The Inside of Out Read Free

steps out of the marsh-scented humidity and into the climate-controlled hallway of Palmetto High, QB Saunders spotted me. He always spotted me, even with his eye-line blocked by slightly larger football buddies. Whatever you might say about QB, he was a good-looking guy, especially now, at the end of summer and the start of team training—chiseled, dimpled, bronzed, like he’d been bred in an alien lab to become homecoming king and later destroy humanity.
    â€œSMURFETTE!”
    I suppose all the attention might have been flattering if it weren’t the verbal equivalent of Chinese water torture.
    I kept walking but he called again, hands buried in the pockets of the plaid hunting jacket that served as his daily uniform, no matter how meltingly hot it was outside.
    â€œSmurfette! Still your name, right?”
    He was referring to my hair. I suppose it made a little sense back when my whole head was blue, although the real Smurfette had blond hair. So. And this coming from a guy nicknamed “QB” who played
wide receiver
on the football team.
    â€œCall me Handy Smurf.” I slid my bag off my shoulder and searched for my locker assignment. “I learned carpentry over the summer.”
    QB’s mouth fell slack. “Wait, for real?”
    Before I could reply, some poor freshman kid walked by—and QB shoved him over. Onto the floor! I muttered “
Ass
hole” into my locker—number 235, only a few steps from QB’s, yay—but then heard the freshman saying, “Thanks man, sorry ’bout that,” as if he’d tripped and QB had helped him up. Pathetic.
    Okay, I supposed it was possible he’d
actually
tripped and QB had
actually
helped him up. Whatever. QB was probably just showing off for . . . whoever he was currently staring at, past my shoulder, blue eyes wide like a baby seal in a PETA ad.
    I couldn’t help but glance over. And then regretted it.
    Seven lockers down, Natalie Beck was taping her schedule into her locker door, manicured nails clicking against the metal. Back turned, her auburn ponytail swung from shoulder blade to shoulder blade like a pendulum.
    The sight of her was such a shank to the gut that I almost didn’t notice QB’s giant friend Pete creeping up behind me.
    â€œD-D-Daisy.” Chuckle, snort. “QB asked you a qu-qu-question.”
    Ah yes. The stutter routine. It was a seven-year-old joke. Dusty. Stale. Nobody was even laughing. But it still managed to send flames racing from my ankles to my cheeks.
    â€œCome on, man,” QB said uncomfortably, mad that his own joke had been shown up by a creakier one.
    Even without looking, I could tell Natalie was watching. Before she could chime in, I slid my locker shut and walk-fled to homeroom.
    Shake it off
.
Twenty-one more months of high school and they are out of your life forever.
    As much as I resisted renting QB and Natalie space in my brain, I couldn’t help but wonder about the scene I’d stumbled into. QB had looked downright tragic. They must have broken up. After two years.
    So at least one thing had changed over the summer. No—two!
    Between
bonjour
s and
je m’appelle
s with jittery freshmen in French 1, I wondered how Hannah’s first “out” school day was going. I’d called her before I left the house to see if she wanted to meet up after her tennis thing, but she said she’d be fine. I hoped she was right.
    On my way out of the classroom, Prof Hélène stopped me.
    â€œDaisy Beaumont-Smith,” she read from the class roll, pronouncing my name as “Dizzy Beaumaw-Smeeth” even though she was only French Canadian, not even French French. “I’m curious. You’re a junior, yes? And yet you’ve chosen to take basic French this year?”
    â€œYep. I did Latin 1 in eighth grade, then Spanish 1 and 2, so I thought it was time to give French a shot.” She blinked.I went on.