that I’m involved with “nerdy” stuff, but good grief, what does he expect me to do? It’s not exactly like I can be an athlete or try out for the cheer squad with Syd.
“Okay.” He commands, “Meet me out here when you’re done.”
Sydney’s for me waiting at the edge of the parking lot. Her eyes are glued to her phone until she sees us walking over.
Well, until she sees my brother, which will always catch her attention.
“Heya, Em,” she says, beaming at him. He gives her a quick nod and strides across the quad, unmoved by her batting eyelashes. Sydney turns to me, fanning herself with her phone. “If it’s possible, I think your brother actually got cuter over the summer.”
I grimace. “Hmm…”
Syd has had a crush on Emory since before we even got to Preston Prep. There’s really no nice way to tell her that he’s not interested, and frankly, he doesn’t even like us being friends. But unlike him, I don’t have a million people lining up to become my buddies, and sure, Sydney has issues, but she’s also stuck by my side during everything. Even if it means I have to put up with a lot of her self-inflicted drama.
Speaking of, Syd’s phone buzzes and she glances down. “Oh my god.”
“What?” I ask, taking an awkward step over the curb.
“Fucking Caleb. He just texted me to say that everyone is talking about me.”
“What now?” People ‘talking’ about Sydney is a common occurrence.
“Some insane rumor that I fucked two guys from North Ridge, at the same time, last weekend. As if.” She laughs and shakes her head. “God, when are people going to stop being so interested in my sex life?”
I grip the straps on my backpack and don’t reply to what is obviously a rhetorical question. Sydney’s social life—her sex life—has been a constant source of gossip and fascination for years. She’s either a slut, or a tease, or a sex goddess, or a virgin, at any given moment. I stopped keeping up years ago, and after the blow up with Skylar Adams, it seemed like maybe it would slow down, but nope. According to Syd, the rumors keep flying.
“Whatever,” she mumbles, pushing her phone in her backpack. She turns to face me, her eyes searching my face. “How are you? You ready for this?”
Sydney is the one person who knows how much I’ve struggled the past few years. There’s part of me that knows her interest in me is probably driven by a desire to be tragedy adjacent. But there’s another part that’s grateful to just have someone around. I haven’t told her the truth about the painkillers—not exactly—but I have told her that I do have plans to get more involved this year. It all starts with the Chronicle.
I take a steeling breath, nodding. “I have my proposal ready.”
“Awesome, I think you’re going to kill it, and then next year you’ll get to be editor-in-chief.” I reluctantly accept her high-five.
We walk through the clusters of students and my eyes track them all. I see Emory and his jock friends, all in their letter jackets despite it still being hot outside. A few kids say hello before side-stepping to give me space. As we head down the sidewalk, I can’t help but notice everyone taking great care to give me a wide berth. Their smiles are friendly, if distant. There’s a twinge of pity on every face, and some people won’t even meet my eyes.
I grab Sydney’s arm to get her attention. “What’s that all about?”
“What’s what all about?” She’s got her eye on Tyson Riggins, who is leaning against the brick wall by the main building. He’s adorable, and if social media is accurate, very much already taken by a girl at another school.
“Everyone is looking at me,” I explain, eyes warily taking in the students around me. “And they’re all giving me room. I know I have the gimpy leg and all, but it’s not like that’s new.”
“Uh,” Syd says, looking around, “this is pretty much how people have always treated you. You were probably just too stoned to realize it.”
I turn to her, mouth parted in surprise. “Seriously?”
Wow.
I’d known I was out of it. Almost all of my high school experience up to now can be described as just that—high. Months and months of sitting in the classroom, walking the halls, lost in a delicious fog of sweet nothingness, and this is probably only scratching the surface of things I’ve missed.