I was in the middle of all the conversations, but part of none of them. I was watching them form their friend groups, and I didn’t have one. That always happened to me. It was part of the reason I stopped being friends with Adriana and the other girls a few years ago. Every time we hung out, I’d look around and realize that they were all better friends with each other than they were with me. Even when a new girl joined the group, she immediately found a place. I would watch it, wondering how on earth it happened. How did normal people just bond like that? How did they meet someone and just start sharing things? I couldn’t do it. I didn’t know how to do it.
But everyone else did, apparently. Even Dani had found a place with Zoe and Madison.
I glanced at Patrick. I’d been relieved to have a friend on the team, but he was clearly already better friends with Noah. Only Archer was also alone, across from Gage but obviously in his own world. That guy was weirder than me, at least.
I realized that Noah was watching me. His gaze cut to the team members on either side of me, and he seemed to recognize that I was left out. Great. That wasn’t embarrassing at all.
“Clara, I need your phone number,” he said, picking up the phone next to his empty plate. “Yours is the only one I don’t have.”
“I don’t have a phone,” I said, using the edge of my fork to drag a soggy piece of lettuce across my plate.
“You don’t have a phone?” Priya asked, leaning past Laila to peer at me.
I shook my head. “I . . . forgot it.”
“You forgot it?” Noah repeated, like this was the strangest thing he’d ever heard.
“Uh, yeah,” I said, already regretting this lie. Why didn’t I just say I couldn’t afford one? That was technically true. My parents had bought that phone for me. Without them, I couldn’t afford anything.
Why had I lied at all? Why hadn’t I rolled my eyes and said, My dad took it as punishment?
Because that invited questions. Questions I didn’t want to answer. I didn’t care about protecting Dad, but I cared about protecting myself. And I wasn’t interested in answering those questions.
Noah blinked at me, and I realized that silence had stretched out for a beat too long.
“Let’s get out of here,” Priya said quickly. “I need a shower.”
“Me too,” Noah said, and everyone rose from their seats.
No wonder I couldn’t make friends. I’d successfully made everyone feel awkward in three seconds flat.
I sighed as I grabbed my plate and walked across the cafeteria to dump it in the bin. I followed a few steps behind Noah and Patrick as we exited into the hallway.
“Hey. Clara.”
I turned at the sound of the soft voice to see Julian standing at the edge of a dark hallway. He jerked his head, indicating for me to come to him. I did, suddenly very aware that I hadn’t had a chance to shower or change since training. I was still in my workout clothes, my hair in a sweaty ponytail. I self-consciously ran a hand over it.
Julian slid his hands into his pockets as I approached him. He was smiling, but it was the kind of smile that hinted at embarrassment simmering underneath. A paper bag sat on the floor next to his feet.
“Dinner wasn’t that great, right?” he said.
“It could have been worse.”
He laughed. “I like that attitude. We’re still working out some kinks. But I thought that maybe you’d be interested in dessert after such a terrible dinner?”
“Dessert?” I repeated.
“Yeah, I . . .” He trailed off as he grabbed the paper bag from the floor. “I have a problem with sweets. They’re my weakness.” He held the bag a little higher. “Especially macarons. Do you like them?”
“I’ve never had them,” I said, flustered. This almost felt like he was asking me out on a date.
His eyes widened a little. “You have to try them. Come with me. Save me from myself.”
I nodded with a laugh. He glanced at the recruits still filing out of the cafeteria, and then gestured for me to follow him down the dark hallway. We walked to the back of the building and out a door that Julian propped open with a rock.
He plopped down in a patch of grass. Across the field, a group of guys sat on the ground, surrounded by bottles of something that was probably alcohol. They laughed loudly, apparently oblivious to our presence.
Julian took a box out of the bag and opened it to reveal rows of multicolored macarons.
“You got a lot,” I said with a laugh.
“I told you I had a problem.” He held it a little closer to me. “Please.”
“Any flavor in particular I should try first?” I asked.
“Maybe chocolate? Always a safe choice.” He pointed to a brown one, and I plucked it from the box.
I took a bite. It was soft, and incredibly sweet.
“Wow,” I said.
“Right?” He reached into the bag and handed me a water bottle.
“Thanks.”
“You did good today,” he said as I polished off the first macaron. He extended the box to me, and I took a pink one.
“Right,” I said with a snort.
“You did! Don’t let Gage get to you.”
“No, he didn’t,” I said. “But a lot of them are better than me. Most of them, actually. And I kind of . . .” I trailed off, and he looked at me expectantly. “I don’t really fit in with them,” I said.
Relief washed over me, sudden and unexpected. I’d never had anyone to talk to about this. Or anything. Mom, with her relentless (unjustified) optimism, did not count.
“Why not?” he asked.
“I don’t know how to talk to them, I guess. I don’t know how to talk to anyone. And I feel like there’s no entry point. They talk about school or cheerleading or social media. I don’t even have an Instagram. Or
