Yardley Devereaux, age 16

 

I don't belong here. 

I realize being the new kid makes people give you a second look, but I don't think it should give them permission to stare at you like you have a second head growing out of your nose. Or a monstrous zit on your chin. Or a period stain on your pants.

At this point, it’s all the same.

Not to mention, I don't think anyone can prepare you for what it feels like to eat lunch alone.

The smell of burnt tater tots makes my stomach churn, and the milk on my tray expires today. I'm pretty sure the “chicken patty on a bun” they gave me is nothing more than pink slime baked to a rock-hard consistency.

I’m unwilling to risk chipping a tooth, so I refuse to try it.

Checking my watch for the millionth time, I calculate approximately 3 1/2 hours left until I can go home and tell my parents what an amazing first day I had. That’s what they want to hear anyway.

Dad moved us here from California with the promise that we were going to be richer than sin, whatever that means. But if Missouri is such a gold mine, then why doesn't the rest of the world move here? So far, Lambs Grove looks like the kind of place you'd see in some independent film about a mother trying to solve her son's murder with the help of a corrupt police department, starring Jake Gyllenhaal, JK Simmons, and Frances McDormand.

Okay, I'm probably being dramatic, but this place is pretty lame.

I miss the ocean.

I miss the constant sunshine and the steady stream of seventy-five degree days.

I miss the swaying palm trees.

I miss my friends.

Forcing your teenage daughter to move away from the town she’s grown up in her entire life—in the middle of her sophomore year—is cruel. I don't care how rich Dad says we’re going to get, I'd have rather stayed in Del Mar, driven a rusting Honda, worked two jobs, and paid my own way through a technical college if it had meant we didn't have to move. 

And speaking of cruel, can we talk about my name for a second? Yardley.

Everyone here has normal, middle-America type of names. Alyssa. Monica. Taylor. Heather. Courtney. If I have to spell my name for someone one more time, I’m going to scream.  My mom wanted my name to be special and different because apparently she thinks I'm special and different, but naming your daughter Yardley doesn’t make her special …

… it just makes it so she’ll never find her name on a souvenir license plate. 

I’d go by my middle name if it weren’t equally as bad, but choosing between Yardley and Dove is akin to picking your own poison.

Yardley Dove Devereaux.

My parents are cruel.

I rest my case.

I pop a cold tater tot into my mouth and force myself to chew. I'll be damned if I'm that girl sitting in third period with a stomach growling so loud it drowns out the teacher. I don't need to give people more reasons to stare.

Pulling my notebook from my messenger bag, I pretend to focus on homework despite the fact that it's the first day of spring semester and none of my teachers have assigned anything yet, but it’s better than sitting here staring at the block walls of the cafeteria like some awkward loser.

Pressing my pen into the paper, I begin to write:

Monday, January 7, 2008

This day sucks.

The school sucks.

This town sucks.

These people suck.

After a minute, I toss my pen aside and exhale. 

“What about me? Do I suck?” A pastel peach lunch tray plops down beside me followed by a raven-haired boy with eyes like honey and a heartbreaker’s smile. My heart flutters in my chest. He's gorgeous. And I have no idea why he's sitting next to me. “Nevada.”

“No. California. I’m from Del Mar,” I say, clearing my throat and sitting up straight. “It’s kind of by San Diego.”

 The boy laughs through his perfectly straight nose.

I can't take my eyes off his dimpled smirk. He can’t take his eyes off me.

“My name,” he says slowly. “It's Nevada. Like the state. And you are?”

“New,” I say.

He laughs at me again, eyes rolling. “Obviously. What’s your name?”

My cheeks warm. Apparently, I can’t human today. “Yardley.”

“Yardley from California.” He says my name like he’s trying to memorize it as he studies me. I squirm, wanting to know what he’s thinking and why he’s gazing at me like I’m some kind of magnificent creature and not some circus sideshow new girl freak. “What brings you here?”

