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I shrug.

Trevor
gets
sports. He’s athletic too. But he’s also fearless. Unlike me. I question everything. I’m always a little uncertain. Insecure.

“Was good. I got a lot done.” I lie. I can’t tell him the truth. That that stupid skill paralyzes me every time.

“Good,” he says. “Next question. Did you talk to him yet?”

“Talk to who?” I ask.

Trevor runs his hand through his thick blonde hair and lets out an annoyed sigh.

“Your dad, Sydney. Have you talked to your dad about the lake house?”

I try not to visibly wince. I was really hoping he wouldn’t ask me about that again this week.

I know I’d told him that I was ready to stay the night with him, but every time he brings it up I have to remind myself
why
I said that. Am I
really
ready? It seemed like the perfect idea when he first mentioned it. Since Trevor is a year older, a senior, his parents are letting him and some friends stay out at their lake house after prom this year. I
do
want to be with him, and really, I don’t know why I’ve put it off this long. I’ve heard the comments when Trevor and I are together. The whispers in the halls or when we go out together.

“
Why is he even with her?”

“She doesn’t even know what to do with a guy like him.”

“I bet he’s cheating on her.”

I want to be closer to him.
Closest
. To have something with him that will make me more secure in our relationship. To silence those whispers. But god, I’m so nervous. Especially when it comes to having to lie to my dad.

“I’ll talk to him tonight. I promise,” I say.

“That’s my girl,” he says. He picks up my hand and kisses each of my knuckles.

I met Trevor t
wo years ago
.
I was dealing with the loss of my mom and shutting everyone I knew out. It was easier to do that than to have to try and constantly convince everyone that you were okay…
really
. With everything going on at home, I hadn’t turned in my schedule request on time at school, so I was stuck with Theatre Arts as an elective. Trevor, this ridiculously hot, older guy that I could barely breathe around at first was partnered with me. He wasn’t in the class by choice, either. And though he made me nervous at first, he also made me laugh for the first time in months. For the longest time, I was petrified to even make eye contact with him. I was scared to let him in. I was scared he’d see how totally broken I was. But that semester, our relationship changed from a lighthearted friendship, to something more. I felt safe. And happy.

And
that
is why I agreed to the lake house.

“What are you thinking about?” Trevor asks.

“You. And how we’re both going to be late,” I say. I motion to the door of my Oceanography class.

Trevor lets out a smooth, sexy laugh that makes me smile.

“Fine, have it your way,” he says. He kisses my forehead before he turns away, waving casually over his shoulder.

I dive into the classroom and slide into my seat at the long black table just as the bell rings. I like to be prepared, and getting to class at the last second makes me nervous. I quickly unpack my heavy textbook and three-ring-binder and organize them neatly on the table top. I don’t know anyone in my first period class. In fact, I’m pretty certain no one in here even knows my first name. Mostly people just know me as, “Trevor’s girlfriend.” At the beginning of the year, a girl had occupied the seat next to me, but she moved a couple of weeks in, leaving me alon
e
on my own little island. I don’t mind.

I tap my pencil on the top of my binder, waiting for the lecture to begin. I really need an A in this class. If I can manage straight As again this semester, Dad said he’ll consider letting me
home school
so that I can go to the gym more often. I already go twice a day, but still, it can’t hurt. Plus, I miss a ton of school as it is with competitions. Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone enter the room. The visitor walks to the front of the room and hands something to our teacher, Mrs. Drez.

“All right, listen up,” she says. Her raspy voice permanently sounds like
she’s
in serious need of a Ricola. “This is Grant, obviously he’s new. It’d be nice if you guys could do something for someone else for a change and show him around a bit. You know, help him out if needed.”

A chorus of groans echoes through the room. Mrs. Drez motions to the empty spot at my table, naturally. The only empty seat in the class. New student Grant glances at me as he flops his book bag down on to the table. I smile politely, while
squealing internally. Good lord, he’s gorgeous! Not conventionally handsome like, say, my boyfriend. But there is something about him. The curious way his hair goes every which way, and I can’t tell if he woke up like that, or he spent hours perfecting it. Based on his v-neck t-shirt, jeans and Chucks, I’d go with the former. It isn’t normal for me to even notice any other guy but Trevor. But as Grant slides into his chair, he bumps my arm lightly with his and immediately, heat rushes through me. I lock my eyes on Mrs. Drez, and bite my lip the entire class period to keep from saying or doing anything stupid.

Somehow, I manage to make it through the hour with my dignity intact. As soon as I hear the bell ring, I rush out of the room. I’ve just crossed the doorway and into the safe zone when I hear an unfamiliar voice. Clear, soft and polite.

“Sorry to bother you…” he says. “Um, I didn’t catch your name earlier.”

