The Rivals - Dylan Allen Page 0,140

wished someone would do for me.

As soon as I step out from behind the curtain, he stands up. I stop right where I am and stare at the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen.

He’s not a small, skinny kid in clothes that are too small. The only thing my imagination got right is that he’s a kid. And even that, just barely. He’s tall, and a little lanky, but in his Houston Rockets jersey and shorts, I can see the muscles that declare him an athlete.

His shoes might be too tight, but given how brand spanking new they look, I doubt it. With his perfectly cut, close-cropped mop of dark curly hair on top of his head, he looks more like a kid in a boyband than he does a kid who would cower in front of anyone.

He’s got a face that looks like it was carved out of stone, all sharp edges, and rounded curves and smooth skin that reminds me of the creamy nutty inside of an acorn shell.

But his eyes make my heart leap into my throat. They’re as dark and beautiful as the starless skies Houston nights are known for and are full of hostility as he watches me.

He looks just like one of the kids who throws spit wads at me from the back of the classroom. Just like one of the kids who sticks his foot out when I walk by in the lunchroom and then laughs when I fall on my face with my lunch splattered all over me.

They’re all perfect and tall with great clothes and great hair and teeth that are being trained into perfectly straight lines by braces.

It’s me whose clothes are too small; whose shoes are too tight. Me, who needs someone to come to her rescue.

“What are you doing in here?” He jumps from the couch he’d been crying on and wipes his tears away. He sounds mad now and not scared at all.

My stomach starts to hurt. I’ve probably just gotten myself and Mama into big trouble. And for what?

“Who are you?” he asks, louder now.

I step backward toward my little hiding spot and wish I could click my heels and transport myself back behind the curtain.

“I’m sorry. I only came out because I heard you crying. I didn’t mean—”

“I wasn’t crying and you better not tell anybody I was,” he says angrily.

“You were too, crying. I heard you,” I argue even though I know I shouldn’t.

“Then you need to get your ears cleaned.” He shoots me an annoyed glance but then sits back down on the couch and stares at his hands as they rest in his lap.

I stand there, torn between wanting to help him and wanting to hide. I watch the door nervously and pray his mother doesn’t come back.

“I was just trying to be nice. I’m sorry. Just pretend you never saw me,” I plead with him.

He looks up from his lap and wide, dark eyes are full of suspicion, his thick slashing brows are drawn together.

“What are you doing in here?”

I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to get in trouble. But, I’m already caught, and he’s not supposed to be in here either, so maybe he won’t be rushing to rat me out. Maybe he’ll just get his books and leave and I’ll go back behind the curtain until Mama comes back.

“My mom brought me with her to the party. I was bored, so I came in here to wait until she’s ready to go.” I run a hand over my hair, my nervous tic, and have a momentary shock of not feeling my normally, thick tangle of curls. Tonight, my mother sat me down and mercilessly blow dried and then flat ironed every curl into straight submission.

He looks me over. I make myself stand still and wait for him to reply.

His gaze flits over my shoulder at the curtain. “You were hiding back there?” He tips his head at it.

I nod.

“So, you heard everything my mom said?”

So snakehead is his mother. My mother’s terrible, but she never talks to me like that. I feel sorry for him again.

I nod again.

He sighs and closes his eyes.

“Where do you go to school?”

“T.H. Rogers.”

“You’re in middle school?” His eyebrows shoot up. He eyes me up and down, and I can see the doubt on his face. My mother has been dressing me like this and bringing me to these events with her since I turned twelve.

She tells people I’m her younger