Rebel at Spruce High (Spruce Texas Romance #5) - Daryl Banner Page 0,65

my mom. She comes out at exactly 7:08 AM, as usual, and the pair of us get into her car. She drives me down to the school while I stare out the window. No words are exchanged, except for the occasional clearing of her throat. Yes, even after my declaration about walking myself to school after she took away my bike, I eventually caved when my dad talked me into taking her up on the offer—which feels more like a sentence. She drops me off at the end of Main Street instead of at the front of the school, because it’s easier for her. She’s still playing out the silent treatment, like I’ve deeply wounded her with my words.

That’s fine. Two can play, and I’ll outlast her in this silence. I’ll stay silent until her next words are either “I’ve decided to give you back your bike, which I shouldn’t have taken in the first place” or “Here is the first ticket out of this town, I’m so sorry for bringing you here, please enjoy your freedom.” Since one set of words seems as unlikely as the other to fly out of her mouth, I’ll count on playing the silent game for the rest of the school year.

Silence is your friend at a new school, too.

Every class, I sit in the back, silent and alone. My first period English with Ms. Bean speeds by as she proceeds to cover the first few chapters of a book I’ve read literally three times between the schools I’ve been tossed out of. It’s perfect, because it gives me time to pull my script out of my backpack and continue shading Kingsley-Demon’s arm muscles, which is where I left off last night. Who needs an arts program when you’ve got classes that are covering crap you aced two years ago? Every class is art!

Second period is world history with a lady named Ms. Jones who whistles unintentionally with every “s” she says. The class is at the far back corner of the school, lined across the back by tall windows, and the harsh morning sunlight beats over my neck as I squint, trying to stay focused on the board as she drones on about something to do with India and trade and something else.

The moment the bell rings, I’m off to the temporary trailers. Funny enough, for the first time ever, Toby and I reach the long wooden walkway that leads to our classroom at the same time. “Hey!” he greets me, going for something between cheery and cool-dude. He’d be fine if he tried less, the poor guy. He goes in first, then holds the door open for me. When we take our table in the back, I pull out my script and go to work shading in Kingsley-Demon’s quad muscles on his thighs. The moment I start, Toby’s eyes are glued to my hand. “Just another thing,” I mumble before he even asks, always playing off my drawings like they don’t mean anything to me, like I make a million a minute. Yet Toby treasures each one with his eyes, amazed. “You have really great form,” he tells me. “There’s something really … consistent with your art. Your demon dudes,” he adds in a funny voice.

Then the bell rings, and my spotlight is stolen by the teacher, who starts today’s lesson on covalent bonds. Once I deduce that I know everything he’s covering today, I go right back to sketching, and Toby, who I believe was taking notes a second ago, is back to peering distractedly at my work, too curious to look away.

The way his bright blue eyes are glued to what I’m doing has an unfortunate effect on me. That effect being: I can’t focus on my work. Because now I’m focusing on him. And his eyes. And his …

His hands. The way his arms are crossed, I have a glimpse of his fingers near my arm, so close to touching me. Why is it now that I’m suddenly so damned focused on his hands? I wish he might get the impulse to scoot a little closer to me, so maybe our arms could touch. I wouldn’t flinch away. Doesn’t he know that?

When the bell rings, all my distracting thoughts of touching Toby are gone. In PE, the thoughts return in full force—especially when we split into partners to do sets of pull-ups on a row of bars that line one end of the gymnasium. “If your partner’s strugglin’,” Coach