Free Tru Love by Rian Kelley Page A

friend’s words.
                  Serena rolls her eyes. “Real mature,” she mutters.
                  “I’m a late bloomer,” Genny reminds her. She pulls her French book out of her back pack and last night’s homework from her binder. “I was actually thinking about the stars and moon. That’s when the wolves came in.” She thinks about her theory, about planets and people. “Do you think Victor is your sun?”
                  “What?” Serena stares at her for a moment, then turns back to peer in her compact and adjust a strand of hair in her up-do.
                  “You know, the focus of your universe.”
                  “Hmm,” she thinks. “Sometimes. And sometimes I’m his. It works best that way. Anything too one-sided and you’re headed for trouble. Like right now, he knows he’s really got to shine to make up for yesterday.” She stuffs her compact in her purse then leans across the aisle to whisper, “When he picked me up for school today, a bunch of white roses were waiting for me in the passenger seat. And wrapped around their stems—” she arches an eyebrow to invite Genny’s imagination to play, “a spare key to the King Cobra .” She smiles, all teeth and righteousness. Genny returns the smile because Serena’s joy is infectious.
    Mr. Langier calls the class to order with a greeting in French and the instruction to pass up their homework. Genny falls into the familiar rhythm of class and lets her mind wander. A full, silver moon in a cloudless sky and a rusty-haired wolf prancing in the shadows, nose pointed toward the sky and music flowing from his mouth. Only that image morphs into an image of Truman Lennox, standing in the shadows, his full mouth curving into a dangerous smile and his hand reaching toward her, inviting her to join him.
                  Stupid , Genny chides herself and belatedly becomes aware of Mr. Langier speaking to her in French.
                  Genny stares at him blankly.
                  “This is a romantic language isn’t it, Miss Vout, but perhaps you could try a little harder to stay in the moment,” he suggests.
                  Genny feels a blush heat her cheeks. She knows Serena is staring at her but she refuses to turn her head. She’s had enough trouble for one day. She wills the clock to move faster but, of course, that doesn’t work. When the bell rings Genny expels a breath, turns her back and stuffs her books into her bag. She doesn’t want to face Serena; she’ll just have more questions for her and Genny has no intention of admitting her fascination for Truman Lennox to herself, nevertheless her friend.
                  “Where are you going?” She catches Genny at the door.
                  “Lunch.”
                  “You want to eat with me and Victor today?” she offers politely. Genny looks in her face for any lurking curiosity and finds none. Her eyes, though, are brimming with laughter.
                  “No.”
                  “You’d rather sit by yourself, sulking?”
                  “I’m not sulking.”
                  “Hiding,” she corrects. “Yeah, that’s it. You’re definitely hiding something.”
                  Genny shrugs and steps into the hall. “If you say so.”
                  “You’re afraid to look at me,” Serena crows. “You think I might suck the information out of your head?”
                  “Sometimes you know too much,” Genny points out.
                  “The eyes are the windows to the soul,” Serena says, adding an exaggerated somber tone to her voice. Then she laughs.
                  They walk into the cafeteria and Genny finds the shortest line. Serena follows her, waving Victor over to join them. Genny tries not to look