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  “ ’Fraid so,” he says, shaking his head in mock embarrassment. He turns his attention to me with a wink. “Ready?” he asks.

  Maybe it’s out of habit from answering Kristen’s exact same question for four years, but I answer without thinking. “Born ready.”

  If you think your life can’t change in the blink of an eye, you’re wrong.

  If you think people don’t care who you’re friends with, you’re wrong.

  If you think walking down the halls of your high school with someone like Rock doesn’t change the way people look at you, you’re wrong.

  Dead wrong.

  If I were alone, the stroll to my next class would be a repeat of every other first day, where I would walk quickly and pretend to ignore the occasional whisper and stare. Instead, Rock and I get the old double take, heads whipping, mouths gaping, minds reeling.

  I know what they’re thinking. Who’s that hottie? And what’s he doing with her? It’s not like I blame them; I’m wondering the same thing.

  “Need to stop at your locker?” Rock’s voice forces me to pull my attention from the spectators lining the expansive hallway leading to Mr. Jacobi’s musty classroom.

  “That’s okay. I can put my things up after lit.”

  “You’re the boss,” he says, giving me a goofy little salute. Who knew goofy could be sexy?

  “Here we are,” I announce inanely, like he couldn’t figure that out by reading the big banner stretching across the top of Jacobi’s door that reads LIT’S FOR LEADERS.

  Rock places his fingertips on my back just above my waistband, sending my senses into overdrive. “After you,” he whispers near my ear.

  I fight the habit of sitting in the front row and take a seat in the middle of the classroom. When Rock takes the seat behind me, I mentally kick myself, wishing I’d sat behind him so I could spend another class period studying him unnoticed.

  I turn in my seat to face Rock, whose eyes are taking in the room around him. The posters on the wall are yellowed, either from age or Jacobi’s illegal pipe smoking in the classroom. There are stacks of books lining every square inch of wall space, some blocking bookcases that hold even more books.

  “Wow,” Rock says. “I thought I had a lot of books, but I’m an amateur compared to this guy.”

  I follow Rock’s eyes around the room. “I know. He’s like a total lit freak. Everything he says is loaded with meaning and based on years of study. I think he’s got three master’s degrees or something. He’s a little weird, but I like him.”

  Rock’s attention shoots back to me, the smile on his face so breathtaking I nearly pant. “Weird, huh? I’m kind of into weird, too.”

  Mr. Jacobi enters the room, the sweet smell of his pipe tobacco filling the room. He drops his tattered leather book bag onto his desk ceremoniously, silencing the classroom.

  “Our theme for this year,” he booms, “is what rules every decision we make as adults. It’s the root of every poem ever written. Anyone want to take a guess?”

  “Pride,” Jeremy Pickett squeaks. Poor little guy still looks and sounds like he’s in eighth grade.

  Jacobi shakes his head.

  “Greed,” another student calls out.

  “Jealousy,” says another.

  “Warmer,” Jacobi says.

  Rock’s voice rumbles over my head. “Love.”

  With one finger on his nose, Jacobi points to Rock with his other hand. “Bingo.” Jacobi walks to Rock and extends his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Arthur Jacobi.”

  “Rock Conway.” Rock slides out of his seat to stand, and the two shake like esteemed colleagues, not like teacher and student.

  “Welcome to Northwest, Mr. Conway. It’s good to have you.” When Jacobi walks to the front of the classroom, I stretch my hand behind my back and Rock slaps it in a high five. It’s so natural, like we’ve done it a hundred times.

  Sitting on his decrepit desk, Jacobi addresses the packed classroom. “For the next 186 days of school, we’ll focus on love. Love of money, love of material things, love of self, love of others. Love that destroys and unites nations. Love that creates families and ruins relationships. It’s the most powerful human emotion, driving us to sacrifice almost anything to get it and, once we have it, keep it. It’s driven men to murder, to war, and to suicide. It’s more than roses and candy; it’s a living part of who we are, what we believe in. It can create and obliterate our identity. With love, you can do anything. Without it, you’re nothing.” Fist in the air, à la Braveheart, he pounds out his final words. “Love is power!”