No, you didn’t. Because I’m a moron incapable of holding a conversation.

“Sydney, sorry,” I stutter. I teeter on the top step of the cement walkway, trying to lean casually against the railing.

“Sydney,” he says with a ferociously handsome smile, “I’m Grant. Nice to meet you.”

I nod. Still not functioning properly.

“Anyway, you wouldn’t happen to know where Economics with Mr. Palmatier is, would you? The room number is missing from my schedule.” He holds up the crumpled piece of carbon paper as evidence and flashes
the
smile again.

“Um, yeah,” I stammer, heat filling my face. “That’s where I’m headed. I could show you, if you’d like.” My voice sounds foreign in my own ears. It’s several octaves higher than normal from my stupid nerves.

“That’d be great. Thanks.”

“Sure thing,” I say.

I start to take a step, but haven’t correctly gauged how close I am to the edge of the stair. As if in slow motion, I lose my balance and fall down the short flight of steps and on to my back.
For the second time today.
My head hits the asphalt with a loud smack and I squeeze my eyes tightly together, hoping to stop the tears of humiliation and pain from forming. And maybe if I’m really lucky, Grant will miraculously disappear too. I think I liked the camera crew in my face better.

After lying on the hot black pavement for what feels like ten minutes, although, it’s probably more like thirty seconds, I crack one eye open. Through my damp lashes, I see Grant hovering over me, hand outstretched. I wait for the laughter, or at least a smirk, but he fights it off. His brow is puckered and his face holds only a look of genuine concern. I’d almost rather he laugh than pity me. I’d had enough of that to last a lifetime.

“Let me help,” he says, pulling me up off of the ground and dusting off the back of my sweater.

This is so far beyond mortifying. I have perfect balance. I can manage to stay on a four-inch-wide balance beam, four feet off of the ground, while flipping multiple times and somehow, in Grant’s presence, I can’t even keep upright standing still on a step more than twice its size?

“Are you okay?” he asks. There still isn’t any amusement in his tone.

“Fine,” I say, refusing to actually look at him. I brush the tears out of my eyes before he can see them and fight the urge to rub the back of my pounding head. I feel stupid enough as it is, I’m not going to admit injury as well. I’m not sure why
he’s
making me so nervous, but I need to get away.

I’m glad the cameras aren’t here to see me rush off to Econ, leaving Grant to find his own way.

My younger sister, Maisy
,
is sitting at the kitchen counter when I get home from gym that evening.

“What’s the matter?” I ask.

She doesn’t bother to answer. This is our typical exchange. I try to talk to her. She ignores me in favor of our cat. Or a magazine. Or a donut. It doesn’t matter. Anything to avoid communicating with me.

“Hey, I was thinking, it’s supposed to be beautiful this weekend. You want to do something together? Anywhere you want to go?” I press. I’m trying. I really am. I try to remind myself that she was younger when mom died. That she didn’t have the same childhood I did. That she might be even more lost than I am.

“Nope. And I have plans,” she says without looking up.

Of course she does, the little social butterfly.

“Okay. Well, let me know if plans change,” I say.

I’m relieved when Dad comes home with bags of take-out and interrupts the uncomfortable silence in the house.

My dad, Everett Pierce, is an architect. Designing buildings is the reason for his existence. At least since my mom died. They were high school sweethearts. And I know that sounds totally lame and generic, but in their case, it was really sweet. He’s a nice looking man, even though he looks tired tonight, like he does a lot of the time. I think like me, he’s still having trouble getting a good night’s rest. His hair has just the right amount of gray that keeps him looking handsome and distinguished though, rather than over the hill. I worry sometimes that his loyalty to my mom will keep him from being happy with someone else. I guess only time will tell.

I pick out some brown rice and Mandarin chicken and head up to my room to start my homework.

My palm clutches my chest in an attempt to slow my pounding heart. My eyes struggle to focus on the alarm clock.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

4:45 A.M. slowly comes into focus.

Oh, well, I reason with myself. It was going to go off in fifteen minutes anyhow. I fling the thick comforter off of the bed and turn off the alarm.

I’
ve
had the same nightmare so many times. Less frequently now since Trevor and I have been together, but that doesn’t mean that it stings any less. I suppose calling it a nightmare isn’t even entirely accurate. Not when it actually happened. The morning that changed my life. It
i
s the stuff nightmares are made of. I was only fifteen when someone killed my mom.

****

Sitting in first period
today
is the same as every other day. Organize books. Tap pencil. Stare off into space thinking about Trevor. Or gymnastics. What the heck am I supposed to talk about in my “confessional” today? My life is so dull.  Until the door opens and Grant walks through it.
I’d
almost forgotten about my absurd reaction to him until right now, when I feel my stomach fill with nervous butterflies again.