The Natural History of Us (4 page)

“It is,” I assured him.
Even if it means dragging my loving, well-meaning, overprotective parents along with me
. “I'm a new Peyton Williams, Dad. A girl ready to rope life and experience
it all. The easy, the hard, the safe, and the things that scare me senseless.” I winked to show I was (mostly) teasing and injected my voice with enthusiasm. “Let's do this!”

This time, a genuine smile tipped his lips, and he tapped my chin with his finger. “You make me proud, you know that?”

The big lug was such a softie. Biting my lip as tears threatened once more, I nodded, and he exhaled long and slow before opening the door. “Bell's about to ring,” he muttered gruffly. “You'll need your schedule.”

The heady scent of fresh ink and warm paper hit my nose and my excitement skyrocketed. Nausea, too… but mostly excitement. The spicy tang of peppermint joined the mix a second later and I eagerly bounced in my loafers.

When the office door closed with a
bump
, sealing out the sound of hallway chaos, students sitting in the row of cushioned chairs along the wall raised their heads. Most immediately dismissed me upon appraisal, but a few glanced curiously between Dad and me. Guess I should get used to that.

I followed Dad toward the taupe laminate desk, my hands clenching and unclenching at my sides. I had no room for fear in my life. I could do this. I
wanted
to do this. Beyond the divide, teachers and administrators buzzed about, flitting from mailboxes to the enormous copy machine, reminding me of happy worker bees. Phones rang, people laughed, and somewhere in the chaotic room, a radio played soft jazz. Dad checked his watch and then tapped his knuckles against the laminate, waiting for help, and I closed my eyes to let the frantic energy envelop me.

Here's the thing about GBS (Guillain-Barre Syndrome): it hits you fast and furious. One day, I'd been riding Oakley at the Tomball Junior Rodeo, and the next, I'd become a prisoner in my own body. For weeks, I hadn't been able to talk or move. I couldn't even scream. Nurses and doctors had flowed in and out of my room, checking vitals and talking as if I weren't
even there. Guests had stared with poorly hidden fear, holding awkward conversations with my parents about the weather and Texas football. Running home after they left to hug their kids and thank God this hadn't happened to them. I'd been nothing but a silent observer as life happened around me and without me. But those days were over. Now, I
could
walk, I could talk, and I was on my way to becoming a fully functional member of society again.

It felt phenomenal.

Opening my eyes, I released a breath and propped my elbows on the counter next to Dad. I nodded at a few teachers I recognized from our holiday parties and when the principal stepped out of her office to answer a question, I waved and said hello.

“Peyton!” Ms. Gouvas leaned against the doorframe with a warm smile, and from the corner of my eye, I noticed a few students turn their heads. “I'm glad you're finally joining us.”

“I'm so excited to be here,” I replied, no doubt sounding dorkalicious to the eavesdropping students, but I really
was
excited. So sue me. “Took me longer than I'd hoped, but I'm ready to jump in the fray.”

The edges of the principal's smile turned down a bit, a reminder that I wouldn't be
jumping
anywhere for a while, and we both knew it. “Well, I'm confident you'll make the best of your years here, Peyton.” She straightened away from the wall and pointed at me. “I'll be keeping an eye on you.”

After shooting me a playful wink, she ducked back into her office, and only then did I chance a full glance behind me. As predicted, practically the entire row was watching, a multitude of expressions on their faces. None of them were impressed.

Is being on a semi-first name basis with the principal really that weird?

A blonde who appeared to be around my age snickered quietly.

Yep, it was weird.

“Ah, Dan.” A petite woman with long, dark hair and a bright red blouse dropped an overstuffed file folder onto the desk. She blew her bangs off her face and asked my dad, “How are you this crazy morning?”

“Better than I deserve,” he replied like always. “But I was hoping you could do me a favor, Kim. Today is Peyton's first day, and I'm running late for a staff meeting. You think you can help her get situated?”

“Of course, it'd be my pleasure,” she replied with a reassuring smile, proving that Big Bad Coach Man wasn't fooling anyone. When it came to his baby girl, the man was a teddy bear. “You go along to your meeting now. Peyton here will be in great hands.”

Even with that assurance, I could tell he was reluctant. Interesting factoid about getting sick? It de-ages you like ten years in your parents' eyes. Sighing, I wrapped my arms around Dad's stocky body and pressed a kiss to his clean-shaven cheek.

“I'll be fine,” I told him, not caring if the other kids were watching. This was my dad, we were close, and if they had a problem with that, well, they could suck it. “I'll find you in the gym after school.” When he continued to hesitate, I shoved his meaty shoulder with a laugh. “Go on. Go!”

With a grumble, he finally relented, and my too-wide smile held just until he'd disappeared around the corner. A nervous exhale parted my lips and when I turned around, the woman behind the counter put her hand on mine.

“My younger sister was hospitalized for a month when we were kids.”

I shifted on my feet, not sure what to say to that, and she pressed on. “It was pneumonia in her case, but I understand how annoying it is for everyone to treat you with kid gloves like you're helpless. You're not. I know that, and your dad will
come around soon enough. As far as I'm concerned though, you're just another student, all right?”

