Page 12 of Burn

“Navaeh, look at Logan. I can’t believe you let him get away.He looks like a god.” Story giggles. Her smile falls, and her eyes harden when she looks toward us. She reaches up to her head and pulls her sunglasses onto her nose. Before Navaeh can respond, I notice a boy running toward us, and holy god, he’s gorgeous.

Close your mouth, Morgan.

I snap my lips together; my mouth is open so long that my tongue is dry, and I would kill for a sip of water. Or a bucket of it. Ice cold. To pour over my heated body. He reaches us, slinging his arms over the fence. One between Navaeh’s arms and the other between her and me. His arm brushes mine. It’s wet with sweat, and he smells like… I don’t even know. He smells edible and kissable all at the same time. His dirty blonde hair is wild; the curls look like a goddamn halo around his head with the way the light reflects off them.

“Hey, ladies,” his voice is low and sultry. I’ve never met another kid here with a voice this low. “You after something?”

Navaeh smiles. It’s different from the smile she gave me earlier.

“Just here for the show,” she says, her voice lower. Gravelly and smooth all at once. I wanna learn how to do that with my voice.

“The show? We’re not pieces of meat, Veah.” he laughs.

It sends a jolt through me.

Equal opportunists or not, a girl has never made me feel like this.

She swipes her hand down his face, “You’re all sweaty and gross, Trissy.”

He dips his head forward and shakes it in her face, and she squeals, pulling back to shield herself from the droplets of sweat that spray off him. I don’t budge, desperate for some of him to land on me.

Across the field, the coach takes notice and booms, “Tristan Clarke, do you see anyone else lounging around and flirting? No. Get your ass back here. Run laps!”

Tristan rolls his eyes, winks at Navaeh, and jogs toward the track.

When he’s out of earshot, I ask, “That’s Tristan?” My tone is incredulous and breathy.

“Yeah, that’s my Trissy,” she sighs, her head returning to her hand, leaning against the fence. “Logan is delicious, but my god, Tristan Clarke is divine.”

“He’s… wow.” I sound like an idiot, but wow. “How old is he?”

“He’s seventeen. Twelfth grade.”

I look at her, stunned. He’s three whole years older, and he’s into her? She’s beautiful and confident, and something about her is just so sneaky — almost conniving. I would have assumedshe was older if I didn’t know she was my age. So, I suppose it makes sense that older boys are attracted to her.

“Which one do you like?” she asks, bumping me playfully with her shoulder.

The question confounds me. Which do I like? I don’t know. I don’t know any of them. I’ve seen some in the halls, usually flicking a puck back and forth between classes, but I’ve never spoken with them. Isn’t liking boys more than their appearance?

“Uh, I don’t know.” My head lowers again.

The buzzer rings through the speakers fastened to the school’s red brick walls, and she loops her arm through mine again, dragging me toward the doors.

“Tomorrow, you eat lunch with us. Not out here alone.” It’s not a request, so I nod in response, and she skips after Zoe and Story, yelling over her shoulder, “See ya tomorrow, Morgan!”

I pause, letting them get inside before I follow, not wanting to seem desperate for their companionship. When I open the door to the cafeteria, I’m shocked to find it empty, save for one girl tucked in the back corner. Her brown hair cascades in gentle waves over her shoulders. She sports wire-rimmed glasses and is engrossed in readingThe Bell Jar. I can’t help but smile as I observe her nibbling on fries while flipping through the pages.

When the buzzer alerts us to the start of the third period, she starts, knocking her mostly empty slushy over and looking at her watch. She rolls her eyes, shakes her head, and gently puts the worn book into her bag. I follow her when she stands and walks out of the cafeteria, staying far enough back that she doesn’t pick up on my presence. Something about her holds my attention, so I follow her until she enters a classroom. I quicken my pace, turning down the hall toward drama.

When I rush in the door, everyone mills about. With his wild and wiry hair, the teacher, Mr. Roberts, shuffles through pageson his desk. His glasses are pushed onto his forehead, a typical move that makes me smile every time. How the hell do they stay there?

I’m still smiling when a girl, who I’m pretty sure is named Jennifer, steps aside and reveals Aaron. Between the girl in the cafeteria and Mr. Roberts, I’d been able to forget about this morning. My mood instantly shifts, and anxiety crashes into me all over. Aaron stands next to another guy. I think his name is Mike. Next to Aaron, he looks so tiny. They are caught in a tense conversation, speaking in hushed tones. Mike’s eyebrows shoot up as Aaron speaks, and somehow, I just know it’s about me.

I can’t believe they let him come back to classes after what he said — what he did.

I sit in the back corner, putting as much room as possible between him and me. Mr. Roberts rises to his full height and claps his hands, signaling he’s ready to begin. There’s an audible groan when he speaks.

“We’re starting scene work, and I’ve selected Mac-B.” His voice is rough, like sandpaper. I always imagine him chain-smoking his way through the eighties. “Don’t start. Shakespeare is a requirement, and Mac-B has options for every skill level. Or lack thereof, Aaron.”

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