One of the Guys (4 page)

“Oh,” is all I can say at first. “Where's Loch?”

Amy's cheeks burn red. “You mean Micah? He's at work.”

I shake my head, certain I've heard incorrectly. Loch doesn't have a job. A job would only get in the way of his research. Plus, we have plans.

Amy's hand pauses mid-air as polish drips onto the table, her heart-shaped face now beet-red. Oh, man. I've mortified the poor child. Quietly, I crawl out of the window without asking questions, although I have plenty. Before I slide the window shut behind me, I overhear one of Amy's friends say, “I bet she's never had a boyfriend!”

Ouch. I ignore the pit in my stomach—they're
freshmen
girls for crying out loud—and grab my skirt from the lawn. I climb back into my car and settle in behind the wheel. Amy was mistaken. Confused. Loch wouldn't bail out on a Champ search like this. Definitely not without telling me. Maybe he thought we were supposed to meet at the lake. Maybe he's there now. I check my phone. No texts. No calls. No big deal. Loch isn't attached to his phone.

I hate feeling like this—so out of control. I pull out of the driveway and head toward the lake, the windows rolled down, trying to keep calm. I imagine the guys waiting for me on the dock, laughing, ready to start a new hunt. Bags full of junk food beside them. I bet they're wondering where the heck I am.

But when I arrive, Ollie's pontoon boat is empty, gently bobbing in the water. I scratch the back of my neck as I walk along the dock and study the bordering mountains. After I sit down and pull out my phone, I send a group text:
Where are you guys? Champ awaits…

I set the phone beside me, my knees bouncing, unable to shake away this horrible feeling of abandonment. It grows in my chest like a balloon. Seconds later, my phone vibrates. One. Two. Three times.

The first, a text from Cowboy:
KATIE MORRIS TALKED TO ME TODAY
.

The second, a text from Ollie:
A hunt? Today? I can't make it
.

The third, a text from Loch:
I'm so sorry. I forgot to tell you that I'm working tonight. Will explain later. Rain check? How was your first day, Winston Girl?

They aren't coming.

They forgot.

ALL THREE FORGOT.

I scroll through my saved text messages. Yep. There it is. I'm not crazy.
We planned this
.

How could they just forget?

I collapse face-down on my bed. An annoyed meow comes from my pillow. I look up to encounter Tom Brady the cat. I've clearly disturbed his slumber. He glares at me and then begins to lick his black fur.

“So sorry to interrupt,” I say.

Like a bad sofa, Tom Brady came along with the stepfather a year ago. Brian's a huge New England Patriots fan, hence the cat's horrid name. Turns out, Tom Brady the cat also doubles as an alarm clock. Every morning at 7 AM, he bites the crap out of my hand until I get out of bed and feed him.

I shower and zone out in front of my laptop for about an hour. I try to forget about the stressful first day at Winston. I try to forget how my friends abandoned me and the feeling that they're slipping away. That's the thing though. Unlike them, I don't forget.

I shut off the lights, crawl under my covers, and unload panicked sobs into my cat hair-covered pillow.

four

O
VER THE NEXT FEW DAYS, I SEND
about one hundred text messages trying to organize another hunt. On the days Loch can go, Ollie has to help his older brother, Jason, rearrange the basement. On the days Cowboy doesn't have a test to study for, Loch is working. It seems impossible to get the four of us together in one place anymore. Are they avoiding me on purpose?

At least today is Friday. Oh, wait. Friday means it's time to share my
feelings
with total strangers. Super.

“I think we should hear from Tonya Valentine next.” Mrs. Kemper folds her hands over her knees, turning her attention to me, but my mind is back at Burlington High.

The guys see each other every day—in the halls, in class, at lunch. They don't have to send a million texts or whatever to communicate. They
are
together. I want to be with them. Technically, Winston is not a punishment. That's what Mom said when she and Brian sat me down to inform me of my new educational pathway. I should be grateful and happy to be here. I feel like a total jerk because I'm not.

“Tonya?” Mrs. Kemper raises her voice, snapping me back to reality.

I shift my weight, regretting the basketball shorts again, but I'm having a hard time parting with them. “My name is Toni, actually. Hey.”

The girls study me like I'm something they might be tested on later. The library smells like cinnamon, and comfortable arm chairs form what I've dubbed the Circle of Feelings. Beautiful hunter-green walls surround us as we pour our hearts out. Mazes of books that look older than Earth listen to each confession. The snapping fireplace fills awkward silences, which, until now, have been few.

As everyone stares, I get a wicked itch on my left butt cheek.

