Page 8 of Dropping the Ball

Her eyebrows go up.

“Fine, yes.”

Her face loses some of its laughter. “Are you going to be okay working with him?”

“Of course.” Not. Of course not. “Don’t even worry about it. Let’s go to the car.” I slip my arm through hers to turn us in the right direction.

“Katie-Kat, you’re going to make this weird with him, aren’t you?”

“Oh my gosh. Settle down. I will not make it weird.”

I will. No question about it. It’s never on purpose, and that’s the whole problem.

Freshman Year

In which it gets worse . . .

I’m one percent lessnervous on the second day of school. I kind of know what to expect, at least from teachers. I don’t have to force myself to walk onto campus. I might have succeeded in becoming a beige shadow of myself to my classmates, but just in case, after I walk in with Megan and Lulu, I hide in the bathroom again before first period.

I’m first in my seat. The new Croft kid comes in a minute later, still in his ratty Vans and dark hoodie, although this time he’s swapped jeans for basketball shorts. Guess he’s done dressing up. His long legs are thin but muscled beneath tanned skin.

Why do I notice?Stop.

His eyes flicker to mine, but there’s no nod today. I hope he didn’t notice me staring at his shins. He goes to his desk and slouches, hands in his hoodie pocket.

Drake comes in a minute before the bell. He says, “Smile, Kaitlyn,” again, but this time he brushes against me. He’s looking for a reaction. I lean slightly away. I don’t smile.

This is going to become the low point of each morning. Maybe other kids would think hiding to eat their lunch or reviewingbook-length class syllabi is the low point, but no. It’s Drake in Chinese class.

The third day, the new kid doesn’t even look at me before he slouches into his chair. How many days in a row can he wear that hoodie? I do catch a faint whiff of Acqua di Gio as he passes because Hillview is more Armani than Axe. Either way, he smells like he cares at least a little.

Drake walks in seconds before the tardy bell and stops beside my desk. “Hey, Kaitlyn.” I look up at him because it’s the least amount of encouragement I can give him. “You should smile more.”

I answer by leaning the other way to pull my class notebook out as the bell rings. I do not smile. This time his friends laugh, and my body goes too hot with a dump of adrenaline, urging me to go hide in the bathroom. I stay put, but this “smile, Kaitlyn” is becoming a thing, and I don’t want it to be a thing.

By Thursday, I’m dreading first period. Not only do I keep catching myself staring at some new detail on that Micah kid every morning when he walks in, I am in the dumbest power struggle ever with Drake. Now that his friends are paying attention, he’s going to step it up. All I have to do to make it stop is smile, even sarcastically.

I sit down. The new kid comes in a minute later in his hoodie and shorts. A thin leather bracelet peeks from under his cuff. Drake shows up right before the final bell again. He pauses to say, “Smile, Kaitlyn.”

I do not. I keep my eyes straight ahead, watching the second hand on the clock, but while Drake stands there waiting for a reaction, I scratch my eyebrow with my middle finger.

Two of Drake’s friends sit ahead of Micah. One snorts and says, “You got cooked, Drake.” The other one makes a kissing sound.

After roughly a century, the bell rings. I let out a quiet breath. I made it.

Except Drake isn’t letting it go today. As Mrs. Meyers—uh, Meyers-laoshi—takes us through our pronunciation drill, Drake leans over and says, “Your outfit is fire.” His friend next to us gives a muffled snort.

Right. My white polo and gray chinos. So fire. I ignore him.

But he keeps up his stupid freshman boy crap. The next time the teacher isn’t looking, he sniffs and says, “Mmm. Is that perfume or your skin?” From the corner of my eye, I catch his friend giving him a fist bump.

Halfway through class, Meyers-laoshi gives us the option of working quietly or alone with a partner to practice the three sentences we’ve learned so far. I choose alone.

Drake uses the cover of the low chatter to lean all the way into my space and say, “You’re so hot.” His friends laugh and bump knuckles.

I hate this. I ask permission to get water and leave to fill my almost-full water bottle. When I get back, I’m in my seat less than a minute when I hear a different voice.

“I like your hair.” It’s low and quiet. I glance back. It’s the new kid.

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