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Thinking I’d definitely have to call Schy and get some idea of something simple that wouldn’t end up making me look like a total loser, I paid attention to where I was going and managed to trace my way back to my locker.

Not sure if every class forbade bringing laptops, I took the safe way out and stored my MacBook in my new cubby. Then I stalled, waiting for Laina. Biting my lip, I peeked around me at the passing people. Everyone knew everyone else. They chatted, laughed, yelled friendly insults, jostled jokingly for more room. I felt so left out. So alone.

I knew no one.

Well, almost no one.

Across the hall and down about ten lockers lounged Ryder Yates.

Freezing as my gaze latched on to him, I forgot to breathe for a full ten seconds. Then air rushed from my lungs in a tidal wave.

No! What was I going to do? I told myself to turn away. But for some reason, I simply stood there, ogling.

He looked nice. Really nice. Dressed in tan slacks and a long-sleeved black turtleneck tucked neatly into a pleated waistline, he’d brushed his long bangs to the side so he could see. And see, he did.

He saw me.

When he first turned my way, I remained petrified and forgot the whole breathing thing again. But then he glanced right past me, and my lungs exhaled in relief. Except he did a double take and swerved back to gawk. For a split second, our gazes met and held.

And held.

His mouth dropped open; I read immediate recognition clear on his face.

Oh, yeah. He remembered me.

I whirled away, bumping the center of my forehead on the edge of my opened locker door. Mortified, I slapped a palm to the stinging skin and caught the still-quivering, thin metal door with my other hand. No one paused to ask if I was okay. So either no one noticed, or they were all too busy discreetly laughing at the new dork in school.

After checking my fingers for blood, I blew out a relieved breath and buried my face in my locker to pull out my book bag, only to rummage through it as if I were looking for something, when actually I looked for nothing. The notebook and pen I planned to take to second hour were already securely tucked under my arm.

From behind me, I heard some boy call, “Hey, Yates, my man, what’s wrong with you?”

I didn’t catch Yates’s response, but he had to have said something to his friend, because the caller followed up with, “Who?” and seconds later added, “Where?”

When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I glanced over my shoulder. Ryder had his back to me. He stood oddly still as he looked into his own locker as if searching for something inside, maybe something that would give him meaning to his existence. But the guy next to him rested his forearm on Ryder’s shoulder and openly dissected me from head to toe. Then he glanced at Ryder’s side profile.

I swear I heard the phrase, “Are you sure that’s her?”

Ryder’s head gave a slight nod and his friend glanced over at me once more.

They were talking about me. Well, I felt pretty certain they were talking about me. With the level of paranoia raging through my bloodstream, they could’ve been disputing if the girl off Twilight had also been in Snow White and the Huntsman. Who knew? But, at this particular moment in time, I was so infinitely aware of those two individuals discussing me, I felt more self-conscious than if I’d forgotten to put on a bra that morning.

Again, I turned away—thank God I didn’t smack into anything this time—and glanced around for Laina but didn’t spot her.

I was on my own.

Blindly closing my locker, I hurried in the opposite direction of Ryder Yates and his gossipy, staring-problem friend. Fleeing clueless through the halls, I forgot to look at the room numbers I passed before I returned to Art. Wondering whether Miss Abernathy would let me hide in her room the rest of the day if I made some kind of mad plea about how an artistic muse had suddenly struck, I blew out a breath and silently counted to ten.

After calming myself enough to consult my schedule, I discovered I had Chemistry next. I figured I could find the room number from the numbers over the doors. But I soon discovered how wrong I was. It took me a couple of minutes to realize the different wings of the building numbered their classes in different ways.

In a desperate search for Room 4-D, my heart dipped into my knees when the second bell rang. Dear Lord, I had no idea where to go. Thankfully, I saw a passing adult in the cleared halls and flagged him down. After introducing himself as the vice principal, he welcomed me to Southeast and pointed me in the right direction.

I walked as fast as my legs would carry me and found 4-D half a minute later. When I jerked open the door, about two dozen heads turned my way, making me stall out in the threshold.

The teacher, who’d already started class, stopped talking in his droning voice and glanced over his shoulder to scowl at me.

Half the room consisted of currently unused lab tables—four rows of counters stretched out, holding beakers and vials and discolored liquids along with Bunsen burners and microscopes. The second half of the classroom consisted of occupied student desks.

And seated on the end row, about ten feet from me, three chairs from the front, sat Ryder Yates.