Free One Day More by Aprilynne Pike Page B

social lubricant. Langdon does not embrace that particular philosophy. I think he gets half his calories from Doritos and vodka.
    â€œDude, I can’t,” he slurs—I assume from being tired and not actually because he’s plastered at school, though we’ve done that a couple of times, too. “I have practice today, and Coach is seriously going to kick my ass off the team if I skip again.”
    â€œTell him you’re sick,” I murmur, keeping half an eye on our teacher. She’s grading yesterday’s tests at her desk in the front of the room while we all write proofs. Or, you know, don’t. Tomorrow I’ll copy from the nerd in the front of the class who’s always trying to catch a peek down my shirt. I glance back at Langdon and waggle my eyebrows. “And then we’ll go make you sick.”
    â€œI’ve been sick like five times in the last two weeks,” Langdon says, sounding serious for once. “He’s not going to buy it today.”
    A hot spot starts to burn in my stomach. He knows how important it is for me to get away on Thursdays. He’s the only person I’ve told. Maybe that was a mistake. “Well, he certainly ought to buy it today. You look like shit.” I angle my shoulders away from him and pretend to listen to the conversation Kyndra is having with Sophie across the aisle on my other side.
    I hate it when he blows me off. I’m always the one sober enough to drive him home, I’m generally willing when he just wants to hook up, and I always, always buy.
    Or steal. Same thing.
    He owes me big-time.
    Course, getting him drunk three or four times a week so he can barely practice probably isn’t the best idea, either, but I’m not making him drink—we just go to the parties together. I cannot be held responsible for Langdon’s poor decision-making skills.
    Still, maybe I should have saved my partying for tonight.
    A bark of laughter, quickly muffled, catches my attention, and I look forward to see Khail laughing at the guy beside him, his hand over his mouth in a fruitless effort to cover the noise. I almost have to touch my breastbone to ease the ache that stabs my heart at the sound.
    I hate that this still happens to me. That he still makes me feel this way. I should be so over him. But how many years have I watched that wavy, strawberry-blond hair from the desk right behind his? The one I always claim.
    I punched a girl in the teeth when she wouldn’t give it up in one of our classes freshman year.
    He’s never noticed.
    Ever.
    Maybe if he had . . .
    No, that’s stupid. You can’t just change people like that.
    But I wish I could. I wish I could change a lot of people.
    Like myself.
    I must be feeling supernostalgic today or something.
    Whatever; I give myself a rare moment of indulgence and keep staring. At his hair, obviously—what girl doesn’t love strawberry-blond curls on a hot guy? But also those lean, muscled arms that even Whitestone’s lame-ass uniforms can’t hide, and his broad shoulders. The boy is perfection. He also won the state wrestling championship last year. As a sophomore . Pretty much unheard of.
    I watched. Drove out to LA and snuck into the coliseum late so he wouldn’t notice. And left the second the match was over. I didn’t want him to see me—didn’t want him to think I still cared. But I wanted to watch him. Wanted it so badly it was worth the risk.
    I swallow hard and force my attention away from Khail. I look at the blank page of my notebook that I’m pressing my fingers against. That kind of thinking is not productive. I force my hands to relax and scribble mindlessly on the page instead, glancing up at the clock again and again as the second hand slows down—slower, slower—until I swear it’s not moving at all.
    The bell still makes me jump. Finally. School over for another day .
    I turn my back on