“What the hell happened?” Coach shouted, her round face blotchy red as she broke through to where Isobel sat and where Stephanie stood right next to her, hugging herself like she wanted out of the frame of blame that very second.
“I fell,” Isobel said to relieve Steph’s anxiety. She picked herself up to the grumbling of the squad, leaving her floundering dignity to choke to death on the floor. She folded her arms over her chest and shot a quick look back to the gymnasium doors.
Empty. She could have sworn . . .
“C’mon, folks!” Coach yelled. She cocked her wide hips to one side—always a bad sign. “This is dangerous stuff. Look. Bottom line. Pay
As Alyssa passed Isobel, she leaned in to mutter, “Great going, albatross.”
Isobel kept her own comments in check. She slogged toward the bleachers to grab her bag, yanking it up from between two benches. She felt like chucking it out into traffic and watching an eighteen-wheeler plow over it.
“Isobel,” Coach said, stepping up behind her, “you stay. We’ve got to talk.” She brushed by and went to wind up the cord to the CD player while the boys folded up and stowed the practice mirrors. Isobel shut her eyes, keeping them that way for a full three seconds.
Could this day—could this
She released her gym bag and flopped onto the bleachers to watch everyone else file out the door. Nikki offered only a single backward glance before hurrying out after Alyssa. Isobel set her chin in her hands and focused on her tennis shoes, white with blue and yellow stripes.
She was more angry than upset. After crying at lunch that day, she’d had enough of being upset and letting other people see it. It was easier just to get mad.
Maybe she was losing her touch.
“What’s going on, missy? It’s time to talk,” said Coach, settling on the bleachers next to her. The wood and iron squeaked as it compressed beneath her weight.
“I just got distracted,” Isobel mumbled. She glanced toward the gym doors, which still stood vacant. She looked back down again at her hands, picking at the nonexistent dirt under her fingernails. Maybe she was just altogether losing it.
“Okay,” Coach said. She looped her thumb through the yellow lanyard around her neck, jostling her whistle. “So whatever it was that distracted you today, could it be the same thing that distracted you last Friday? That’s two falls in two weeks.” Coach held up two fingers as though Isobel needed the visual as a reminder. “For you, that’s not normal.”
“I know. It—it’s nothing,” Isobel insisted. “I just . . .” She trailed off. She just what? Saw something that wasn’t really there? Oh yeah,
“Well,” Coach said, ending the stretch of silence, “I heard that you were upset at lunch today. Does that have anything to do with all this?”
Isobel felt her cheeks blossom into buds of fire, and she involuntarily braced a shielding hand at her brow. Did
“Listen, Isobel,” Coach started, leaning forward, elbows on her knees. “You don’t have to tell
Isobel nodded at the floor. She appreciated the encouragement. It felt good to be recognized, but at the same time, she couldn’t think of any way to respond. She could say she’d do better. She could say anything. But with Coach, words never went as far as actions. She’d just have to do better next time. She’d have to put all the crap aside, forget about everything for a while, and just think up.
“Hey.” Coach nudged her.
Isobel lifted her head—and froze. Brad stood in the gym doorway, his letter jacket slung over one shoulder, his curly, thick hair wet and darkened from the showers.
Beside her, Coach stood, and the bleachers wobbled with a creak and a sigh. “Better let you go,” she said. “Looks like there’s someone here to see you.”
“Go away.”
Isobel forced herself to look straight at him as she said it. He’d followed her all the way from the gym to her locker, wearing that cocky grin, his lips curled up on one side, dimple displayed.
And that smirk combined with the way his wet hair hung in his face? So hot.
Isobel pivoted away from him, doing her best to remember her locker combination, but stopped when he reached out and began to turn the dial for her.
She swatted his hand aside and spun the rest of the numbers on her own, making a mental note to change the combination later.
When she tugged at the handle, the door stuck, and before she could stop him, Brad gave the bottom left corner a quick, rough kick. The door popped out.
“I said, go away!” she snarled.
First she got her binder, the one she’d left over the weekend, resolving to do her algebra tonight since she no longer had friends to go out with. Next she reached in to snag her cardigan, only to find that it had disappeared off the little hook inside. She blinked, then turned to find it draped by the collar off the tip of Brad’s finger.
“Stop!” She snatched the sweater away and pulled it on, juggling her binder from arm to arm in the process. He stood there, watching, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket.
Infuriated, she slammed her locker closed, shouldered her gym bag, and marched toward the front doors.
“Just so I have this straight,” he called after her, “you don’t want a ride home?”
“No.”
Isobel shoved open the push-bar door with her hip. A rush of cool, moist air blasted her in the face, whipping her hair into a frenzy as she slipped out to stand on the concrete steps.
The trees in the yard tossed their arms around as if hailing a warning, their yellows and reds flashing. A few dry leaves skipped and tumbled along the empty bus drive as though heading for cover.
The sky, looming gray, emitted a low rumble.
She could call her mom, she thought, but Mondays were her yoga nights, so she probably already had her phone off. Of course, she could call her dad. He was probably already home from work, but then she’d have to field the barrage of Brad-centric questions, since he was usually the one who gave her a ride home anyway.
She looked over her shoulder at Brad.
Cocking an eyebrow at her, he waggled his car keys.
Isobel loved how Brad’s face felt after he’d shaved that morning, smooth but still not completely soft. There was an underlying roughness to it that she liked to feel against the tips of her fingers and with her cheek while they kissed, a sensation like tempered sandpaper. She breathed him in as his mouth sought hers, savoring the smell of his cologne, musky and sharp all at once.
Outside, thunder rolled.
Steam coated the windows of Brad’s Mustang. Light rain pattered against the glass while the radio softly buzzed on a pop station.
On their way to Isobel’s house, Brad had pulled over into one of the vacant gravel lots of Cherokee Park. He’d said he’d wanted to talk, but so far they’d done more making out than talking. But that was okay with Isobel. She was ready for things to go back to normal, and if that meant just dropping the whole thing and pretending like it never happened, that was more than fine with her.
She felt Brad’s hands slip to her shoulders, where they burrowed between the fabric of her sweater and her T-shirt, coaxing the cardigan back. Isobel shrugged and jostled her shoulders to aid the shedding of the outer layer. Despite the drop in temperature outside, it had gotten warm in the car.
“Mmm, Brad?” she murmured around his mouth.
He grunted in response, tugging her sweater free from her wrists before slinging it into the back. The leather seats creaked as he leaned in closer to her, his hands traveling lower.
“Mm—what time is it?” she asked, taking his hand and guiding it away from its original path toward her
