Page 8 of On the Edge

I stare hard at his phone, trying to think of a way to argue that without sounding ungrateful. It doesn’t matter how he words it, the situation still feels wrong to me. It feels like I’ll be interrupting what would otherwise be a summer just the two of them.

“Only if you are sure,” I stress. “I will not want to be a burden.”

“I’ll talk to Carter,” he reassures me. “But let’s just assume that you’ll stay with us, okay? You can check that item off your list. Now, when is the application due?”

I give Zeke the information Coach Mackenzie provided me and carefully take notes when he offers advice. We stay in the library, comfortably working together, until the librarian gently reminds us that they close in thirty minutes. Chastised, I hastily put my notebook away and apologize to her. Zeke and I don’t speak again until we’re standing outside in the evening heat.

“Thank you for your assistance,” I tell him.

“Sure, anytime! When is your next CC class?”

“Tuesday,” I reply morosely, thinking of Atlas.

“Well, I still don’t like that he was so rude to you, but maybe we should give him the benefit of the doubt. I mean”—he grimaces, shooting me a crooked smile—“I’m literally in love with one of the rudest people I’ve met, so.”

“Yes. I am thinking he probably needs a friend.”

“Don’t take it personally,” Zeke warns. “He doesn’t even know you. If he doesn’t like you, it says more about him than it does about you.”

4

Atlas

Henri Vasel is already seatedwhen I walk into the lecture hall. He’s wearing khaki pants and a grey polo shirt, because, apparently, he only has one wardrobe. Looking at him—with his perfectly styled brown hair, carefully trimmed scruff, and unwrinkled clothing—I just want to throw him down into the mud. I want to filthy him up a little bit and crack the choir boy façade. Maybe also punch him in the face, because for some reason he really rubs me the wrong way.

He smiles when he sees me walking toward him, as though we’re the best of friends and I didn’t insult him last time we were together.

“Good afternoon, Atlas. Are you doing well today?”

“Fine,” I grunt, squeezing around him and tossing my backpack onto the floor between our seats.

“Did you enjoy your weekend?”

“Sure did.”

He doesn’t seem perturbed by the one-sided conversation.If anything, he looks happy that I’m engaging at all. I probably should have continued with the silent treatment. Now, he’s going to expect me to talk to him every fucking class.

“Do you support hockey?” he asks, angling himself toward me and linking his fingers together in his lap. He looks like he’s trying to convince me to vote for him in a student body election.

“Do I look like someone who supports hockey?”

He blinks. “Yes?”

“No.”

“I play hockey, but it is not for all people,” he says magnanimously. “How is ceramics?”

Of course he plays hockey. He asked me to call him by his last name and both of my thighs put together equal the size of one of his. Not only did I get stuck with the most annoying motherfucker in class, but a jock too. Lucky me.

“Fine.”

“What are you making?”

“Pottery.”

Instead of being surprised by my less-than-friendly answers, he neatly sidesteps them and fires another question at me. I’m definitely regretting opening my mouth. Next time, I’m choosing silence.

“Would you like an apple?”

---