Page 49 of Tell Me When It's Over

Leighton / Age 13

There’s a man staring at me outside the school. At first, I don’t notice him. Only the uneasiness prickling my skin tells me something is off. When I look around, I see him standing by the lush bushes that are trimmed into the school mascot—an eagle.

Nora Ashby, my only friend in the year I’ve been at the prep school, already left for the day, even though her older brother Cooper offered to drive me home. Mom said she would pick me up and I’ve been waiting outside for thirty minutes past the last bell wanting nothing more than to end this long, drawn out Monday.

Maybe my mood would have been better if I didn’t get my English paper back with a C circled on the top. Everyone around me got Bs or better, and the notes in the margin were every student’s worst nightmare. See me after class. Seeing any teacher after class is the kind of embarrassment you want to avoid, especially when you’re the only one. Mr. Kline’s stern look as I approached his desk should have been my first warning, but I could barely meet his eyes when he told me how disappointed he was.

Apparently, the faculty knows exactly who I am. A man like Harry Bishop doesn’t pay a random student’s tuition in full, so I guess I should have known. The impressive scholarship in his name offered annually doesn’t even offer half what it costs to attend a school like Saint Michael’s, so of course my teachers would know there’s a reason I’m present.

Not only do I learn that Kline expects more than a “barely thought out” paper on a “mundane topic” like Steinbeck, I also found out that teachers love to gossip. By last period, a few of the other faculty look at me with the types of expressions that mirror disapproval and disbelief. When one woman announces to another that education shouldn’t be bought as I pass them, my face grows redder because I may have gotten a C on my paper, but I’m smart. Smart enough not to need Harry buying my diploma like everyone here thinks.

To them I’m a rags to riches story. A modern-day Cinderella. Except, there’s no fairy godmother to come to my rescue when Mom gets out of sorts, and I have no prince.

Mom being late paired with the man currently staring at me tops the cake—a bad cake with those nasty cardboard-tasting candies covering it. Sighing, I try pretending like I don’t see him, averting my gaze to the half-empty parking lot. The upperclassman who can drive have cleared out the student parking, and the staff lot is still packed since most don’t leave until three-thirty.

I’m too lost in thought about my poor paper grade, wondering what Mom will say, and what Nora is up to with her brother Cooper, to notice the faint sound of something clicking close by. At first, I think it’s shoes in the distance, maybe someone coming out of the school. When I see nobody exit the doors, I look back to the only person outside to find him holding a camera.

Swallowing, panic seeps in. I don’t have a phone even though Kyler told Mom I should have one just in case. She informed him we don’t all have money—that I wouldn’t need one. Now, I’m starting to see the error in her judgement because I don’t know what to do. I could go inside, but then I’d be surrounded by people who don’t think I belong here. If I stay perched on the front steps, I’ll be the target of this man, whoever he is.

Think, Leighton.

Pushing up onto my feet, I grab ahold of my bag and begin walking toward the doors. Going to see Mr. Kline, or any of the teachers, isn’t what I want to do knowing what they think of me, but I know there are open classrooms I could slip into until the coast is clear. Mom will just have to come inside to find me.

I’m walking toward my locker when a group of guys leave the gym, their voices growing louder as they get nearer. Their shoes squeak against the floor and when they appear around the corner they’re all in the same workout clothes. They must have some sort of practice. A few look my way, but most pay me no attention.

It’s a boy people call Striker who breaks from the pack and makes a beeline to me. “Hey.”

I freeze mid step, holding my bag close to

my side like he’s going to mug me or something. It’s stupid, so I ease my hold and murmur, “Hi.”

“Leighton, right?”

He knows my name? “Yeah.”

“I’m Blake, but most people call me—”

“Striker,” I finish for him, almost too quickly. I’ve heard people talk to him in passing, and Nora’s brother plays on the soccer team too, which means Nora knows all there is to know about him and shares it with me.

His lips quirk up. “Yep.”

We’re silent for a few seconds.

“Why are you still hanging around? I didn’t take you for a club kind of girl, and I’d know if you were on a sports team.” His question isn’t judgmental. He seems genuinely curious, and I take note of his two very correct statements.

“Why don’t you take me for a club girl?” It doesn’t matter why he assumes that because I’m not, and never will be, part of some after school group. The only one that sounds remotely interesting to me is the newspaper, and they only let high schoolers participate. Maybe I’ll reconsider next year when I enter ninth grade, but I doubt it.

“Don’t take it personally,” he says with a lift of his shoulders. “You’re just quiet. Most clubs require socialization. You know. Talking.”

I blush. Well…

“Not that being quiet is bad.”

More blushing.

I clear my throat. “My mom is late picking me up. That’s why I’m still here. Are you practicing?” Talking about the weird guy outside should probably be something I bring up, but I don’t know him or what he’d be able to do.

Though maybe Striker has a cell. No, I know he does. I’ve seen him use it before in math when he’s supposed to be doing the assignments from the board. Because I’m in honors, I share it with him and some other high schoolers, same with a study hall in the afternoon. Something Nora tells me she’s jealous about daily. Before I can ask if I can borrow his phone, he says, “Yeah. Every day this week. Big game coming up. You going?”

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