  I’m watching Jacobi and wondering how love has played a part in his life. What has he done for love? It’s hard to imagine Jacobi driven to violence in the name of love.

  More to the point, what would I do for love? I mean, it’s not like I’ve ever been close to being in love, but if I was, what would I do to keep it? Would I sacrifice my brand-new BCBG boots? The college scholarships I’ve worked so hard to earn?

  “It’s all about love, folks. You can see it right here in the halls of Northwest. It’s why girls wear what they wear each day and why boys fight for their place on the top of the heap. Everyone’s looking for it.” Jacobi raises his right eyebrow in question as he glances across the faces looking back at him intently. “Aren’t you?”

  Silent affirmations charge the air and Jacobi nods. “I rest my case,” he says. “Now, let’s get down to business.”

  When the bell rings forty minutes later, we have a four-page syllabus and two books: The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne and The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson.

  Arms loaded down, Rock and I are stopped by Jacobi on our way to the door. “Welcome back, Miss Burke,” he says, his familiar smile lighting his face.

  “Yourself,” I say, enjoying the surge of excitement at starting the year with such an awesome lit topic. I mean, who doesn’t want to talk about love?

  “And you, Mr. Conway. I’m looking forward to working with you this year. The fact that you’ve made friends with Sarah speaks highly of your character.”

  I feel the telltale warmth spread across my cheeks; I’m simultaneously flattered and embarrassed.

  Rock chuckles deeply. “Thank you.”

  “See you tomorrow,” Jacobi says, dismissing us with a wave of his hand as he sits in the threadbare office chair behind his desk.

  “Need me to show you where the cafeteria is?” I ask once we’re outside Jacobi’s room.

  “Actually, I was hoping you’d let me eat with you. There’s nothing worse than eating by yourself in a new school.”

  I squelch the cheer rising in my chest. “Sure. I need to run by my locker first.”

  “Lead the way,” he says casually.

  Walking through the crowded hallway, I’m stunned at my good fortune of meeting Rock. It’s like we’ve known each other for years.

  When we reach my locker, I throw it open and toss my books inside.

  “Mind if I leave mine in here, too? My locker’s on the bottom and it’s nearly impossible for me to get to.”

  “Of course,” I say, the frog settling back in my throat. Heat spreads across my chest when he reaches around me and places the books on top of my own. It seems so … intimate. And, God help me, I love it.

  At Northwest, all the seniors have lunch at the same time, so the cafeteria’s really crowded, really loud. Off-campus lunches were stripped from us last year when a group of cheerleaders got drunk at lunch and had a wreck on their way back to school. Since then, we’ve been forced to eat at school, all 250 seniors at one time.

  “I’m headed for the salad bar, but there’s a grill over there,” I say, pointing to the red-and-white-canopied corner of the cafeteria with a long line of guys patiently waiting for their double cheeseburgers and chili cheese fries.

  “Salad’s good for me, too,” he says.

  “Okay, then follow me.” As we get in line at the salad bar, Kristen breezes through the door and waves when s
he spots us.

  My stomach drops at the sight of her. I’m not quite ready to share Rock so soon, not to mention the backseat I’ll be taking to Kristen.

  Ignoring the glares of everyone in line behind us, she nestles herself between me and Rock. “Miss me?” she chirps.

  “You have no idea,” I mumble.

  “Did you make it through Jacobi’s class?” she asks Rock, rolling her eyes. “I swear I nearly killed myself the week I was in there last year. It was brutal. I finally begged my way out.”

  Rock’s easy laugh slips from his lips. “It was actually pretty interesting.”

  Kristen’s eyes dart from my face to Rock’s. “What’s his depressing life-altering theme this year? War? Famine? Poverty?”

  I’m quick to answer, Jacobi’s inspiring words still rambling around in my head. “Love.”

  Kristen shakes her head in pity. “Poor things,” she says.

