Life After Theft (5 page)

“No, you look hot!”

“I don’t know, Kim, maybe—”

“Kimberlee.”

“
Kimberlee
. Maybe this really isn’t the look for me.”

“Trust me. You’ve never looked better.”

Trust Kimberlee? Every instinct rebelled against that thought, but what choice did I really have? Kimberlee was born and raised in Santa Monica, and based on what I’d skimmed from her internet presence—yes, I did more Googling—she apparently was the queen of Whitestone for almost three years before the riptide cut her reign short. I had nothing.

Besides, I’d spent so long on my hair I only had ten minutes to get to school. No time to start over.

I poked my head in the kitchen. Just my luck: Mom, Dad,
and
Tina. As big an audience as our kitchen ever got this time of morning. I tried to appear confident as I rushed through the kitchen, attempting to not be seen.

“Jeff! Look at you!” my mom gushed. “You look like Ryan Seacrest.”

Was that a compliment?

My dad didn’t even look up from his paper. I was okay with that.

I grabbed my breakfast burrito to go, said my good-byes, and slipped out to my car before anyone could make any more comments.

“Loosen your tie,” Kimberlee said, popping suddenly into the front seat.

That I could handle.

“Much better. Now you look like someone I can stand to have working for me.”

My mouth dropped. “I. Don’t. Work. For. You,” I said, each word hard and clipped. “I am doing you the biggest favor in the world and—”

“And I just made you look like the kind of guy someone in this school might actually make out with. And considering you have to wear a uniform just like everyone else, that’s some pretty mad skills. I would think you would be grateful.”

“I was fine the way I was. All you did was make my hair weird and convince me not to shave. I would hardly call that ‘mad skills.’ I don’t need your help.”

“If you say so,” she said casually.

I fumed the entire drive to school and considered tightening my tie out of spite. Between the fact that my car has a hair-trigger gas pedal and being pissed at Kimberlee, I made it to school five minutes before first bell.
Perfect
.

Kimberlee slid through the car door and was gone so quickly I couldn’t even tell where she went. Not that I cared.

I managed to park near the entrance closest to Serafina’s locker and started searching for her as soon as I opened the door. She was there, unloading her backpack. As I watched, she stood on her toes and reached up to put a book on the top shelf, lifting her skirt an inch or two. Her legs were very, very nice, but that wasn’t the only reason I stared.

They were totally ripped.

Her calves had that big bump that you see on girls who do weights. Not veiny, I-shoot-horse-testosterone legs, but perfect, fitness-model legs that could probably squeeze me like a python if they ever got me in a scissors hold.

Scissors hold. Hoo, boy
.

I turned to my locker and grabbed my books, wishing I had more time before the three-minute bell.

More time talk to her. Or, at the very least, more time to work up my nerve.

She closed her locker and started my way. Just as she was about to pass me I gritted my teeth and forced myself to turn around. “Hey,” I said.
Brilliant
.

She turned, surprised, as if she couldn’t quite tell who had spoken to her in the crowded hallway.

“H-how’s it going?” I said, stepping a little closer and hoping she didn’t notice the little stutter.

“Good,” she said, smiling uncertainly.

I stood there for a few seconds, just staring. That was it. I had nothing more to say. “Oh, I’m Jeff. I just moved here from Phoenix,” I said, extending a hand. “Arizona,” I added.
Stupid, stupid, stupid!

She reached out to shake my hand. It was only after our joined hands started moving up and down that I realized how lame the whole shaking hands thing was. “Sera,” she said quickly, pulling her hand back after about three shakes.

Sera. One of my favorite names. Starting now.

I looked up sharply as the bell rang.

“Well, it’s time,” Sera said, edging away.

“See you around,” I said, giving her my best grin.

I don’t think she noticed.

Still, that wasn’t so bad. First contact made and all. She knew my name now, at least. That was step one. There were about twenty-four more steps that involved her discovering I’m the love of her life and ditching her jock boyfriend, but what’s that quote about every journey beginning with a single step? That was my single step.

“Nice,” Kimberlee said, pulling me out of my daydream. “Now instead of being an unknown nobody, you’re the loser who told her what state Phoenix is in. Well done.”

