Free The Art of Holding On and Letting Go by Kristin Lenz Page B

like mothballs. Outside, the sun was brilliant; a giant sponge sopping up yesterday’s humidity. I gobbled up the clean air. Bloomfield High had hardly any windows. It was a giant, rectangular, two-story brick building. You know what kind of building has no windows? A prison.
    In California, the local high school was like a sprawling villa tucked in the hills. Whitewashed stucco, open corridors. You left your classroom and walked outside under a veranda to get to your next classroom. Not that I ever went there, but when my parents talked about me going to “real” school, that was what I pictured.
    I took one last deep breath of fresh air and entered to serve my time. The door hissed shut behind me. Four hours until I could escape at lunchtime. I touched the bruised bump on my forehead from Friday’s crash with Basketball Guy. At least it was mostly hidden by my bangs. I was steering clear of the cafeteria today.
    Something was on my desk in Algebra II. I slid into my seat and picked up the little blue and white package. Snack-size Oreos. Basketball Guy was at the front of the room, leaning over the pencil sharpener at the teacher’s desk.
    I pushed the package of cookies to the corner of my desk and took out my notebook and pencil. The lead point was broken. Okay then. I headed to the sharpener and waited my turn.
    â€œRegular or the super special?”
    Basketball Guy was asking me a question. His shoulders hunched to come down to my size. Since I was only five-foot-three, he had a long way to go. I gave him a blank look. Was he asking me about cookies? He flashed his lopsided grin and held out his hand, waiting for …
    My pencil. Duh. He took it and said, “Just a regular sharpening today, okeydokey.”
    What a goof! But cute. His cheeks were still flushed with those two pink splashes. A faint scar cut into his upper lip, and I wondered what had gashed his skin once upon a time. That thick wavy hair. What ethnicity was he? Italian? Maybe some Latino blood? A curly lock fell over one eye as he bent down to sharpen my pencil.
    â€œThanks for the Oreos.” I tipped my head in the direction of my desk.
    â€œI owed you.” He squinted at my forehead. “You have a goose egg!”
    I raised my hand to the bump on my forehead and smoothed my bangs.
    â€œI’m so sorry!” he said. “Does it hurt?”
    I shook my head. “No, it’s fine. Really. What about you?”
    He rapped his knuckles against his skull. “Hard as a rock.”
    He gave my pencil back to me and nodded at the bracelet on my wrist. “Are those acai beads?”
    â€œUm, no, tagua nuts. From Ecuador.” I held out my wrist for him to see.
    â€œCool. My dad brought my mom a bracelet like that from Brazil.” He touched the beads on my wrist. “But it’s made from acai seeds.”
    He gave me another grin, I smiled back, and we returned to our seats.
    A guy gave him a fist bump as he passed. “Triple T.”
    A basketball nickname? Tim, Trent, Trevor? How was I going to find out this guy’s name?
    I fiddled with my bracelet. My nails had grown out into a ragged mess, and the crosshatch of scratches on the back of my hand had healed into raised red scars. I hoped he hadn’t noticed.
    The teacher’s scribbles on the whiteboard might as well have been written in Chinese. I twirled my ponytail, squirmed in my seat; my legs twitched. How could long-legged people like Triple T tolerate being cramped in these uncomfortable chairs? His profile from across the room was much more interesting than the mess of quadratic equations on my desk. He didn’t seem to be having any trouble with his problems. He hunched over his desk, pencil moving smoothly across the page, working out the answers.
    He looked up and busted me. I looked away, then back. He was still looking at me, and of course my fingers were stuck in my twirled ponytail. His grin grew wider as I tugged