“Oh, she’s just worn-out from all that dancing she’s taken up,” Anne Albright said. “You know, twirling with the froufrou tutus at Miss Catherine’s Dance Studio. Kicking it in pre-drill with all those sad Charmer wannabes.” She tightened her thick, chestnut-brown ponytail and grinned, apparently unable to resist stirring up a little excitement for lunch.
I chucked a French fry at her. She was lucky she was my best friend, or I’d be tempted to dump her soda over her head instead. She knew Carrie and Michelle were still annoyed that I’d picked dance lessons instead of playing volleyball again with them this year. To them, even sucking at volleyball was better than dancing.
Michelle Wilson turned her big hazel eyes toward me. “Are you going to try out for the Charmers, Sav?”
It took me a few seconds to understand. Then I remembered. Most students only took pre-drill as a required class so they could audition for the JHS Cherokee Charmers Dance/Drill Team in May.
“Of course she isn’t,” Anne jumped in before I could reply. “Pre-drill is just her mom’s idea of fulfilling her P.E. credit without embarrassing herself again like last year.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said. But I couldn’t really be mad. Anne was only saying the truth, as usual. I had taken pre-drill for the P.E. credit, and because it had no audience or competitions for me to doom a team at. Trying out for the Charmers was the last thing on my mind.
“Sorry,” Anne muttered, both looking and sounding sincere.
Between desperate gulps of tea, I gave her a half grin to show I wasn’t really upset. She’d been my best friend for over two years now, and I’d gotten used to her blunt style. In a way, it was even comforting. At least I could always count on her to be honest, no matter what.
A new wave of pain rose up to slam into my stomach and chest, wiping the smile right off my face. This was an ache I knew far too well. It hit me every time he came within a hundred yards of me, usually before I even saw or heard him.
Michelle, who sat across from me, let out a dreamy sigh, confirming what my body already knew.
“Please let me trip him,” Anne muttered once she’d glanced over her shoulder and spotted him, too.
I kept my gaze on Michelle, though the tiny blonde’s moonstruck expression was tough to watch. Anything to keep me facing forward. Tristan had to either walk along the outer wall of the cafeteria or cut across the center by our table on his way to the food lines. Most people cut across. No doubt he would, too.
Just a few more seconds and he’d pass right behind me. I told myself I didn’t care, even as my skin tingled with some secret knowledge all its own that he was drawing closer.
And then I heard it … a low whistling, the notes so quiet I could almost have believed I’d imagined them if not for my sensitive hearing. Sugarplum music, as plain as if he’d whistled the notes right against my ear.
Ever since he’d seen my ballet slippers fall out of my backpack during algebra earlier this year, Tristan had started whistling The Nutcracker’s “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” song every time he saw me. I remembered his sense of humor, how his mind worked. This was his wordless way of teasing me about wanting to be a ballerina, without having to actually bother to talk to me. Because of course a klutz like me couldn’t ever become a decent dancer, right?
I felt a blush flood my cheeks and neck with heat, adding to my frustration. I must look like a strawberry … red face, red hair, red ears. But no way would I duck my head. I would not give him the satisfaction of any reaction I could control, at least.
“Oh, I am so gonna trip him,” Anne hissed, turning her chair toward him. Apparently she got his sense of humor, too, even if she didn’t approve of it.
“No, you can’t!” Michelle reached over the edge of the round table, grabbed Anne’s arm and yanked her sideways half out of her seat. By the time Anne recovered, he was past our table.
“He’s a member of the Clann. You know how all those witches treat Savannah,” Anne said.
“Tristan Coleman isn’t like them. He’s nice,” Michelle said. “The whole witchcraft thing is just a rumor. And a stupid one, at that.”
Carrie, Anne and I all shared a look.
Michelle sighed. “Tristan is so not a witch! Or warlock, or whatever they’re called. His family goes to my church. And he’s too nice to sacrifice small animals. Remember how he saved me last summer at that track meet? None of the others would have done that, but he did.”
Carrie and Anne both groaned out loud. We’d heard this story countless times this year, until Anne had finally threatened to beat Michelle to death if she told it one more time.
I just groaned inside my head. I was too busy forcing air in and out of my lungs past the tightness in my chest. How did he do this to me?
“‘Saved’ is a little much,” Carrie said. “And for the record, witches don’t sacrifice animals.”
“Yeah, Michelle,” Anne said. “All he did was help you off the track after you got shin splints.”
“Exactly!” Michelle retorted. “Those shin splints hurt so badly. And he was the only one to come and help me. And he didn’t even know me!”
Carrie sighed and dropped her chin into a propped-up hand.
“Michelle, get a grip. He just did that to make himself look good for everyone at the track meet.” Anne chugged the rest of her soda then burped. She didn’t bother to say excuse me. “He’s nothing more than a glorified spoiled rich kid.”
“That’s not true. And he doesn’t need to try and make himself look good. He already looks good. Did you see that chest? Those huge shoulders?” Michelle sighed again. “Thank you, God, for growth spurts. I swear he’s grown half a foot taller this year. And that new voice. Oh, yum.”
“Oh, gag me,” Anne said. “I’ll bet his ego grew right along with the rest of him. He thinks every girl on the planet should be eager to drool over him. And what do you mean, ‘that new voice’? You got a class with him or something?”
It was Michelle’s turn to blush. “No. He stops by the front office before first period on A days sometimes to talk to me and the other office aides.”
“And I’ll bet you just love chatting him up, don’t you?” Anne glared at her.
“Well, it … it’s the least I can do, since he saved me.”
“Ugh, I’m gonna hurl.” Anne gathered up her books.
“Me, too. I can’t believe you talk to a Clann member,” Carrie said, picking up her things despite her still half-full salad bowl. “Especially one who thinks he owns all of East Texas.”
I stared down at my untouched chili cheese fries. My comfort food looked anything but comforting today. “I think I’m done, too.”
“Aw, guys. Don’t be mad.” Michelle jumped up and grabbed her stuff. “Y’all are way too hard on him. He’s really very nice once you get to know him.”
“Puh-lease.” Anne proceeded to explain the difference between being nice and being a total player as we all headed for the trash cans then the rear exit. I followed but tuned them out, tired of hearing about Tristan Coleman’s infamous reputation with the girls. But my traitorous gaze still slipped over to the Clann kids’ table long enough to see that the prince of Jacksonville needed another haircut. Tristan’s golden curls had grown long enough to brush the collar of his polo shirt again.
Later that afternoon before fourth period, the foot traffic streamed around me like a human river flowing through the main hallway. I sighed, tired and achy and cranky, trying to ignore the claustrophobic feeling from the swarm of