Last straw. “Listen, I am not changing my hair. If you want me to help you, you take me the way I am or no deal.”
Kimberlee folded her arms across her chest. “Whatever,” she said. “But if no girl will touch you, don’t say I didn’t try.”
It took fifteen minutes of coaching before Kimberlee was satisfied. I wasn’t convinced. I had poky spears on one side with a flattened patch on the other, and bits of crunchy bangs were hanging down over one eye. “I look like an idiot.”
“No, you look hot!”
“I don’t know, Kim, maybe—”
“Kimberlee.”
“Kimberlee. Maybe this really isn’t the look for me.”
“Trust me. You’ve never looked better.”
Trust Kimberlee? Every instinct rebelled against that thought, but what choice did I really have? Kimberlee was born and raised in Santa Monica, and based on what I’d skimmed from her internet presence—yes, I did more Googling—she apparently was the queen of Whitestone for almost three years before the riptide cut her reign short. I had nothing.
Besides, I’d spent so long on my hair I only had ten minutes to get to school. No time to start over.
I poked my head in the kitchen. Just my luck: Mom, Dad, and Tina. As big an audience as our kitchen ever got this time of morning. I tried to appear confident as I rushed through the kitchen, attempting to not be seen.
“Jeff! Look at you!” my mom gushed. “You look like Ryan Seacrest.”
Was that a compliment?
My dad didn’t even look up from his paper. I was okay with that.
I grabbed my breakfast burrito to go, said my good-byes, and slipped out to my car before anyone could make any more comments.
“Loosen your tie,” Kimberlee said, popping suddenly into the front seat.
That I could handle.
“Much better. Now you look like someone I can stand to have working for me.”
My mouth dropped. “I. Don’t. Work. For. You,” I said, each word hard and clipped. “I am doing you the biggest favor in the world and—”
“And I just made you look like the kind of guy someone in this school might actually make out with. And considering you have to wear a uniform just like everyone else, that’s some pretty mad skills. I would think you would be grateful.”
“I was fine the way I was. All you did was make my hair weird and convince me not to shave. I would hardly call that ‘mad skills.’ I don’t need your help.”
“If you say so,” she said casually.
I fumed the entire drive to school and considered tighten-ing my tie out of spite. Between the fact that my car has a hair-trigger gas pedal and being pissed at Kimberlee, I made it to school five minutes before first bell. Perfect.
Kimberlee slid through the car door and was gone so quickly I couldn’t even tell where she went. Not that I cared.
I managed to park near the entrance closest to Serafina’s locker and started searching for her as soon as I opened the door. She was there, unloading her backpack. As I watched, she stood on her toes and reached up to put a book on the top shelf, lifting her skirt an inch or two. Her legs were very, very nice, but that wasn’t the only reason I stared.
They were totally ripped.
Her calves had that big bump that you see on girls who do weights. Not veiny, I-shoot-horse-testosterone legs, but perfect, fitness-model legs that could probably squeeze me like a python if they ever got me in a scissors hold.
Scissors hold. Hoo, boy.
I turned to my locker and grabbed my books, wishing I had more time before the three-minute bell.
More time talk to her. Or, at the very least, more time to work up my nerve.
She closed her locker and started my way. Just as she was about to pass me I gritted my teeth and forced myself to turn around. “Hey,” I said. Brilliant.
She turned, surprised, as if she couldn’t quite tell who had spoken to her in the crowded hallway.
“H-how’s it going?” I said, stepping a little closer and hoping she didn’t notice the little stutter.
“Good,” she said, smiling uncertainly.
I stood there for a few seconds, just staring. That was it. I had nothing more to say. “Oh, I’m Jeff. I just moved here from Phoenix,” I said, extending a hand. “Arizona,” I added. Stupid, stupid, stupid!
She reached out to shake my hand. It was only after our joined hands started moving up and down that I realized how lame the whole shaking hands thing was. “Sera,” she said quickly, pulling her hand back after about three shakes.
Sera. One of my favorite names. Starting now.
I looked up sharply as the bell rang.
“Well, it’s time,” Sera said, edging away.
“See you around,” I said, giving her my best grin.
I don’t think she noticed.
Still, that wasn’t so bad. First contact made and all. She knew my name now, at least. That was step one. There were about twenty-four more steps that involved her discovering I’m the love of her life and ditching her jock boyfriend, but what’s that quote about every journey beginning with a single step? That was my single step.
“Nice,” Kimberlee said, pulling me out of my daydream. “Now instead of being an unknown nobody, you’re the loser who told her what state Phoenix is in. Well done.”
Everyone’s a critic.
FIRST THING I RAN INTO in Bleekman’s class was Langdon’s back. Literally.
“Heeeeeeey, Jeff, right?” Langdon said, pushing a meaty arm around my shoulder. That was one heavy arm.
“Yeah?” I said tentatively, a little afraid I was about to get beat up on front of everyone.
“Whatcha doing Saturday night, buddy?” Buddy?
“Uh . . .” There were a couple of people gathered around now. Not all humongous meatheads like Langdon, but definitely some of the Whitestone elite—you know, the ones everyone else makes way for in the hallways. There’s just an . . . an air of intimidation, I guess. Some kind of international language of superiority.
I noticed most of them had spiky hair, too, and every single one had their collar unbuttoned under their loosened ties, just like me. Never thought of hair and clothing as camouflage before, but maybe they figured I was one of them now.
Or maybe Kimberlee haunted them into this. Could she do that?
“We’re having a kegger up on Harrison Hill,” Langdon continued. “It’s gonna be wild. You’re the new guy and I’m thinking you need a bona fide Whitestone welcome.”
This is the difference between jocks at Whitestone and jocks in public school. At Whitestone they know words like bona fide. “Oh yeah?” I said hesitantly.
“Dude, everyone’ll be there,” one of the more preppy-looking guys said. “We have parties up there a couple times a year and it is the place to be.”
“You should come,” Langdon said, the look in his eyes making me feel like a feeder fish—the ones in the store that have no purpose in