Everyone’s a critic
.

FIRST THING I RAN INTO
in Bleekman’s class was Langdon’s back. Literally.

“Heeeeeeey, Jeff, right?” Langdon said, pushing a meaty arm around my shoulder. That was one heavy arm.

“Yeah?” I said tentatively, a little afraid I was about to get beat up on front of everyone.

“Whatcha doing Saturday night, buddy?”
Buddy?

“Uh . . .” There were a couple of people gathered around now. Not all humongous meatheads like Langdon, but definitely some of the Whitestone elite—you know, the ones everyone else makes way for in the hallways. There’s just an . . . an air of intimidation, I guess. Some kind of international language of superiority.

I noticed most of them had spiky hair, too, and every single one had their collar unbuttoned under their loosened ties, just like me. Never thought of hair and clothing as camouflage before, but maybe they figured I was one of them now.

Or maybe Kimberlee haunted them into this. Could she do that?

“We’re having a kegger up on Harrison Hill,” Langdon continued. “It’s gonna be wild. You’re the new guy and I’m thinking you need a bona fide Whitestone welcome.”

This is the difference between jocks at Whitestone and jocks in public school. At Whitestone they know words like
bona fide
. “Oh yeah?” I said hesitantly.

“Dude, everyone’ll be there,” one of the more preppy-looking guys said. “We have parties up there a couple times a year and it is
the
place to be.”

“You should come,” Langdon said, the look in his eyes making me feel like a feeder fish—the ones in the store that have no purpose in life whatsoever except to be eaten by bigger, fancier fish. “Seriously, bro,” he said, extending one enormous fist out to me, “you’ll be my special guest.”

Kimberlee breezed in while I was walking to my seat. She looked down at me with one eyebrow raised. “What’s with the sappy grin? You look like a moron.”

Got invited to a party
, I wrote in my notebook.

Kimberlee graced me with a deadpan look. “Fantastic; a D&D rave.”

I rolled my eyes and fixed her with a glare that I managed to wipe off my face about a second after I realized Bleekman would think I was looking at
him
like that.

I don’t even play D&D
.

And it’s true. I haven’t played D&D in years. At least
a
year.

It’s a kegger on Harris Hill
.

“Harrison Hill? Seriously?” Kimberlee asked. Squealed is probably a better word. “I
love
the Harrison Hill parties!”

I admit I was relieved to hear that. Now I knew the party was legit. Probably.

“Wait,” Kimberlee said, her voice deadly serious. “Did you get an invite?” She put a fist on her hips and held up one finger like she was scolding a five-year-old child instead of a sixteen-year-old . . . uh . . . me. “Don’t you dare show your face at Harrison Hill without an invite.”

I looked up at her and nodded slightly.

“From who? You can’t get some loser invite and think you’re actually in because a nerd managed to get info.”

For some reason, after our run-in on the first day, I didn’t want to admit to Kimberlee that it had been Langdon. Besides, that preppy guy had chimed in, too. That was good enough, right? Since it was a little hard to describe a guy who was dressed just like everyone else—you never realize how much you use clothes to describe people until you go to a uniformed school where everyone is a freaking clone—I drew a quick diagram to point out the preppy guy who’d piped up.

Kimberlee glanced back at him. “Neil?” She raised her eyebrows, considering. Even looking a little bit impressed. “Okay, you’re in.” She grinned now. “Awesome. See? It’s totally the hair.”

Sad thing is, she was probably right.

When the lunch bell rang a couple hours later, I froze as I was zipping up my backpack. I’d been so focused on Kimberlee yesterday that I hadn’t bothered with the whole lunch ritual. Halle and me and an old bag of chips I found under the seat made for a cozy luncheon.

Now, unless I wanted to be that guy who sat by himself every day, I had to find an actual table.

And hope I hadn’t already blown my shot by being Mr. Nonsocial yesterday. This is serious stuff! Which is why Kimberlee found me standing in the middle of the cafeteria holding a full lunch tray, suffering an acute case of analysis paralysis.

“What are you doing, loser?” she asked.

“Ummmmmm . . .” I answered honestly.

She paused for a moment, then sighed. “I really should just leave you alone and let you make a fool out of yourself, but seriously, Jeff, what kind of impression do you think you’re going to make standing here while your lunch gets cold? Go sit the hell down!”

