THE SILENT TREATMENT is my superpower. It drives people crazy, and the Twins are no exception. On the way to school, they took a tag-team approach, alternating between cracking jokes and apologizing. By the time we pulled into the school parking lot, they were begging me to talk to them.
I remained stone-faced through it all. The silent treatment only works if I hold out long enough to make a point, and subtlety doesn’t seem to have any effect on my cousins.
Starting the school day with precalculus and the Weasel sucks. Despite the dirty looks I throw his way, the Weasel continues to roll his Rs every time he calls me Miss Rios just like he did yesterday. One of us might not survive the next four months.
He’ll hit the wall before I do.
After class, the Twins are loitering across from my locker, talking to Grace. They try to make eye contact with me, but I ignore them and put away my books as quickly as possible.
Grace sees me and crosses to my side of the hall. Today she’s dressed in a white V-neck tee, a fitted black leather jacket, and skinny jeans—a combination my friends back home wear all the time. Except none of them could rock red leather cowboy boots with it.
“Hey,” she says. “The Twins told me about Christian’s chivalrous behavior at football practice yesterday. Sometimes they act like idiots.”
“I can’t believe he broke his friend’s nose. Who does that?”
“Christian just reacts. He doesn’t think first. Cam is the levelheaded one. He usually talks Christian out of doing crazy things, but Cam wasn’t happy with Titan, either. They’re sorry for embarrassing you.”
They do look pretty pathetic.
“I know they mean well. But they’re like puppies. If I don’t lay down the law now they’ll be out of control, swinging at every guy who talks at me.”
“You have to forgive them, or one of them will be texting me every five minutes. Consider this a purely selfish request.”
“Okay. I just want them to suffer a little bit longer.”
Grace laughs and keeps walking. “Deal.”
I stop in front of my English classroom. I’m about to spend the next fifty minutes in the same room as Owen. The way I left things yesterday didn’t mark the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Owen is already sitting at a desk in the back corner when I walk in. He’s stretched out in his chair, and my mind flashes to the sweatier and shirtless version of him. He looks up from the notebook he’s scribbling in and tries to make eye contact.
I choose the desk in the opposite corner of the classroom and pretend to check my email until the bell rings. Miss Ives walks around to the front of her desk. Today her blond dreadlocks are arranged on top of her head in an intricate bun and the metallic oxblood lipstick she’s wearing gives her light brown skin a golden glow. “I hope everyone brought in at least one object that holds special meaning for you.”
Several students reach for their backpacks while the rest of us remain frozen in place.
Miss Ives scans the room. “If you forgot, find something in the next five minutes—or expect a zero for this assignment.” The threat mobilizes us. My backpack has nothing in it except pens, two notebooks, a Dr Pepper Lip Smacker that Mom swears is the holy grail of lip products, my wallet, Ibuprofen in case my knee swells, and my cell phone. Unless I convince Miss Ives that my driver’s license has sentimental value, I’ve got nothing.
My fingers reach for the dog tags around my neck out of habit. I’ll just say they’re my dad’s. I don’t have to cough up any details. Dead parents make people uncomfortable. Lifting the chain over my head, I gently lay them on the desk.
“Find your partner from yesterday and get started,” Miss Ives calls over her shoulder as she scribbles furiously on the board.
English has officially dropped below precalc on the list of classes that suck.
Chair legs scrape across the floor and bags zip and unzip as the other students swap seats and find their partners. Not me. I’m hoping I’ll be granted with the power of invisibility before Owen comes over here.
Scooping the dog tags off the desk, I clutch them in a death grip.
Owen flips a chair around and pulls it up to my desk. He sits on the edge of the chair and leans forward, arms resting on his knees and hands clasped.
“I heard about what happened between Christian and Titan yesterday at practice. I feel like a jerk for giving you a hard time about him.”
At least we agree on one thing.
“An asshole like Titan couldn’t score a girl like you.”
