What You Always Wanted Read Free Page A

snores. “My mom’s going to want to adopt you.”
    I sink into my seat in relief. My old theatre teacher and I didn’t always see eye to eye. I pushed for musicals while he preferred the straight plays—not that I discriminate. It’s just looking like this year I might have a chance to really learn something that’s more in line with what I want to do.
    â€œWell,” I say, crossing my arms, “the star stays.”
    â€œHey, I wasn’t telling you to take it off.” Angela’s silent for a few seconds before she asks, “Do I get one too?”
    Fernwood High School is a beautiful two-story giant of red brick and cream-colored stone. It looks quite prestigious with a grand entrance of archways, tall windows, and an inset clock overhead that reminds me of the movie
Back to the Future
, which depresses me because time machines aren’t real. If they were, I’d zap myself to 1930 and rewrite Hollywood history, with me in it.
    Angela’s a saint and walks me through my schedule, droppingme off at my homeroom with just enough time for her and her own star-face to make it to hers. Papers are passed out, rules are recited, lockers are assigned, much yawning occurs. Things are pretty uneventful until third period English. Just like I do in any classroom or theatre, I look for an open seat in the middle of the middle.
    And I see him.
    Tanned skin, green eyes, thick black hair perfectly spiked forward with a slight lean to the left. Angela’s brother. It has to be. And there’s an empty desk next to him. Maybe I should take it. I mean, I practically already know him.
    â€œJesse, my man.” A thick guy with blond hair does a handshake finger-snap thing with Jesse before plopping down right where I was considering.
    â€œWhat’s up, Red?” Jesse’s voice is smooth, no hint of excitement.
    I wonder if maybe they aren’t friends at all, or if he’s relaxed about everything. I also wonder if the guy’s name is actually Red, or if I misunderstood. I thought that was a nickname for redheads.
    Before I make a spectacle of myself, standing in the middle of the classroom staring at the boys, I sit at the empty desk in front of Red. Soon all the seats are filled as students trickle in, followed by an older man in a worn gray suit and glasses nearly as big as his face. The name at the top of the dry-erase board tells me this is Mr. McCaffey.
    There are still a few minutes before class starts, but Mr. McCaffey scans the room and says, “Mr. Lyle and Mr. Morales, you seem to think I’ve forgotten about last yearalready. I won’t have you two talking baseball strategies over my lessons.”
    Baseball? Gag.
    â€œOne of you needs to relocate before the bell.”
    Red lets out a shocked puff of air. “But Mr. Mc—”
    â€œI’m going to get my coffee,” Mr. McCaffey says. “When I come back, you should be sitting somewhere else.”
    He leaves and I relax in my seat as if I were the one who was just scolded. My teachers have been pretty okay so far, so I guess I was bound to get a persnickety one in the mix.
    Red makes a bunch of noise gathering his things, and I hear his requests repeatedly denied to change desks with people farther back. Before I realize what’s happening, I’m staring at the hem of his blue-and-white-striped shirt.
    â€œUm . . . can I help you?” My eyes travel the rest of the way up, delaying a second on each of his biceps before meeting his eyes, which are a light blue.
    â€œYou can if you trade desks with me.”
    I turn to look at his desk. It does have a view out the window, while mine is next to a book-cover poster of
To Kill a Mockingbird
. And it’s next to the brother of the only friend I have in Texas, so why not? With a nod, I reach for my purse and scoop up my notebook.
    â€œThanks,” he says. “I’m Curtis, by the way.”
    I open my