Played. Liz Fichera

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СКАЧАТЬ they are.” I pointed to two yellow school buses.

      “Dude. I’m just tired. Not blind.” Martin slammed down on the accelerator, grinding it to the floor.

      I could smell something burning. Motor oil? It was pluming somewhere in the back of the truck. I felt kind of bad leaving Martin, especially since there was a pretty good chance he’d need a ride home. “Call Fred’s brother, Trevor, if you break down again. He’s good with cars. He’ll tow you home if you need it. There’s a pay phone by the front of the school, next to the drinking fountain.”

      Martin nodded. “I’m not worried,” he said, and I smiled to myself.

      Martin was about as good a best friend as a dude could have. We’d known each other all our lives. We grew up together. Our dads grew up together. It was like we were brothers, not friends. “Thanks, man,” I said as he approached the buses.

      “No prob, bro,” he said. “Just don’t turn dork on me, okay? I’ve got a reputation to uphold.” He smirked, one arm draped lazily across the wheel, even though he was practically playing chicken with a school bus full of high school students, not to mention a couple of teachers.

      I chuckled. “Sure. Reputation. Got it.”

      Thanks to Martin, the bright yellow bus had no choice but to stop. Its brakes even screeched a little.

      Ouch.

      I sure hoped that Mr. Romero wouldn’t be too mad at me, but what could I do? It wasn’t like we’d be able to catch up to the bus if we road-raced down the freeway.

      “Sure you want to do this?” Martin asked. “I can always keep driving. Here’s your chance.”

      Chance. I needed one. I needed a hundred. “Yep. Got to.” I reached for the door handle. “Besides, I think Romero is ready to dive through the windshield. Can’t back out now. He’s probably pissed.”

      “Okay.” Martin didn’t sound convinced. He paused. Then he said, “You know you can’t avoid her forever.”

      I sucked back a breath, hitching my backpack over my shoulder. I looked at Martin for an instant without saying anything. Then I said, “I know. But I can try.”

      Martin just shook his head.

      “Later, dude,” I said.

      “Later. See you Monday.”

      I closed the door—more like slammed it, because the rusted door stuck a little—and then jogged the six steps to the waiting bus.

      Even through the windshield, I could see at least thirty faces, including Mr. Romero’s, staring back at me like two rows of dominoes. A few mouths hung open.

      “Okay, you idiot,” I muttered to myself. “You asked for it. Now deal.”

      When I reached the door, it was already open.

      Mr. Romero stood at the top of the stairs. His mouth twitched in one corner below his salt-and-pepper mustache. I couldn’t tell whether he was angry or glad to see me.

      “Sorry I’m late, Mr. Romero. Had some trouble with the truck.” I nodded back at Martin’s ride, as if its mechanical limitations weren’t obvious. Martin turned and headed back toward the freeway as blue-black smoke billowed out of his tailpipe. He was never going to make it to the Rez.

      “I can see that,” Mr. Romero said. “Well, glad you made it. Now have a seat. We’re already behind schedule.”

      “Sorry,” I said again as I looked over his shoulder at all the faces on the bus. As usual, I was the only Native. I recognized maybe six people on the bus including Matt Hendricks from advanced chemistry. He nodded. I nodded back. Unfortunately the seat next to him was taken.

      “You’ll have to put your backpack under your seat.”

      “No problem,” I said, removing it from my shoulder. Other than a toothbrush and a change of underwear and socks, it was pretty empty.

      There was an open seat up front next to a girl dressed in a pink sweatshirt and pink baseball cap. It was blinding, really. For some reason, she kept pulling her cap lower like she was in disguise. But I recognized her.

      “Hi,” I said, slipping into the seat. There was barely any room for my legs. The bus driver closed the door and the bus lurched forward.

      “Hi,” she said. “I’m—”

      I interrupted her with my sigh. “Yeah, I know who you are.”

      The bus lurched again and we all lunged forward, grabbing the seats in front of us. For some stupid reason, I put my left arm out to stop her from crashing her head against the seat.

      “Um, thanks?” she said, turning sideways to look at me and then my hand on her shoulder.

      My hand snapped back and I nodded, facing forward, wishing I could have found a seat all to myself.

      She began to fidget with her hands before fumbling for the iPod in her lap. “Oh. Well...” Her thumb pressed one of the buttons, probably a little harder than she needed to. A notebook with some sketches and doodles sat on her lap.

      I leaned my head back, hoping that I could sleep most of the way. Just my luck I had to sit next to Ryan Berenger’s sister, who was every bit as annoyingly perfect as her brother. Maybe worse. The clothes, the pale skin, the graceful way she crossed her legs like a pretzel all the way down to her ankles.

      It was going to be a long ride.

      5

      Riley

      Oh. My. God. What a jerk. Drew was never going to believe this! I pulled out my cell phone and began to text her.

      I should have taken that seat way in the back, after all, despite the sea of juniors and seniors. I’d had no idea that Sam Tracy was so in love with himself. I know who you are? Seriously? I mean, get some manners.

      I had seen him talking with Fred a couple of times in the cafeteria, and he’d seemed nice enough on school territory. Obviously I’d misread him.

      My nose wrinkled. Great! And he reeked, too. Eau de Charcoal Grill.

      Because he was so tall, I supposed he’d want to claim most of the leg space underneath the bench in front of us. Not gonna happen.

      Once I got my internal hyperventilation under control, I uncrossed my legs, taking as much space as I could. Then I finished a quick text that Drew wouldn’t see until at least noon and pressed the volume button on my Friends episode. I’d rather listen to Chandler and Joey and sketch in my notebook any day than attempt conversation with Sam Tracy, especially now.

      Mr. Romero turned around. He looked at Sam and me over the tops of his wire-rimmed glasses. “Could you pass these backward?” he said, handing us a stack of papers. “It’s the agenda for the weekend.”

      I removed one earbud, one eye trained on my iPod screen as I grabbed the papers with my right hand. It was my favorite СКАЧАТЬ