Cora Carmack: All Lined Up

As we climb the stairs together, my heart climbs higher and higher into my throat until it throbs on the back of my tongue. The two girls who’d been all over Levi earlier are still on the stairs, and when they see us coming, they sit up straighter. One fluffs her hair, her gaze darting between Silas and me, and I can see her confusion in her glossy-lipped frown. She stands as we near, petite to the point that she would look twelve years old were it not for the giant rack that has to completely throw off her balance.

“Hey, Silas,” she breathes.

He only nods back, but he smiles while he does it, and she looks grateful for even that little bit of attention.

Dear God, please tell me I don’t look that pathetic. Because I will not be that girl, begging for scraps, no matter how gorgeous the guy is.

Upstairs is surprisingly deserted. Or at least it appears to be. The long hallway of closed doors is probably hiding plenty of things I don’t want to be party to. Discomfort sweeps through me, and I’m grateful when he stops outside a closed door that I hope (oh please, please) is the bathroom.

He gives me another mock bow and says, “All yours, pretty girl.”

I cannot escape into that bathroom fast enough. And maybe (okay, definitely) it’s overkill, but I lock the door as soon as it’s closed.

Get a grip, Dallas.

I suck at the whole meeting new people thing. I’ve had plenty of practice, what with Dad’s propensity to up and move us every few years, but it never gets any easier.

All in all, I just really blow at being a normal human being.

But I am going to start now, damn it.

Note to self: do not use the world blow in front of Silas . . . in any context. It won’t turn out well.

No matter what I have to do, I will not let my dad limit my life here, too.

I don’t look in the mirror as I work to gather my composure. If I do, I know I’ll obsess over my hair—how the deep red color clashes horribly against my no doubt pink cheeks. I can feel the light perspiration above my brow, so my bangs are probably a clumpy, oily mess, too.

Nope. Better to avoid the mirror altogether. Silas didn’t seem to take issue with whatever he saw, so neither should I. Instead, I take a few seconds just to lean against the door and breathe.

By-product of having a coach for a father? A natural gift for mental pep talks.

But now . . . I wasn’t sure which pep talk to give. The familiar be cautious and careful routine? Or take a cue from Stella and treat myself to a live it up talk to get my ass in gear? In the end, I decide on something carefully in the middle. I’ll see what happens with Silas, but I am not staying upstairs with him, and I am not leaving the party with him either.

There. That seems reasonable.

Fun. I need to have some. Stat.

Decided, I open the door quietly, smile situated on my lips, expecting to find Silas waiting, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

Walking back toward the stairs, I see him, hands braced on the railing and talking with someone a few steps down.

“Come on. Give me one hint,” Silas says.

The answering voice is familiar, and immediately I feel sick.

“Dude, it took me years to get in her pants.” Levi. Freaking Levi. “No way I’m giving you an easy in. And no way you’re managing it in one night. She’s an icebox, man.”

I shiver. Like I really have been coated in ice.

Silas chuckles before replying, “Oh ye of little faith.”

“Oh ye of little chance .”

“Whatever,” Silas says. “If she gave it up to high school you, all farm fresh with zero game, she can’t be that tough.”

They talk about me like I am some play to master, a team to beat. I probably matter less to them than their helmets and pads. And, oh yes, I have no doubt now that Silas is on the football team. Levi wouldn’t be hanging out with him if he weren’t.

My heart drums in my ears, and my mouth waters in that way that usually means I’m about to be sick. I don’t scream, even though it would be satisfying. Nor do I pick up the vase on the hallway table and test out how my Angry Birds skills translate to real-life target practice.

Instead, I calmly walk the length of the hallway and escape into an empty bedroom. I breeze past a few twin beds and head straight for the French doors that open up to a balcony on the far side of the room.

Emerging into the surprisingly cool evening air, I close the door behind me, sucking in a lungful of refreshing air.

Then I scream.

Not the shrieky, ear-shattering kind. Lower, more guttural. Like a battle cry.

Gripping the balcony railing, I stand up straighter, like I would if I were standing at the barre in my dance studio, and I let it all out.

Already I feel better.

A few seconds of precious silence passes, filled only by the faint echo of my scream. Then below me a voice calls out, “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that you’ve decided against going Greek.”

Down in the yard, highlighted by one of the floodlights affixed to the outside of the house, is another gorgeous guy wearing dark, worn jeans, scuffed boots, and a smirk that oscillates between infuriating and adorable. He’s got dark hair and a delectable touch of scruff along his jaw, and he looks entirely entertained by my mental breakdown.

And all I can think is . . . Dear God, not another one.

It’s like she took the scream right out of my throat. I’ve been out here alone, alternating between convincing myself to leave and convincing myself to stay. And here comes this gorgeous girl with a lion’s roar.

She leans over the ledge, her eyes searching until she finds me sprawled at the base of one of the wide oak trees in the yard. I sit up a little straighter under her gaze.

Her pale skin shines a creamy white in the moonlight, and dark red hair frames a heart-shaped face with full, pouty lips. Her eyes narrow on me, or maybe she just squints. After a few seconds of studying me, she offers an unenthusiastic, “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. That was the best thing I’ve seen all night.”

“You can’t have had a very exciting night, then.”

No. No, I hadn’t. I’d tagged along with some other teammates, thinking I needed to make an effort to get to know them off the field. I’d gotten to know them all right. And I was already tired of them. I knew it wouldn’t be easy to walk on to a team like this, it never was. People were nice enough, but none of them took me seriously.

Just a walk-on.

Most people see us as just players for the real athletes to practice against with no real chance of getting any substantial playing time for ourselves. A few are more accepting.

But fitting in isn’t worth spending an hour with those assholes. They aren’t even drunk yet, so I can only imagine how much worse it will get.

I shrug off that frustration and tell the girl, “At least things are looking up now.”

She stiffens, shaking out her hair like a mane. The deep red shines, catching glints from the lights as she moves.

“Listen,” she says, “tonight is not the night to flirt with me.”

I should probably be annoyed by her brusque tone, but I find myself smiling instead.

“Who said I was flirting?”

She scoffs, her fingers curling tighter around the balcony banister.

“You were.”

I grin because, yeah . . . I was. She’s not cocky when she says it either, just matter-of-fact. I find it . . . fascinating.

“It’s not like I stood below the balcony reciting Romeo and Juliet .” Not like I could either. I never managed to finish that when we read it in high school English, and the movie version I watched with guns and gangs got me a big fat F on the exam. She makes a noise, and I can’t tell whether she’s scoffing at me again or laughing.