Page 46 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

“There’s always the mascot,” Claire jokes. As if on cue, the second she makes the suggestion, the giant-headed cartoonish Knight mascot slides into perfect splits.

“That’s a hard pass.” I laugh.

We walk around the concourse to the other side, saving ourselves some distance by exiting to the west, and as we reach the door, the band and cheer squad climb the steps to make the walk to the stadium with us.

“Great,” I mumble.

“Oh, where’s your spirit,” Claire chimes in, elbowing me then tucking her water bottle under her arm so she can clap along with the band.

I roll my eyes but give in, clapping along as well. For the next block we make up our own lyrics for the fight song, substituting elemental symbols for words—like AU for gold. I’m genuinely having a good time, which of course means something has to balance out. My spoiler comes in the form of a leggy blonde cheerleader who rushes around me just to block our path.

I spotted Amy in the arena, and I recognized the blonde curls of her ponytail as she passed. She skips in place a few times, clapping her poms and turning slowly until her gaze stops on me. She planned this, and it’s obvious. Even the way her face lights up with fake surprise when she sees me makes my stomach churn.

“Oh, my God, Rory!” She knows my name.

“It’s Rachel,” I correct, stuffing my water bottle into the front pocket of Logan’s hoodie and balling the ends of the sleeves into my fists.

“Right. Rachel. Sorry, I’m bad with names,” she laughs off. Her eyes shift to Claire, her face shimmering with a sheen of glitter, her eyelashes about twice as long as humanly possible.

“Hi, I’m Amy. I’m a friend of Logan’s . . . and I guess now Rachel,” she says. Her lie comes out smoothly.

“Nice to meet you. You can call me Rory,” Claire says, and I spit out a laugh that I quickly bury with a fist over my mouth.

My friend’s response puts a dent in Amy’s fake bravado, but she shores up her mask quickly, simply playing along. “Nice to meet you, Rory,” she says, returning her gaze to me with what I’m sure is no intention of ever looking Claire in the eyes again.

“So, how are things going . . . with Logan?”

We’ve started walking again, with Amy matching our strides as she shimmers her poms in the air next to me.

“Things are fine,” I say, not offering more. When she approached me in the parking lot at his truck a couple of weeks ago, I offered little information as well. I could tell it infuriated her, but I have a feeling she’s done her homework since then. My gut says she knows most of the details about my arrangement with Logan, from starting as tutor and student and morphing into . . . whatever we are now.

“He’s a really great guy,” she says, sidestepping for a few steps so she can look at me.

“He is. He’s working hard.” I decided from the first time we met that I would offer zero details about anything remotely personal.

“Mmm, I’m sure. Did you mean with the injury? Or are you talking about teaching him? It’s so nice of you to volunteer your time.” She does a poor job of masking her condescension this time.

“He’s working hard at both,” I answer, snapping my mouth shut into a tight smile that I hope gives her the idea to fuck right off.

We get a reprieve from her barrage of questions thanks to the drumline, but the minute they’re done, she’s right back at it. There’s still a block left to walk, and a few times I’ve thought about breaking into a sprint. I’m not very fast, though, and with my luck, she’d keep pace with me.

“So, did he take you to the gallery yet?”

I feel her question burn down my esophagus and diffuse into a toxic gas within my chest. My breath falters and I feel my lips twitch as they work to keep my smile in place.

“Not sure what you mean,” I mutter, not wanting to answer either way.

Claire’s elbow brushes against my air as we walk, and I give her a sideways look. She blinks at me slowly, as if trying to message me in code, possibly checking whether I’m all right. I’m sure my voice gave me away. I heard myself. Amy’s words threw me, and I know I sounded upset.

“That’s his place. Has he shown you the blue room? He must have by now. That’s his big move, and you look like you have that glow about you.” She lifts a knowing brow, but I maintain a straight face despite her insinuation landing spot on.

“Did he show you the painting of the trees? I love that one. We saw it differently, of course. We saw a lot of things differently.” Her specifics cut deep, but I’m somehow strong enough to hold it together and not let my eyes well up.

“Oh, I don’t know. Sounds nice,” I say, with very little inflection to my words.

“Shouldn’t you be somewhere? Else, I mean. Shouldn’t you be somewhere else?” Claire’s leaning in front of me as we walk, her words darting at Amy. I’m no longer sure whether I’m trudging through my own tension-filled air or the mix Claire just created. I doubt it matters. It’s all thick. All uncomfortable.

“I have time. But thank you,” Amy bites back.

---