  “Don’t feel sorry for us,” Rock says, his dark brown eyes glancing at me over Kristen’s head. “I think it’s going to be my favorite class.” Our gazes lock for just a second, and it’s like we’re sharing something. I don’t know what it is, but I swear something is there.

  “For real?” Kristen asks, dazzling blues wide in surprise.

  “Absolutely. What’s not to love?” Rock gently nudges Kristen forward in line.

  I can tell by the look on Kristen’s face that she’s scrambling for the right words. “Well, I’m just saying that love is a pretty lame theme, even for Jacobi.”

  “So what’s your favorite thing to read, Kristen?” he asks.

  “I’m more of a magazine reader.”

  “Oh yeah? What kind of magazines?” Rock’s interest is totally genuine and I can hardly wait to see his reaction to the answer I know is coming.

  “Teen Vogue, Cosmo. That kind of thing.”

  Rock winks at Kristen in a way that makes me want to scream. It’s already happening. “Well, all that reading has paid off, gorgeous. You are, hands down, the most stunning girl in this entire building.”

  And just like that, I’m back to where I’ve always been.

  In Kristen’s shadow.

  I never saw an ugly thing in my life; for let the form of an object be what it may—light, shade, and perspective will always make it beautiful.

  —JOHN CONSTABLE

  Chapter Three

  After school, Kristen and I head to Sandy’s Nails. Most of our friends get their nails and feet done before school starts, but going after the first day of school has become a tradition. The first year we came to Sandy’s the week before school started; we had to wait an hour and then got nothing more than a glorified footbath with a polish change. Coming after school starts changed everything. We get to relax and gossip and the salon is practically deserted, which means Sandy and her sister, Nan, give us a lot of attention.

  We sit side by side in superdeluxe massaging pedicure chairs, then drop our bare feet into the soapy hot water. How is it that a spa pedicure can make everything better?

  Kristen leans her head sideways to look at me. “Give me the update on your college apps.”

  I close my eyes, visualizing the list of colleges I’ve applied to, ranked in order. “I should hear back from the University of Texas by late fall.”

  “And the others?” Kristen knows my first choice is the University of Texas. It’s close to home and has a kick-ass communications program.

  I shrug. “Got my acceptance to Rice in July, but I really don’t want to stay in Houston.”

  Kristen nods. “No way am I staying here, either.”

  “Still set on Texas State?” Texas State has long been known as a party college, but a good one nonetheless. It could be a great fit for Kristen, but I can’t imagine living an hour away from her.

  “Yep,” she says, grinning. “I can’t wait to get out on my own.”

  “On your own?” I say, laughing.

  “Yes, on my own.”

  “As in supporting yourself?”

  Kristen scowls. “Okay, Debbie Downer. That’ll be enough.”

  “Seriously. Are you going to get a job?”

  She nods, eyes closed as Nan rubs her feet.

  “Any thoughts about where?”

  “Dr. Randall at the animal shelter said he’d put in a couple of phone calls for me as it got closer to next fall. Hopefully I can land something at a vet clinic or shelter there.”

  “That’s awesome, Kris!” I stare at my friend, whose eyes are still closed, a small grin on her lips. She’d never told me she planned to work when she moved. I’m totally impressed.

  She opens her eyes just a sliver. “Bet you’ve already got a job lined up, don’t you?”

  I smile back at her. “Not yet.”

  “But you will. That’s just how you work.”

  A part of me feels like I should apologize for not being more spontaneous, but she’s right. That’s not who I am. “Fail to plan …”

  “Plan to fail,” she completes. “God, you’re predictable.”

  Sandy and Nan chuckle at our conversation and I smile at them.

  “She says it like it’s a bad thing.”

  “Sarah, there are moments in life you can’t plan. Moments you’ll miss because it’s not part of your perfectly organized life.”

  “Prove it.”

  “I can’t prove it.”

  “Exactly.”

  Kristen sits up straighter in her chair and levels her eyes on mine. “I can’t prove it because you won’t relax enough to do something spontaneous, to just get caught up in a moment.”