Heart full, chest shockingly light as if the weight of a boulder had suddenly been lifted, I sent her a grateful smile. That's all I wanted to be.
Normal
. “Thank you.”

She squeezed my hand as a fierce mama bird look entered her eyes. “But if anyone thinks otherwise and messes with you, you just let me know, all right?”

I chuckled, the last bit of anxiety fleeing. “You got it.”

Ms. Kim sent me a wink and opened a folder, withdrawing a white piece of paper. Glancing at it, she raised an eyebrow and said, “I take that back. You're not just a regular student.” She lifted her gaze to mine. “You're a very intelligent student with an insane course load. Are you aware that you're in all honors courses and that you're entering school
mid
-year?”

I straightened my spine and replied, “I can handle it.”

Her eyes narrowed as she watched me for a long moment, and then she nodded. “Know what? I believe you.” She grinned softly and held out her hand. “Here. Your homeroom is listed at the top and first bell rings in ten minutes.”

It happened in the span of a heartbeat.

The door opened behind me, her gaze shifted toward the newcomer, and the hopeful bubble I'd been floating in all morning
popped
.

Have you ever had one of those moments when it was as if you were outside your body, watching events and knowing the outcome, but completely unable to stop it from happening? Where everything unfolds in slow motion and you're forced to witness the inevitable ending in silent horror? That's what it was like for me, watching the class schedule slip from her hand, through my weak fingertips, and flutter softly to the ground.

Maybe it
was
too soon.

For the first time since I'd convinced my parents to let me come here, true doubt washed over me. Staring at the discarded schedule, I couldn't help but wonder if I'd pushed for too much, too fast. If I really should sit out another semester.

Mom would be euphoric. If I went home, Dad would dance a jig. I'd be back in virtual bubble wrap, right where they wanted to keep me.

And I—I'd prove that I really was as pathetic as I'd thought.

A dark head suddenly appeared in my vision, blocking my view of my schedule lying helplessly on the brown tile. Blinking away memories of my hospital bed and the sad faces of the nurses, I focused on the gelled strands below me and then the pair of equally dark eyes that replaced them. Eyes that stared into me with a sharp smugness like they could read all my secrets. And see straight through my blouse.

Whoa, hot boy alert!

A slow lopsided grin stretched the boy's mouth, confirmation of his mad mindreading skills. He held up my schedule and asked, “Slippery fingers?”

She
was back.

I'd been beginning to think I'd imagined her. After rocking my world with her breathy
hi
, her thick strawberry blonde hair, and eyes that stunned me senseless, the girl had just disappeared. She wasn't in any of my classes, I never saw her waiting after school, and as dumb as it was to admit, I'd actually looked. Casually at first, just curious, then more determined when she never showed. I could've asked the guys, but then they'd have known a girl had gotten to me. And that, like a jackass, I'd never even gotten her name, much less her number. But now, here she was. A goddess cheering in the stands, watching as I was about to make the team.

Hot girl was a baseball fan. That worked well for me.

“Friend of yours?”

I tore my gaze away from the bleachers and found a guy smirking above me. He was the same one who always cracked jokes in my math class. “Not yet,” I replied, emphasis on the yet, letting him know I had dibs. I switched sides, stretching
out my other hamstring and added, “Just laying groundwork for now.”

If stalking the hallways counted as groundwork.

Hoping to learn her name, I looked up and casually asked, “She in any of your classes?”

“Nah, I'd remember a sweet face like that.” He stole another peek and whistled low. “And into baseball, too? Damn, dude, what is up with you and girls? Every time I see you, you've got another one wrapped around you. You're like the chick whisperer.”

I laughed and shook out my legs, muscles warm and ready. Girls were one of the few things that came easily to me. That, and playing ball. “What can I say? I have a gift.”

With nothing left to stretch, I pushed to my feet to assess the competition. Sophomore team tryouts started in five minutes, but the diamond began filling with guys about a half hour ago, math-class dude being one of them. It didn't matter, though. One way or another, I was making an impression today.

Fairfield Academy had one of the best programs in the state. They were district champ three years running and bi-district champs the year before that—the year Coach Williams took over. The man knew his shit, he was tough but fair, and I was determined to play for him. I'd even approached him in the fall to see how I could prepare for today.

“Think you got a shot at making it?” I asked, curious what position this guy played. Cool or not, if he was a catcher I'd have to beat him out. No way could he outplay me. And there wasn't a chance in hell this meant more to him.

“Hope so.” He hopped up and adjusted his ball cap. “From what I hear, Coach skips playmakers through to Varsity at the end of the year.” I nodded, having heard the same thing, and he looked me over, sizing me up before holding out his hand. “Carlos Ramirez, shortstop.”

Grinning, I took it and said, “Justin Carter, catcher.”

“All right, gentlemen!” At Coach Williams's voice we both turned and then hustled over to the pitcher's mound. “This is how it's gonna go. We have stations set up to monitor your fielding, your ground ball work, and live hitting in the cage. Give me everything you've got today, and I promise, I'll be watching. Results are posted on Monday, and let me just say this now, so we're clear—if you don't make it this round, it just means you weren't ready. We hold tryouts every year, and I hope you'll consider coming back out next January.”