Page 2 of Dating and Dragons

“Um, yeah,” I mumble.

He studies me, as if he either doesn’t believe me or is trying to figure out if he’s seen me before. “Huh, okay. I’m ready when you two are.” Then he holds up the phone and gestures for us to stand closer. I glance down at myself, feeling self-conscious. Most of my clothes are a bohemian style—lots of long, patterned skirts and cropped sweaters and beaded necklaces, which I think look cool together, but not so much when my top half is wrapped in a quilted purple coat. Grandma slips her hand around my waist, and I stand up straight.

“Say ‘fuzzy pickles’!” he calls.

I smile at the odd phrase despite my current misery. Hetakes a few, going so far as to take pictures both vertically and horizontally.

Grandma nods approvingly as she swipes through the photos. “Oh, that’s cute! Thanks so much.” She pushes me closer to him. “My granddaughter is new here. Will you look out for her? She’s nervous.”

Can Ipleasewake up from this nightmare now? But before I can respond or pull an Andrew and sprint toward freedom, Grandma has already turned her attention on the rest of the group hovering close by.

“Aren’t you freezing?” she says. “Where are yourshoes?”

Picture Boy’s mouth tugs up into a smile and he shifts slightly so his back is to the rest of the group. “First-day pictures, huh?”

“I tried to talk her out of it.”

“They’re better than some of mine, at least. I’m straight up glaring in my fourth-grade photo—Mom keeps it on the fridge to make her laugh.”

I chuckle lightly. “If I tried that, Grandma would haul me back here tomorrow morning for a reshoot.”

“From my view, the photos were too good to need reshoots.”

His gaze catches on mine and nerves swirl in my stomach. Is that his roundabout way of flirting with me? Or am I being egotistical and he’s only complimenting his own photography abilities?

“We should get inside,” someone from the group announces, clearly eager to escape Grandma’s clutches.

Picture Boy rocks back on his heels. “Any chance I’ll see you in French first period?”

I shake my head. “Pre-calc.”

“Oof, good luck with that first thing in the morning. I’ll look for you. I wouldn’t want to let your grandma down.” He flashes me a grin and my pulse leaps. Maybe I’m not so grumpy about Grandma stopping the car here anymore.

I grab my book bag and kiss Grandma quickly on the cheek, her skin papery and cool. Today might be a good first day after all.

Unfortunately, I don’t see Picture Boy in any of my classes (and my eyes werewideopen looking for him). I think I see the ponytail guy in chemistry and the puffy coat person in English, but I didn’t talk to either of them in the parking lot, so it feels weird going up to them like we know each other. Instead, I spend my first day treading silently from class to class, pretending I know what’s going on even though none of the classwork lines up with what we were doing at my old school.

The next few days aren’t traumatizing, but they’re lonely. Laurelburg High School isn’t huge—there are about a thousand students total—but it’s enough that you can get lost in the shuffle. I miss walking to classes with Paige and my other friends, and texting them after school, and seeing them on the weekends. I miss having people who already know me well enough that I don’t have to explain anything about my life—they just get it.

But I don’t have friends like that anymore, and that’s not just because we moved. In fact, the move was a welcomerelief from the last few months at my old school. Being new is rough, but it’s nothing compared to being the outcast. At least here I can walk down the halls without the fear of passing my ex–best friends and having to endure their whispers and smirks.

However, by the end of my third day, I’m desperate to find some way to make friends. I pause in front of a bulletin board covered with flyers for different clubs. Maybe this is the solution—a club where I can be with my people. Unfortunately, nothing sticks out to me. I scan over Chess Club, Robotics, Drama, and Future Farmers of America. My stomach sinks. None of it looks remotely interesting.

“Really into agriculture?”

I turn to find the girl who was wearing the d20 earrings standing next to me, a small smile on her face. Her wavy black hair falls below her shoulders, and she has a tiny silver nose ring and earrings, and a tie-dye shirt and boxy cargo jeans. She is effortlessly cool.

I can’t stop my smile. It’s so nice to see a familiar face, even if we’ve never actually talked. “I don’t think so,” I say. “My parents once gave me an air plant for Christmas and I killed it.”

She laughs. “Fair enough. I’m Kashvi.”

“Quinn. I’m new here…if that wasn’t glaringly obvious.”

“I remember from the photo with your grandma.” She points to the bulletin board. “So what kind of stuff are youinto?”

I have a lot of casual interests—I read manga, I draw a little, I love making beaded bracelets and jewelry—but D&Dhas been one of the biggest loves in my life for the past few years. Not even my backstabbing group members can ruin my love for the game. I know it’s not considered the coolest pastime, so I don’t usually announce it to everyone I meet, but Kashvi owns dice earrings. That has to mean something. I decide to take the risk.

“Actually, at my last school I played a lot of D&D.”

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