“Don’t you dare say you aren’t worth it.” Her expression is serious, and it’s the first time I’ve seen her make a stern face to put someone in their place. Weird that she’s making it at me.
“It’s just a lot to ask,” I relent, discarding what’s left of my pizza crust on the tray and flopping back into my seat. I glance down at my pegged jeans, ripped holes in both knees, and torn-up skate shoes with stick figures drawn on every square inch. It’s hard not to feel inadequate sitting this close to a girl like Lola, who Cannon already snubbed, uninterested. My sweatshirt is two-sizes too big because I like it that way. Lola’s clothes are painted on, her curves made for race cars and the boys who drive them.
“He likes you.” June interrupts my negative thoughts, leaning forward with her hands one on top of the other, resting on the tabletop right in front of me. “You are Cannon Jennings’s type, based on everything you have told us. Mystery solved. That grumpy SOB has a weakness, and it’s a girl who can keep up with him and put him in his place. Don’t sell yourself short, Hollis. You’re a hottie, and nothing like anyone else.”
Well, shit. I might be in love with June just a little. I smile at her bashfully because that was a pretty big string of compliments to sit and take in all at once.
“Thanks,” I eek out. I’m more accustomed to someone telling me, “Nice line drive.”
Emboldened by June’s killer pep talk, I walk into study hall and take the seat to Cannon’s right, ignoring my usual self-imposed rules about sitting next to him. There’s no reason it should be any different in here than it is in our first hour, where we talk and laugh and sometimes—sometimes—brush fingertips over arms or thighs when the teacher isn’t looking.
“Hey,” I say, reaching over and squeezing his shoulder as I sit. He stiffens and immediately shifts his posture to lose my touch and put a few more inches of distance between us. It’s obvious, and his acting is bad.
“You scared me,” he lies. I’m starting to recognize the differences in his laughs, and the thin ones with more breath to them are definitely forced. Like this one.
“Yeah, I’m stealthy like that.” I look at him sideways, a little judgement in my squinted eyes.
“Right,” he says, shutting his mouth into a tight smile. He holds up his notebook and points to it, as if it’s some exhibit to prove he’s hard at work on his studies. The page is blank, and I can’t wait to see what he fills it with.
“Uh huh,” I say, pivoting in my seat so I face him more than not. Wearing my wry smile, I rest my elbow on my desktop and hold my chin while I glare at his mundane tasks.
He writes his name at the top, then the date. He taps the point of his pen on the next line a few times, finally writing down the word Canterbury.
“You’re not in Lola’s class,” I point out quickly. I know he’s not because he and I have the same teacher, just opposite hours. And we aren’t studying Canterbury right now; we’re still on Shakespeare.
Cannon blinks a few times while staring at the page, finally drawing a scribble of lines through his fake essay title before laying the pen flat on the page.
“Oh, hey, Hollis. What’s up?” Tory reaches over my shoulder as he walks in, holding out a fist. I pound it, already accepted into his circle. He takes the seat in front of Cannon but remains sitting to the side while the rest of the class filters in. His gaze bobs between the two of us—me staring at Cannon and Cannon pretending he sees nothing at all.
“Things weird here?” Tory wiggles his finger in the air between us, and I laugh out once, hard.
“Seems so.” I shake my head and right myself in my chair, leaning the opposite way to pull out my own notebook—for actual homework.
“Oh, I get it. You two hooked up,” Tory teases. My cheeks burn and I know without looking they’re florescent pink. I cough, unable to get the words out to put up an argument, and Cannon takes care of it for me, slapping his friend on the shoulder with his notepad.
“Dude, don’t be like Zack,” he grumbles.
“Ah, I see. Didn’t we already have this talk?” Tory waits for Cannon to lift his chin, and when he does, they spend a few seconds in a staring competition as though neither wants to give in.
“You aren’t responsible for your cousin, and your life is separate from his,” Tory finally says.
I draw my attention down to my notes and doodle, and wish I’d sat at least one more seat away. The smile inching into my cheeks is hard to hide. I like Tory, and I like what he said even more.
Cannon flattens his notebook again and brings both his hands to his face, rubbing his eyes then moving his fingers into his hair, kneading his scalp.
“I know that, man. I know. He’s just in this super fucked up place, and I don’t know what’s going on. I’m sorry.” He rolls his head to the side in his palm and reaches toward me with his free hand, fingers stretched out wide for me to weave mine into the empty spaces. I do and he squeezes a little, shaking our hands together in a gentle movement that’s also reassuring—and very, very public.
So does this mean we are a—we?
“Well, for the record. I like you two. I like her more, but I like the two of you as a thing,” Tory says, pointing to me when he makes the joke at Cannon’s expense. We both breathe out a small laugh, and before our hands separate, Cannon’s thumb runs along my knuckles a few times for added reassurance.
The door clicks shut behind us and we