“Tell us a little bit about your background,” Mrs. Kemper says, pushing for more.

“I'm from Shelburne.” I shift my weight again, hoping that might extinguish the itch. “I used to go to Burlington High. My stepfather wanted to send me here. So. Yeah. Here I am.”

I don't know what else to say, other than to express the need to scratch my butt, and that's probably unacceptable here.

“Does anyone have a question for Tonya?” Mrs. Kemper scans the group.

The red-haired girl from my Business Mathematics class, whose name I learned this morning is Shauna Hamilton, raises her hand and asks, “Is your last name really Valentine?”

“Um, yeah.” What an odd question. Why would I make something like that up?

“That's so romantic.” She sighs and crosses her ankles.

Shauna started off the group session today by proclaiming her love for a boy named Ryan, who goes to boarding school in Connecticut. Ryan has blue eyes. Ryan likes poetry. Ryan smells like fresh linens. That's already more than I care to know about Ryan.

I recognize a few other girls from my classes. The girl with the black bob is in my French class. Her name is Lemon, which is easy to remember because, well, I don't hear that name every day. Emma Elizabeth Swanson, the only girl before now who has spoken to me all week, is sitting directly across from me, staring at her shoes, a sour expression on her face. She's stayed silent the whole time.

I wonder what I must look like to these pretty, delicate, poised girls. I itch my knee and lean forward, back aching. I feel beaten down after another long day, and the throbbing behind my eyes won't go away. There's just so much freaking work. I'm worried I won't be able to keep up with it all.

“A lady should always cross her ankles or legs,” Mrs. Kemper says with a kind smile.

I cross my ankles, surprised that no one laughs at me. Everyone must be accustomed to posture-corrections, not that any of them need it.

When the group session ends, I run to the bathroom and scratch my butt in peace. I splash water on my face for a pick-me-up and then slip my cell phone from my sock. My fingers hesitate on the keys as I debate whether or not to text Loch.

I need more than a text. I need to hear his voice. I need to feel his stable presence beside me as I complain about the demanding expectations of Winston Academy. I need to look him in the eye when I tell him that I miss our hunts, our former lives, which are evaporating so quickly, and that I still believe, will always believe, that Champ lives in Lake Champlain, waiting to be discovered by us.

I forgot that Loch isn't home. He's working. So my after-school routine consists of homework and sulking. After an hour of calculus, my brain feels like it might explode so I watch some
Family Guy
reruns on my laptop and chow down on Snickers ice cream. But I'm so stressed out that I don't laugh once.

“What're you doing?” Mom asks, leaning in the doorway. “Why aren't you out with the guys?”

“Should I be climbing trees or rock-skipping or something?” I set the empty ice cream bowl on my night stand, next to a forgotten pizza plate that's starting to smell.

“It'll get easier.” Mom plops down beside me on my bed. There's a ketchup stain on the collar of her gray T-shirt that's been there forever. “Change can be good.”

I scoff. “Change sucks.”

“Why don't we go grab a coffee?” she asks, brightening. “My treat.”

“You're my mother. You're legally obligated to pay for me until March 1.”

“Comb your hair, smart ass.” She slaps my shoulder. “You're leaving this room.”

A few minutes later, we're driving down Shelburne Road on our way to Dunkin' Donuts. My mom car-dances to an overplayed rap song. I try to ignore this by staring out the window, but I'm offered only crisp, green lawns and places that remind me of my friends. The bowling alley. The drug store. The movie theater.

When I can't take it anymore, I switch the radio to the country station. The beautiful sound of Tim McGraw fills the space.

“I was wondering how long that would take,” Mom says, grinning.

I wonder if this entire trip is some kind of test. “What's the point of this outing?”

“I refuse to let you drop into a hole,” Mom replies cheerfully. “You've sulked all week. I allowed that. Today, you move on. And smile.”

“Ladies don't smile,” I grumble. “Ladies cross their ankles.”

Mom frowns as we pull into the Dunkin' Donuts parking lot. She cuts the engine, unclasps her seatbelt, and turns to me. “Give me the word then,” she says. “One word. And I'll put you back in Burlington.”

For a moment, a flutter of excitement, but this has to be a trick. I ask, “Are you serious?”

She nods, pieces of her curly auburn hair breaking free from her ponytail. The older I get, the more I realize how much our looks differ. Her skin is flushed with colorful freckles while mine is pale and smooth. Her hair kinks into curls while mine is a sleek black. Her eyes? Dark brown, chocolatey. Mine? Light gray, the color of a darkening sky. Everyone says I look like my dad.