how things were going with Evan. If I’d known you’d upgraded, I’d have called you twelve times.”
Siobhan advertised no school allegiance in her cut-off white sweatpants and a black sweatshirt that looked like it had spent a previous life as a drop cloth. She went through the motions of stretching for a cardio kickboxing class in the lower gym. “I silenced my phone off in the theater and forgot to turn it back on. It was too late to call you by the time I got your texts. And voicemails. And the email.”
Courtney sat opposite Siobhan, the soles of her sneakers flat against Siobhan’s. The girls took hands, and Courtney leaned back to execute the stretch. “So how’d you get Evan to take you to a date with another guy?” she asked.
“I told him I was on a journey of self discovery, and that my spirit guides told me I had to see Forever Plaid .” Siobhan leaned back, drawing Courtney forward.
“So how was your night with Cam? You have three minutes before the Troll gets here.”
The Troll—known professionally as Girls Athletic Director Matilda Griffin and casually as “Mitzi” to the parents of her favorite students and her college field hockey teammates—had the body of a Mexican wrestler, the voice of a hacksaw, and a face Mr. Cleese likened to that of “a bulldog sucking a dill pickle.”
Siobhan gave Courtney the sparest highlights of her night while they fell into line with the other girls in Mrs. Griffin’s cardio kickboxing class. Right on time, Mrs. Griffin entered the gym, blowing her whistle like a drill sergeant, her legs a pair of candy-coated tree stumps in pink and purple bike shorts.
Mrs. Griffin pressed a button on the giant boom box behind her. Frenetic canned music echoed through the gym and the girls began their warm-ups. A line of boys, led by a new assistant boys coach, filed into the lower gym.
“Ignore them, ladies!” Mrs. Griffin bellowed in time to her roundhouse kicks. “Focus! Maintain your target heart rates!”
Yawning, Siobhan glanced in the boys’ direction as they headed for the door leading to the upper gymnasium. Her gaze found Camden. Smiling, she dropped out form and almost stumbled into a kick in the head from Courtney.
Camden abruptly froze. He stared at Siobhan, his answering smile as goofy as it was gorgeous.
Brian walked into Camden’s back, breaking Camden’s shared fugue with Siobhan. He gave Camden playful shove and Mrs. Griffin blew her ear-piercing whistle. “Curran!” she hollered above the pounding music. “Get the stars out of your eyes and the lead out of your feet and give me some good, hard roundhouse kicks!”
I wish , Siobhan thought, falling back into step with the class.
***
Michael forged an excuse note and skipped PE when he saw that Chrissie had signed out of school early, supposedly with a headache. For three days he had been itching to know the result of the Curran vote at Twin Lakes. He had tried to get the inside info from Camden. Instead of a simple yes or no, Camden had given him earfuls of bitch about being on time for dress rehearsal. Chrissie had volunteered nothing.
Michael sat within the Colonial blue walls of the Abernathy den, half watching some music video countdown show on the wall-mounted flat-screen television. Chrissie, in pink leggings and one of her older brother’s chambray shirts, lounged on the chintz sofa, idly texting someone on her phone.
They had talked very little since his arrival. Actually, they rarely talked at all anymore, which would have suited Michael if the silence had been filled
Siobhan advertised no school allegiance in her cut-off white sweatpants and a black sweatshirt that looked like it had spent a previous life as a drop cloth. She went through the motions of stretching for a cardio kickboxing class in the lower gym. “I silenced my phone off in the theater and forgot to turn it back on. It was too late to call you by the time I got your texts. And voicemails. And the email.”
Courtney sat opposite Siobhan, the soles of her sneakers flat against Siobhan’s. The girls took hands, and Courtney leaned back to execute the stretch. “So how’d you get Evan to take you to a date with another guy?” she asked.
“I told him I was on a journey of self discovery, and that my spirit guides told me I had to see Forever Plaid .” Siobhan leaned back, drawing Courtney forward.
“So how was your night with Cam? You have three minutes before the Troll gets here.”
The Troll—known professionally as Girls Athletic Director Matilda Griffin and casually as “Mitzi” to the parents of her favorite students and her college field hockey teammates—had the body of a Mexican wrestler, the voice of a hacksaw, and a face Mr. Cleese likened to that of “a bulldog sucking a dill pickle.”
Siobhan gave Courtney the sparest highlights of her night while they fell into line with the other girls in Mrs. Griffin’s cardio kickboxing class. Right on time, Mrs. Griffin entered the gym, blowing her whistle like a drill sergeant, her legs a pair of candy-coated tree stumps in pink and purple bike shorts.
Mrs. Griffin pressed a button on the giant boom box behind her. Frenetic canned music echoed through the gym and the girls began their warm-ups. A line of boys, led by a new assistant boys coach, filed into the lower gym.
“Ignore them, ladies!” Mrs. Griffin bellowed in time to her roundhouse kicks. “Focus! Maintain your target heart rates!”
Yawning, Siobhan glanced in the boys’ direction as they headed for the door leading to the upper gymnasium. Her gaze found Camden. Smiling, she dropped out form and almost stumbled into a kick in the head from Courtney.
Camden abruptly froze. He stared at Siobhan, his answering smile as goofy as it was gorgeous.
Brian walked into Camden’s back, breaking Camden’s shared fugue with Siobhan. He gave Camden playful shove and Mrs. Griffin blew her ear-piercing whistle. “Curran!” she hollered above the pounding music. “Get the stars out of your eyes and the lead out of your feet and give me some good, hard roundhouse kicks!”
I wish , Siobhan thought, falling back into step with the class.
***
Michael forged an excuse note and skipped PE when he saw that Chrissie had signed out of school early, supposedly with a headache. For three days he had been itching to know the result of the Curran vote at Twin Lakes. He had tried to get the inside info from Camden. Instead of a simple yes or no, Camden had given him earfuls of bitch about being on time for dress rehearsal. Chrissie had volunteered nothing.
Michael sat within the Colonial blue walls of the Abernathy den, half watching some music video countdown show on the wall-mounted flat-screen television. Chrissie, in pink leggings and one of her older brother’s chambray shirts, lounged on the chintz sofa, idly texting someone on her phone.
They had talked very little since his arrival. Actually, they rarely talked at all anymore, which would have suited Michael if the silence had been filled
Similar Books
