Free Sell Out by Tammy L. Gray

won’t say anything.
    Maybe it was the way worry crinkled his brow or the way his shoulders fell forward, but I believed him.
    Me: You’d really keep my secret?
    Cody: Secret keeping is what I do best.
    I inhaled deeply and tried to calm the nerves assaulting my stomach. Even if Cody did keep my secret, the truth was bound to slip out at some point. Not just that Donnie Wyld’s daughter was attending high school in North Carolina, but that the reason was because he was sick. Pictures of my dad would be plastered on every paper in every supermarket with some cheesy headline like, “Rock Star’s Days Are Numbered.”
    Me: I actually thought no one would recognize me.
    Cody: They probably won’t. I’m a rock junkie. Totally on another level.
    I looked sideways at Cody. He had eased back in his seat, one notch above a slouch, and studied me with fascination. He flashed his rare smile and somehow it pushed the storm clouds away.
    Me: That’s a bold statement. Especially to someone who knows music as well as I do.
    Cody: Test me.
    I bit my lip and racked my brain for something that would stump him.
    Me: Colitas?
    Cody: Hotel California. First verse. Means marijuana in Mexican slang.
    Me: I’m impressed.
    Cody: Your turn. Dec 9th, 1967. Jim Morrison.
    Me: Arrested on stage for causing a riot.
    Cody: You might just be my soul mate.
    My burst of laughter earned a stern frown from Ms. Bakerfield. I slipped my phone into my bag, unwilling to lose it like she promised would happen my first day. But even without Cody’s words on my fingertips, my body flushed with an unfamiliar simmer. I tried to focus on the lecture. But the part of my brain in charge of analyzing and processing data was turned off. Blocked out by the brown-eyed boy who just made me regret accepting a group date with Blake.

CODY
    T he high from texting with Skylar dissipated the minute I stepped into the gym—mats waiting, coaches ready with whistles dangling from their lips, the air heavy with anticipation.
    Wrestling drills.
    Any other day I’d be stoked, ready to show off my skill and power. But today, my throbbing skin ached and stung like a thousand wasps had attacked me. I’d slathered on three rounds of aloe, but lifting my arms still hurt.
    Blake, on the other hand, sported a nice tan and an out-for-blood expression.
    Standing opposite me, he hopped, and then crisscrossed his arms for a lengthy stretch. “Joey said you and Skylar were awfully cozy in sixth period today.”
    His spies were merciless. “We may have sent a few texts.”
    He cracked his neck, twisting it side to side, but kept his eyes locked on mine. “I heard it was more than a few.”
    “So?” I knew that look in his eyes. Possession, ownership. Like a kid with a shiny new toy in his greedy little fist.
    His eyes flashed. “So, you know I’m into her.” The king’s authority rolled off his tongue.
    “What about Lindsay?”
    “Lindsay and I are on a break.” His shoulders tensed, his hands clenched before releasing. “I’m not going to be a monk in the meantime.”
    Irritation inched up my spine. He wasn’t even serious about Skylar. “So what? I can’t even talk to her?”
    “You can talk to her all you want.” He stretched his arm across his chest. “As long as I’m standing right there.”
    Coach Taylor approached, glancing between the two of us before lifting his whistle. The excitement on his face meant he noticed our intense exchange.
    Blake scanned me, sized me up, and seemed unimpressed. “This is going to be a great year.”
    The whistle blew and we attacked, slamming into each other like two bears going after the same fish. Arms locked, bodies pressed together, muscles strained as we fought for control.
    Blake’s hands shifted and his fingers pressed into my enflamed skin like a branding iron. I faltered for only a second, trying to block out the pain. But a second was all he needed. I was trapped; his weight pushed me onto my back despite fighting