She did have a point.

I was about to head to a half-full table and attempt to make small talk with total strangers when Sera breezed through the doorway.

With the big dude wearing the letterman’s jacket.

Crap.

I looked down at my tray and decided my mashed potatoes were in dire need of some extra pepper. I turned around and headed back to the condiment station, futzing with the small pepper shaker way longer than I could rationally justify, but most likely, no one was watching me.

Probably.

Sera made it to the end of the line and turned. She met my eyes almost immediately; probably something to do with the heat that was building up on the back of her head where I’d been staring for the last two minutes. She looked down almost nervously and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. I figured that would be it, but after a second, she looked up and smiled shyly. I wondered how soon my life would end at wrestler-guy’s hands if I smiled back.

I took the risk.

After a second she looked away and started walking toward the opposite end of the condiment station. Still, I’d take what little victories I could.

To my surprise, Mikhail didn’t follow her; he went and sat at a table with a group of guys as muscular as he was. Well,
almost
as muscular. Sera headed toward a rapidly filling table on the other side of the room.

She was about ten feet away—and I was about ready to admit defeat and sit alone—when she paused and looked back at me.

“Hey, it’s Jeff, right?”

Seriously?
“Uh, yeah,” I said with great bucketloads of suave.

“You look . . . lost.”

Lost?

“You want to come sit with me and some friends—for today, anyway?”

A half-assed invitation; I’ll take it
. I grinned—probably sappily—and muttered something affirmative before falling into step behind her.

“Don’t forget the boyfriend and all the bones in your body that he can breee-aaaaaak,” Kimberlee called in a singsong voice as I walked away from her. I resisted the urge to flip her off.

As we sat down I noticed that Sera caught Mikhail’s eye across the room and smiled.

One problem at a time
, I reminded myself. I was already just glad she was more than an incredibly pretty face. I mean, she’d asked me—a new nobody—to come sit with her. At the very least that meant she was nice.

“Hey, who’s your friend, Sera?” a girl with brown hair and glittery eye shadow asked, eyeing me a little like I was a piece of meat.

It was very strange.

“Oh, this is Jeff, guys. He’s new.” Then she set her tray down and started pointing around the table and rattled off about a dozen names. There was a Hampton and a Jasmine, some guy named Wilson, and I think there were two Jewels. Glitter-girl was named Brynley—or Breelee? Something like that. What was wrong with the parents in this city? Hadn’t anyone ever heard of naming their kids Kevin or Amber or anything even remotely mainstream?

“So,” one of the Jewels said when Sera was done. “Where’re you from?”

“Me?”
Duh
. “Phoenix.”

“Ooh, do you have rattlesnakes there?”

“Out in the desert, yeah. But I lived in the city.”
In the ghetto
, I almost added.
Well, not exactly the ghetto, but compared to here? Ghetto
.

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed.

“What do you play?” a guy asked. Wilson?

“Uh, Xbox?” I said with a nervous laugh.

“No, I mean, you’re pretty tall—you a baller or what?”

“Kinda,” I said. Blatant lie. People always assume I play basketball because I’m tall. I’d like to ask people if they play miniature golf because they’re short, but I had a feeling breaking that one out right now wasn’t going to endear me to anyone. “I hear our team is pretty good,” I tacked on. More lies.

“Yeah, you should come to a game,” the guy said. “Sera and Jasmine cheer.”

“You’re a cheerleader?” Now I understood the ripped legs.

“Junior co-captain of the squad,” she said. I didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded important.

“So are you the girl they always, like, throw in the air?” I asked.

Her chin rose just a little. “Sometimes, but usually I’m the one tumbling in the front.”

The thought of Sera jumping around in a cheer skirt stoked a sudden passion for hoops within me.
Why, of course I love basketball. Go team!
And, note to self, find out what our team is. Probably the Fighting Preppies or something like that.

“Cool,” I said, wondering if I should be glad I found the nice cheerleader, or even more convinced that she was out of my league. Her profile was perfect. She had long eyelashes that were probably red or blond under her mascara. All I knew for sure was I could stare into her eyes all day.