waits for the rest of us to assemble in a circle around her to stretch. She pulls an arm across her chest and rolls her right ankle at the same time, and we follow along, a group of compliant mirror images.

"Listen up, you guys," she begins loudly, waiting for all other conversations to end. She stares pointedly at two fellow seniors who don't shut their mouths quickly enough. "Summer was fun and all, but just to remind you, as of today, the season is officially underway." She glances toward our coach, who is halfway across the field, setting up orange cones for a drill. "Time to cut the bullshit," she says firmly. "We have T-E next week, and I will not let them embarrass us this year. That cool with everyone?" Without waiting for a response, she gives her next command. "Switch."

She promptly pulls her other arm across her chest and begins rolling her left ankle, and we all follow along, like clockwork. Leighton assesses us and nods her head approvingly.

I drop my head, pretending to stretch my neck, and try to stare without being seen from under my overgrown bangs. Leighton is so comfortable there, the literal center of attention, a group of nearly thirty girls mimicking her every movement. Her position does not cause her to tug self-consciously at the bottom of her tiny shorts or lead her to fiddle nervously with her ponytail. She is supremely confident, reminding me of a lioness governing over a pack.

Leighton and Dana lead us through the routine, and then we jog over to the other side of the field to join Coach Marks. She leads us through a series of drills-dribbling, passing, and blocking. We practice taking shots on the goal from the edge of the circle. We practice penalty shots from mere feet away. Then just before she lets us break for water prior to our daily scrimmage, she sets up a final drill. We are divided into two lines, and when the ball is tossed toward the net, one person from each line sprints toward it, attempting to beat the opponent from the other line, capture possession of the ball, and move toward the net to score.

Slowly, I join the left line, feeling a slight, silly nausea in the pit of my stomach. I hate face-off drills. I hate them more than anything, especially since most of the senior girls have ended up in the other line and I'll likely be paired against one of them.

As my turn approaches, I count quickly, and my stomach does another series of turns when I realize I'll be forced to compete against Leighton for the ball. She will win. Where I'm precise, she's fast. And ultimately, she is more aggressive than I will ever be. I'm not naturally aggressive, and on the hockey field, that makes the difference between mediocre and really spectacular.

Coach Marks blows her whistle and Leighton takes off like a hunter, charging in my direction like I'm the prey. I make a halfhearted attempt to force her back into her space, but fear holds me back.

What happens if I actually beat her? What then?

Leighton doesn't really handle defeat well.

In the end, I'd rather be subjected to her self-satisfied smirk than a glare of annoyance-tinged anger.

Thwack.

The ball hits the net and there it is-the grin, the one that says she's a winner and she knows it. The grin that keeps me in my place.

We run through the drill a few more times, but thankfully the numbers are uneven and I don't have to face off against her again. JV scrimmages varsity, and then it's my least favorite part of the practice-wind sprints first to the twenty-five-yard line, then to the fifty, and eventually all the way to the hundred. We take off to the staccato blasts of the whistle until my calves are cramping and I bend over from exertion, all the while knowing that makes it even harder to breathe.

Finally, mercy is granted and I hobble toward the bleachers. Leighton reminds us we need to stay for a minute so she can dole out our uniforms in time to wash them before the game next week. She hands out maroon away jerseys, white home jerseys, and maroon-and-charcoal kilts. Leighton and Dana check the numbers on the shirts to make sure the captains, along with their closest friends on the team, get their numbers from last year.

Leighton retrieves the next shirt from the box; it has the number twenty-three on the back. She stares at it a moment, then rolls her eyes. She scans the crowd until her gaze, still entirely unamused, meets mine. The jersey is tossed in my direction, with much more force than necessary. "Alex said to make sure to give you number twenty-three." She shakes her head. "I don't really get the inside joke ... but whatever. The number's free, so there you go."

"Thanks," I mumble, folding the shirt neatly to busy my hands. The idea of my having an inside joke with her boyfriend seems to have irked her. I don't smile at the idea of Alex telling her to give me a certain number or the image of him laughing as he imagined how annoyed I'd be at one more M.J./twenty-three reference.

Leighton has just added a new layer of worry to my concerns about the status of my friendship with Alex. This morning, I was forced to acknowledge an unexpected distance between the two of us. Now, it occurs to me there might also be an actual barrier between me and Alex, a person who is interested in keeping me from closing that distance.

When we're dismissed, I shower quickly and stumble to my car, completely disheartened, already feeling the lactic acid accumulating in my muscles. I can imagine how sore I'm going to feel by the time I get home and have to stand up again. It's been a long-ass day and suddenly I feel more exhausted than ever.



Copyright © 2015 by Karole Cozzo