Winning my Best Friend's Girl - Piper Rayne Page 0,10
give it some time.” He steps forward, and I stiffen. His lips press to my cheek. “Goodnight, Stella.”
He walks down the short sidewalk back to his truck, and I turn to my door, inserting my key. I remind myself that I made the right decision, because Kingston and I are a web that no one ever escapes, and I won’t let anyone else get tangled in.
Five
Stella
Ten Years Old
First day of school
I walk into the classroom and everyone stops what they’re doing and looks at me. I smile and put my head down, heading to the teacher’s desk. All the chaos I walked into starts back up.
Mrs. Nickelson, Mrs. Nickelson. I’ve repeated her name multiple times so I don’t mess it up.
“Owen, I told you to stop picking up Annie. This isn’t wrestling class.” Mrs. Nickelson rolls her eyes, but when she spots me, her smile turns warm and welcoming. “Stella, right?”
I nod and swallow. My stomach feels like I’m about to go down the hill of a roller coaster and my mouth is so dry, I had to stop at the water fountain on my way from the office to here.
“Welcome. Class.” Mrs. Nickelson snaps her fingers, and when the boys and girls continue to mess around, she claps. There’s some rustling, but the students find their desks and sit. “This is Stella Harrison. She’s a new student.” She sits on a stool a few feet away from me. “Why don’t you tell us a little about yourself?”
I look up, and all their eyes are on me. That light feeling in my stomach quickly weighs heavy as if there’s an anchor in there now. As I scan the students, my eyes rest on one boy who has his head in his hand and is weaving figure eights on his desk with one finger. He’s sitting smack in the middle of the class, so I pretend I’m talking to him. It feels safer since he obviously doesn’t care to listen to my life story.
“Okay… I’m Stella. Um…”
“Where are you from, Stella?” Mrs. Nickelson asks, and I turn to her. She really seems nice from how much she smiles.
“I’m from Arizona.”
“Yikes, you’re not used to winter at all, are you?” Mrs. Nickelson asks.
I shake my head. “The first time I saw snow was when we moved here.” On the plane, when my mom pointed out the window at the snow-peaked mountains under us.
A few of the kids murmur about how crazy that sounds.
“And who did you move up here with?”
Thank goodness Mrs. Nickelson is asking the questions. I don’t have a very interesting life story.
“My mom.”
“Very nice. And I think I heard she’s opening up a bed-and-breakfast?”
“What’s that?” a boy in the back asks.
The boy I’ve been watching glances over his shoulder at the kid and rolls his eyes before staring at his desk again, watching his finger slide around the top of the desk. The boy looks sort of sad.
“It’s like a hotel, but more personal,” the teacher says. “The person who owns it usually cooks your meals, and sometimes you share a bathroom with other guests.”
“Why would someone want to do that?” the kid asks.
“It’s a different experience. Like I said, it’s more personal and quaint.”
“What’s quaint mean?” another boy asks.
Mrs. Nickelson’s smile falters slightly. “I’ll dig out more information for you and we’ll discuss it tomorrow. Let’s focus on Stella right now.”
No, please.
“And what do you like to do, Stella?” she asks.
“Um… I like to… play outside. My mom’s an artist, so we do a lot of things with paint and clay.”
“That sounds like a lot of fun. Doesn’t it, class?”
The class says ‘uh-huh’ as if they’ve rehearsed it.
“Go ahead and have a seat, Stella. There’s one right there between Owen and Kingston.” She points at the only empty desk in the room. “Kingston, be a dear and raise your hand so Stella knows who you are.”
I wish I could tell her that’s not necessary, but the boy who’s been doing figure eights with his finger puts his arm in the air without ever looking up at me. Kingston is the sad boy’s name.
When I slide into the desk, the boy on the other side leans toward me. “You don’t have a dad?”
I shake my head.
“Why?”
A year ago, I would have teared up, but I’ve been practicing at night before I go to bed because I knew people at my new school would ask questions and I’d have to answer them. “He died.”