The comment takes me by surprise and I look up. Huge mistake. Owen smiles at me and my anger dissolves.
“Is that a compliment?” I ask, hoping the question will distract him. If he keeps staring at me, I’ll forget that I’m supposed to be angry.
He stops fidgeting with his hands and the corner of his mouth turns up. “Why? Are you one of those girls who can’t take a compliment?”
I cover my mouth to hide a smile. “I have no issue taking one. I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t another cheap shot.”
Owen smiles, and my stomach flutters.
“You’re not going to let me off easy, are you?” he asks.
“Not a chance.”
Miss Ives walks down the center aisle toward us.
I kick Owen’s foot under the desk, and he notices her a second before she descends on us.
“I don’t see anything on the desk except pencils.” She sounds disappointed.
Reluctantly, I open my hand. “I brought these.”
Miss Ives sees the dog tags and her face brightens. “Excellent, Peyton. How about you, Owen?”
“I was getting mine.” He digs through his backpack and pulls out a clean white hand wrap.
“Carry on.” Miss Ives waves her hand and moves to the next group.
I point at the wrap. “Nice save.”
Owen leans forward, so we’re eye-to-eye. “You too. Except yours looks legit. That means you get to go first.”
“You’re not serious.” I swallow hard.
He glances over his shoulder. “If we don’t turn in something, we fail, right?”
I rub a stainless-steel tag between my fingers, and the raised letters that form my father’s name press against my skin. I’ve touched them so many times that I recognize the shape of every letter and number stamped into the metal.
“These were my dad’s.”
Owen reaches across the desk and touches the edge of the tag I’m not holding. “Were?”
So much for avoiding the topic of dead parents.
“He was in the Marine Corps. He died in Iraq.” The back of my throat burns. I don’t trust myself to keep talking. It feels like someone punched a hole in my chest.
“When did it happen?” His finger is still touching the tag, and it grazes the curve of my thumb. Warmth spreads through me, and I feel safe enough to answer.
“A year and a half ago.” I change the subject. “Is your dad around?”
His smile falls and his lips form a hard line. “My parents split up a couple years back. My dad and I don’t really talk.”
“Sorry.” Now we’re both uncomfortable.
I pick up the hand wrap on the desk. “Maybe you should tell me why this is important to you. Miss Ives is still making the rounds.”
The tension in Owen’s expression fades. “You don’t think it will go over well if I say it was the only thing I could find in my bag?”
I tap on the cloth and pretend to give him a stern look.
Owen slips his thumb through the hole at one end. “I use these to wrap my hands before I train.” He loops the cloth around his knuckles a few times. “I love kickboxing and my knuckles would get torn up without these.”
I resist the urge to tell him that I know why he uses them. I wrapped Reed’s hands for him all the time.
“You probably don’t want to hear about anything related to kickboxing. Since you hate fighters.” He glances at me, and my stomach somersaults.
My body needs to get the message that Owen is off-limits.
“I said I don’t like fighters.”
“That changes everything,” he teases. “So what’s the deal? There must be a reason. Do you puke at the sight of blood?”
“I’m a soccer player. I get scrapes and cuts all the time. Blood doesn’t bother me.”
“Do you think kickboxing and MMA are too violent?” Owen asks.
“Something like that.”
“Kickboxing isn’t about hurting people. It started as a form of self-defense in Thailand. For me, it’s also a way to get out of my head.” When I don’t say anything right away, Owen gives me a sheepish smile. “That was a lame explanation.”
“No. It made sense. I’ve just never heard anyone describe it that way. But I get it. Soccer is my escape—at least it was, before this.” I tap on the brace and look away.
“Hey? Your injury doesn’t change anything. You’ll play again. You just need time to heal.”
Owen isn’t the first person to say I just need time, but the words mean more coming from him because he didn’t have to say them.
I’ll do whatever it takes to get back on the soccer field.
My knee will heal. Deep down, I believe that. But I’m not sure about the rest of me.