The Hunt Read Free Page A

else. A girl.”
    This time, both Idiot and I look up.
    “For real?” Idiot asks.
    Doofus nods. “She’s been looking at you for the past few minutes.”
    “Not me.” I take another sip. “She’s probably staring at one of you.”
    Idiot and Doofus look at each other. Idiot scratches his wrist a few times.
    “Funny, that,” Doofus says. “I swear she’s been eyeing you for a while now. Not just today. But every lunchtime for the past few while now. Not just today. But every lunchtime for the past few weeks, I see her watching you.”
    “What ever,” I say, feigning disinterest.
    “No, look, she’s staring at you right now. Behind you at the table by the window.”
    THE HUNT 13
    Idiot spins around to look. When he turns back around, he’s scratching his wrist hard and fast.
    “What’s so funny?” I ask, taking another sip, resisting the urge to turn around.
    Idiot only scratches his wrist harder and faster. “You should take a look. He’s not kidding.”
    Slowly, I turn around and steal a quick glance. There’s only one table by the window. A circle of girls eating there. The Desirables.
    That’s what they are known as. And that round table is theirs, and everyone knows by some unwritten rule that you leave that table alone. It is the domain of the Desirables, the pop u lar girls, the ones with the cute boyfriends and designer clothes. You approach that table only if they let you. I’ve seen even their boyfriends waiting dutifuly off to the side until granted permission to approach.

    approach.
    Not one of them is looking at me. They are chitchatting, comparing jewelry, oblivious to the world outside the sphere of their table. But then one of them gives me a lingering look, her eyes meeting, then holding, mine. It is Ashley June. She looks at me with the same kind of wistful, longing glance she’s shot at me dozens of times over the past few years.
    I fl ick my eyes away, spin back around. Idiot and Doofus are scratching their wrists maniacaly now. I feel the heat of a dangerous blush begin to hit my face, but they are thankfuly too busy scratching to notice. I quel my face, taking deep, slow breaths until the heat dissipates.
    “Actualy,” Idiot says, “didn’t that girl have a thing for you before?
    Yeah, yeah, I think that’s right. A couple of years back.”
    “She’s stil pining after you, she’s got the hots for you after al this time,” Doofus wisecracks, and this time the two of them start scratching each other’s wrists uncontrolably.
    14 ANDREW FUKUDA
    Swimming practice after lunch— yes, my coach is a maniac— is almost caled off. None of the squad members can concentrate.
    The locker room is abuzz with the latest rumors about the Declaration.

    Declaration.
    I wait for the room to clear before getting changed. I’m just slipping out of my clothes when someone walks in. “Yo,” Poser, the team captain, says, ripping off his clothes and slipping into his extra- tight Speedos. He drops down for push- ups, infl ating his tri-ceps and chest muscles. A dumbbel sits in his locker awaiting his biceps curls. His Buffness the Poser does this before every practice, jacking up to the max. He has a fan club out there, mostly fresh-men and sophomores on the girls’ squad. I’ve seen him let them touch his pecs. The girls used to gawk at me, the braver ones sidling up and trying to talk to me during practice until they realized I pre-ferred to be alone. Poser has thankfuly drawn away most of that attention.
    He does ten more push- ups in quick succession. “It’s got to be about a Heper Hunt,” he says, pausing halfway down. “And they should forget about doing it by lottery this time. They should just pick the strongest among us. That would,” he says, fi nishing his push- up, “be me.”
    “No doubt about,” I say. “It’s always been brawn over brains in the Hunt. Survival of the fi ttest—”
    “And winner takes al,” he fi nishes as he pushes out ten more push- ups, the