to explain this to my parents. They’re going to go ape-shit.” What Seth really meant was that his stepdad would freak. Getting cut from the golf team would give him one more reason to be disappointed in Seth. Unfortunately, Seth’s stepdad had a habit of showing his disappointment with a few well-placed punches, most of which left a bruise or two.
There was no stopping Seth either. He darted toward the student parking lot to get his truck.
Students with backpacks as big as tortoises shuffled alongside me as we all carved our way down the narrow hallways before the next bell. Normally I hated the claustrophobic feeling of the hallways and all the pushing and shoving, but today I barely noticed. I was still trying to wrap my head around Seth’s news: Some girl named Fred Oday.
Some girl? Had Seth heard that right?
She’s already got a spot on the team.
How was that fair?
Coach isn’t even making her try out.
Not even an informal tryout?
And her name is Fred Oday.
Fred? What kind of a girl’s name was that?
My temples began to throb as I replayed the news in my head. None of it made any sense.
And where had I heard the name Fred? Where had I seen her? Surely she hadn’t just dropped out of the freaking sky. She must be at least a junior. And why would Coach Lannon put a girl on an all-boys’ varsity golf team? Was he high? Weren’t there rules against stuff like that? Shouldn’t there be? Our chances of winning the state championship had just crashed.
Still numb, I almost head-butted Zack Fisher on my way to English. I was going through the door as he was busting out.
“You hear?” Zack said to me, predictably. Of course Zack had heard. Thanks to him, probably everyone in the entire school already knew about Seth.
I stared back at him, still a little dazed.
“Well? Have you heard?” He grabbed my shoulder.
I shrugged Zack’s hand off my shoulder. “Yeah. I heard. I sit right next to him in Homeroom. Remember?”
“Can you believe that?” Zack’s head of tight brown curls shook indignantly, his eyes shiny and wide with the news. “And now we’ve got a girl on the team? Are you kidding me?” His voice got higher, louder. Angrier. “Why don’t they just start a girls’ team?” Several freshmen glanced curiously in our direction as they passed us in the hallway.
“I know,” I said, unsure what more to say.
“You know her?”
I shook my head. “Never heard of her.”
Zack chortled. “Well, she better be good. That’s all I got to say.” He said it as if he didn’t think it was even remotely possible. I wanted him to be right.
“Yeah,” I said. Especially since she just got my best friend kicked off the team.
The bell rang, and we both turned for the door. Mrs. Weisz, our English teacher, was already at the podium and shuffling papers. She peered at us over her wire-rimmed bifocals. A quick flicker of her eyelids reminded us about her views on tardiness. But then I realized, too late, that I’d rather be anywhere other than inside her stuffy classroom discussing lame hundred-year-old books that never made any sense. I should have ditched with Seth.
Too late now.
With my backpack slung over my right shoulder and my hands jammed in my front pockets to keep them from punching a hole in the door, I wove my way to my usual spot next to the window. Every seat was taken, and the rows were so tight that there was barely any room to wedge between the desks. When I finally made it to the last row, I passed by a girl seated in the front desk and accidentally knocked over her book with my backpack.
“Sorry,” I murmured, bending over to retrieve it. When I stood up, my eyes swept over her desk and then landed on her face. It was the same girl who’d walked out of Coach Lannon’s office.
For a moment, we locked gazes, and I began to piece it together. But then before I blinked, the girl lowered her eyes and began fidgeting with a strand of her hair. It twirled around her finger like a shiny black ribbon as she stared down at a blank page in her notebook. Her eyes hid under feathery eyelashes.
And then, for some odd reason, I squinted at the cover of her book in my hand: The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. In the right corner, written in perfect cursive letters in black ink, I saw another name: Fred Oday.
My jaw dropped. Fred Oday? That Fred Oday?
My temples started to pound again. My eyes traveled back down to the girl’s forehead. Her brow was furrowed, and her eyes stayed lowered. She was sure as shit avoiding me.
You’re Fred Oday? I wanted to shout.
I almost choked out my question until Mrs. Weisz said, “Mr. Berenger? Something wrong?”
I didn’t answer her. My gaze refused to unlock from the top of the girl’s head.
“Will you take your seat, Mr. Berenger?” Mrs. Weisz snapped.
I nodded numbly. And then I remembered.
All of the details came flooding back as clearly as the writing on her book. Everything.
She was the girl who’d dropped cake right into my crotch at Mom’s birthday dinner, almost as if she’d done it on purpose. She was the girl who’d passed Seth and me outside Coach Lannon’s office. And she was also the girl who’d robbed my best friend of his spot on the golf team.
I dropped the book onto Fred’s desk. It landed with a splat.
Then I stormed down the row and dropped into the last empty seat.
Chapter 5
Fred
I WANTED TO hide in Coach Lannon’s office for the rest of the day.
The whispers and hushed voices started in earnest sometime after Homeroom on my way to English, even worse than when Dad had dropped me off at the curb. When I tilted my head and struggled to eavesdrop on hallway conversations between classes, voices faded. It was like trying to catch words in the wind.
But then in first-period English, for the very first time, he looked at me: Ryan Berenger. The pretentious, moody guy who couldn’t be bothered to have dinner with his family, the one who always had his arm around the bleached-blonde girl from the pom squad who was always pictured in the school newspaper on top of parade floats and at dances that I wouldn’t dream of attending. Usually. Anyway, they always sat together all cozylike at lunch. Ryan let Blonde Girl thread her thin, pale fingers through his hair like she owned him.
They deserved each other.
But I’d been in Ryan Berenger’s classes since freshman year, and he picked today to finally acknowledge my existence.
I’d seen him tons of times at the Ahwatukee Golf Club over the summer, too. He and his short, stocky blond friend were always speeding by the driving range in a golf cart. Lucky them, they didn’t have to wait till after five o’clock for the chance to play for free like I did. Ryan could play whenever he wanted.
And now we were teammates. As Trevor would say, that was irony.
That would also explain why he’d glared at me in English class and gripped my book like he wanted to shred it to pieces. What else would make him so angry? Apparently he’d gotten the news that I was on the team, too—or he was still pissed that I’d ruined his pants with a piece of mushy birthday cake.
“Don’t fear the journey,” I murmured as the day’s last bell rang. At my locker, I closed my eyes and tried desperately to picture the falcon with the gold-and-brown feathers perched at the top of our mesquite tree at home. For a moment, my shoulders lightened, and I was able to drown out the negative thoughts