Chaste Read Free Page B

that first kiss was. “Could we not talk about—”
    “It was adorable,” she says, throwing my locker open. “You, Quinn Walker, are adorable. And when we’re a little old couple and our kids have left home, you’ll laugh about that kiss and I’ll laugh with you.”
    “Little old couple?” I repeat. She did not just refer to us as a little old couple . Every ounce of blood drains from my face. “I think—”
    “It’ll be a temple marriage,” she goes on, “and we’ll have six children, a house in the suburbs, and a golden retriever named Buddy. I’ll hang our kid’s photos over the fireplace. What do you think we should name them? I like Ava. Do you think it’s too trendy?”
    I clear my throat. “We’ve been on two dates.”
    “Two wonderful dates.” She pulls me forward by the belt loops of my jeans. “I can totally see our future, can’t you?” And now she’s wrapping her arms around my waist and smiling up at me with her big blue eyes.
    I nod, even though I want to tell her to stop, to slow down and not get ahead of herself. I nod because saying what I really think would smother the light in her beautiful eyes. It’d be like crushing a butterfly, and no one is that cruel. Then someone catcalls us and slaps my rear end.
    I whirl around and jump back because Katarina Jackson has her hands on her hips and is staring me down.
    “Just wanted you to know how it feels,” she says, turning to walk down the hall.
    Molly slams my locker shut and storms off. “Wonderful,” I mutter, resting my forehead against the cold metal of my locker. Can this day get any worse?

4
    Katarina
    I figured I’d get to see the new school counselor at some point this week, but not on the first day and certainly not in the middle of my lunch period. Mr. Sanchez, who I’d seen once a week at the end of last year, said the new counselor would be someone who’d do a better job of getting me to talk, someone with a solid background in psychotherapy. Personally, I think the whole thing is nuts. I don’t need a therapist. I need space.
    So I sit here as Mrs. Burns of the broad shoulders and oily brown hair drones on about how much she’d cried while mourning for her cat.
    “Don’t you see that you have to go through the grieving process?” she asks.
    The way she looks into my eyes, you’d think comparing my brother to a cat is perfectly sane. She has no idea what my life is like, how it feels to live with parents who stopped caring the moment he died. She probably grew up in a house with a dad who came home at a decent hour and a mom who cooked a warm meal every night.
    She stands, walks over to her filing cabinet and pulls out a folder with my name on it.
    “I told your dad I’d do everything in my power to help you grieve this year,” she says. Her eyes travel over the paper in her hand. “You wouldn’t talk to Mr. Sanchez, but I hope you’ll talk to me. You can trust me to take your feelings to heart. Crying is okay.”
    I don’t understand why everyone’s so intent on me crying. It isn’t as though it’ll bring my brother back. Wimps and sissies cry, not strong girls who have it together. I’d rather do cartwheels naked across the football field than throw a pity party in front of this stupid woman.
    “You can start by telling me about this boy who’s verbally harassing you,” she says.
    I hit the palm of my hand against my forehead. Mike, you idiot! I know it was him. Who else would report Quinn Walker to the principal for touching my ass and picking a fight? The only thing worse than crying like a baby is tattling like one to Mr. Bates, then expecting administration to act in your defense. I refuse to behave like a defenseless victim.
    “Everything’s been handled,” I tell her.
    Mrs. Burns narrows her eyes at me. “We have strict anti-bullying policies at this school. Say the word and we’ll call this boy in. Make sure he never bothers you again.”
    Now she has gone from stupid to