  “Easy on the melodrama,” I quip, thankful no one else is in the salon.

  “All I’m saying, Sarah, is that the best parts of life can’t always be predicted. You can’t constantly plan for every single experience.”

  “She’s got a point,” Sandy says, looking up from my feet. “Some of my best memories are of things that happened out of the blue. Things I never could have planned.”

  “Aha!” Kristen says, triumphant smile on her face. “Told you!”

  I shake my head at Sandy. “And I pay you to do this to me?”

  All three of the women laugh when I roll my eyes, but I can’t help wondering if there might be a shred of truth in what they’re telling me.

  “You have to help me.” Kristen’s lying on my bed, petting my other best friend, my three-year-old calico cat, Ringo. The bright pink on her freshly painted fingernails clashes against the red in his fur.

  I put her soda on the dresser and open my own with a spoon I grabbed from the kitchen. I definitely don’t want to mess up my fingernails after spending an hour and a half in that chair today.

  “Help with what?” I take a sip, then put down my drink and grab Ringo from her grasp. I drop into the swing Mom had hung in my bedroom for my thirteenth birthday. It’s not a playground swing. It’s more of a front-porch kind of swing with a totally plush, hot-pink velvet cushion.

  “Rock.”

  For a millisecond, I think I might pass out. My hand stills on Ringo’s back, prompting him to move positions in an effort to get some more attention. The deep rumble of his purr vibrates against my knee.

  Me? Help Kristen with Rock? My Rock?

  “Geez, don’t look so surprised. He was totally flirting with me at lunch.”

  Don’t remind me.

  “Since when do you need help with guys?” The fact that she’s asking for my help is seriously comical. I’ve never even been on a date, unless you count the time my pimply cousin Nate took me to the eighth-grade dance. And I totally don’t.

  “I want him to take me seriously,” she whines, her eyes wide and desperate.

  I don’t bother trying to stop myself from laughing out loud. “I think he takes you plenty serious.”

  “But he likes smart things. Like literature. I don’t know anything about that kind of stuff. Nothing!” Panic brings her voice to a full screech and I hold up my hands to silence her.

  “B
e yourself, Kristen. If that’s not good enough for him, then he doesn’t deserve you.” Okay, so there’s a part of me that completely believes what I just said. But another, more evil part of me likes that Kristen has finally admitted she has a flaw.

  “We’re not living in some after-school special, Sarah. It isn’t as simple as ‘be yourself.’ ”

  Ringo leans back and bites the hand I’m still resting on his back. “All right, already,” I mumble to the cat as I resume stroking his tricolored fur.

  “Yes! I knew you’d do it!” Kristen jumps off the bed and onto the swing, sending an angry Ringo to the floor with a yowl and a hiss.

  I unwrap her arms from my neck. “No!”

  “What?” she asks, arms crossed over her rounded chest. “But you said ‘all right.’ I heard you.”

  “I was talking to Ringo, Kris. I can’t teach you about literature in twenty-four hours or less. It’s not like cramming for a test, for crying out loud. It’s literature.”

  “And?” she asks.

  “How many years do you think people have been writing?”

  She shrugs, completely missing my point. “A lot?”

  “Try thousands. How in the world am I supposed to teach you about literature that spans centuries? The stuff we’ve had in high school doesn’t even scratch the surface. Don’t you think he might notice you’re not actually passionate about literature? It’s more than just memorizing a bunch of names and dates. Why not introduce him to something you are passionate about?”

  Kristen puts her hands in her lap, picking at the newly applied polish. “Like what?”

  “Like taking care of animals. How many strays have you nursed back to health?”

  “That’s not serious enough, Sarah. Anyone can feed an animal.”

  I continue on, praying I can get through to her. “First of all, that’s not true. You do more than feed them. Secondly, even if I gave you the CliffsNotes version of American literature, your knowledge base would be so full of holes he’d see right through it. I mean, unless you can figure out a way for me to talk for you … you’re just going to have to do this on your own. And, trust me, I think your obvious assets will do the trick.” They always do.