As I walk out of second period and head toward my locker, people either steal peeks at me or turn away and whisper back and forth about how I look—am I angry? sad? happy? Do they think they’re being subtle? Being the center of attention is makes me twitchy. “No need to tell me that long Amber story,” Griff mutters in my ear as he strolls next to me. “If you couldn’t guess from all the stares you got during Spanish, Amber’s been telling her own story.” “She didn’t have to,” I reply, careful to keep my voice down and a grin on my face, like Griff and I are talking about some great joke we just heard. “She ensured she had plenty of witnesses yesterday.” “Sucks, man. It’ll blow over soon.” When we get to my locker, he asks if I want to meet up for lunch. “You pack one?” He shakes his head. “Hit the snooze button this morning and had to run. Gotta buy.” “Me, too,” I admit. Slept in to make up for the night I spent up with Stewie and reading the Alamo book.
