The Color Of Grace Read Free Page A

breakage. He’d probably
prefer to hear a real curse word than someone deriding God.
    Bridget lowered her camera with a dramatic sigh and a roll
of the eyes. She swiveled her head to send me a dry stare. I swear, no one held
a stare like her. She could get her meaning across on facial expression alone.
If I were Bridget, I don’t think I’d ever speak. I’d just look, and people
would know.
    “I just say it. Okay? Holy Hosanna. I’ve always said it. Why
are you taking issue now?”
    I gave my own half-hearted lift of the shoulders. If I told
her the truth—I was trying to divert her attention away from Mr.
Still-couldn’t-take-his-green-eyes-off-me—she’d read too much into my answer
and realize how truly traumatizing this was for me. Best friends sucked that
way sometimes. It was nearly impossible for a girl to keep anything to herself
with such a close companion like Bridge.
    But, Holy Hosanna, Ryder Yates was gorgeous. A gorgeous boy had acted interested in me for the
first time in my life. It was the strangest sensation, knowing such a complete
hottie was checking me out. Of all the people in the crowded six hundred
fifty-capacity gymnasium, I was the one to hit his radar. I had no idea how to
deal with the attention. So, I pretty much functioned in freak mode—as in, I
was so freaked out I needed a change of subject before I drove myself insane
from excitement.
    Bridget lifted her camera again, zoomed in, and clicked off
a picture of him.
    “What are you doing?” I demanded, utterly panicked. I swung
out my arm and whacked her precious mechanical piece of equipment out of her
grasp, making her lose her hold and drop the camera, until the strap around her
neck caught it and made it thump against her stomach. Yeah, wouldn’t Mr.
Forty-two be so proud she actually
knew how to use her strap. “Don’t take a picture of him!”
    With an aggravated twist of her nose and mouth, Bridget
lifted her camera and inspected it for damage. She blew off a speck of lint and
patted it reverently.
    “Why not? Adam and Schy aren’t going to believe this unless
I have proof. Visual, pictorial proof.”
    I opened my mouth to tell her the other two members of our
nerd herd didn’t need to learn about this. Ever. But the buzzer sounded again,
letting everyone know it was time to start the game.
    Bridge popped to her feet. “Ooh! Hold that thought. I want
to take pictures of the cheerleaders’ gymnastics when they call out the
starters.”
    As she hurried off, I remained behind, too afraid to move.
The announcer boomed the name of the first Hillsburg starter, and everyone
around me clapped, roaring with approval. Two cheerleaders did back flips
across the floor. I picked up the roster and examined Ryder Yates’s stats.
    Number forty-two, Ryder Yates, senior, six feet even.
    That was all it said. Staring at that single line, I gnawed
on my bottom lip, wishing they could be a bit more descriptive with their
player information, something more along the lines of, “Honor roll student,
class president, and history club member. Likes spending time with his family
and friends and taking long walks down deserted country roads. Lover of small
furry, animals and cute babies. And in desperate need of a good, faithful girlfriend.”
    But no, all I got was his age, height, and name. Bummer.
    Bridget nudged my elbow. “Game’s starting. Were you going to
take any pictures tonight?”
    I jumped, not realizing she’d already returned from her
photo-taking jaunt. Surprised to find all ten starters on the court and in
position to begin, I blinked, then immediately searched for number forty-two.
When I didn’t find him on the floor, I frowned and looked again before scanning
the entire gymnasium. When I finally spotted him on the bench two spaces down
from his coach, my mouth fell open.
    “He’s not starting? Why isn’t he starting?”
    Bridge shrugged. She didn’t have to ask who he was. “Maybe he sucks at basketball.”
    I shook