He steals one of my tater tots before slipping it between his full lips, grinning while he chews.

Nevada doesn't look like the boys where I’m from. He doesn't sound like them either. He isn't sun-kissed with windswept surfer hair. His features are darker, more mysterious. One look at this tall drink of water and I know he’s wise beyond his years. Mischievous and charismatic but also personable.

He’s … everything.

And he’s everything I never expected to come across in a town like this.

A group of girls at the table behind us gape and gawk, whispering and nudging each other. It occurs to me then that this might be a set-up, that this beautiful boy might be talking to this awkward new girl as a dare.

“Ignore them,” he says when he follows my gaze toward the plastic cheerleader squad sitting a few feet away. “They’re just jealous.”

I lift a brow. “Of what?”

He smirks, shaking his head and laughing at me like I’m supposed to ‘get it.’

“What?” I ask. If this is a joke, I want to be in on it. I refuse to add butt-of-the-joke to the list of reasons why this day can go to hell.

“They’re jealous because they think I’m about to ask you out,” he says, licking his lips. Nevada hasn’t taken his eyes off me since the moment he sat down.

“Should I go inform them that they’re wasting their energy?”

His expression fades. “Why would you say that?”

“Because …” my eyes roll. “You’re not about to ask me out.”

“I’m not?”

I peel my gaze off of him and glance down at my untouched lunch. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why am I doing what? Talking to you? Trying to get the courage to ask you on a date?”

I look up, studying his golden gaze and trying to determine if he’s being completely serious right now.

“You’ve never seen me before in your life and then you just … plop down next to me and ask me on a date?” I ask, rising. If I have to dump my tray and hide in the bathroom until the bell rings, then so be it. Anything is better than sitting here while this guy tries to make me look like a damn fool in front of a bunch of strangers that I hope might someday treat me like I’m not a three-headed alien.

“Where are you going?” he asks, dark brows furrowed.

“Somewhere.”

Nevada reaches for me, wrapping his hand around my wrist in a silent plea for me to stay. “Do you have a boyfriend back in California? Is that what this is about?”

“What? No,” I say.

This guy is relentless.

“Then go on a date with me.” Nevada rises, standing beside me, and I can’t help but notice his sweeping height, his broad shoulders, and the way the top of my head fits perfectly beneath his chiseled jaw. “Friday.”

“Why?”

His expression fades. “Why?”

The bell rings. Thank God.

“I was new once. I get it,” he says, fighting another dimpled smirk. God, I could never get tired of looking at a face like his. “And, uh … I think you’re really fucking hot.”

His tempered smirk morphs into a full-blown smile and he doesn’t break eye contact for so much as a fraction of a second.

Biting my lower lip and trying my damnedest to keep a straight face, I decide I won’t be won over that easily. It takes a lot more than a sexy smile, some kind words, and a curious glint in his sunset eyes. If he truly wants me … if this isn’t a joke and he honestly thinks I’m “really fucking hot,” he’s going to have to prove it.

“Yardley from California,” he says, expression turning serious, “let me take you out. One date.”

“Bye, Nevada,” I say, gathering my things and disappearing into a crowd of students veering toward two giant trash cans.

I don’t wait for him to respond and I don’t turn around, but I feel him watching me—if that’s even possible. There’s this electric energy pulsing through me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I’m not sure if it’s excitement or anticipation or the promise of hope … but I can’t deny that it’s real and it’s there.

Making my way to the second floor of Lambs Grove High, I find my English Lit classroom and settle into a seat in the back.

For the tiniest sliver of a moment, I imagine the two of us together. In my silly little daydream, we’re laughing and happy and so in love that it physically hurts—the kind of thing I’ve never had with anyone else.

My stomach rolls—maybe hunger and butterflies—and I retrieve my notebook and pen and hook my bag over the back of my chair.

The tardy bell rings and a few more students shuffle in. My teacher takes roll call before beginning his lecture, but I don’t hear any of it.

I can’t stop thinking about that beautiful boy.