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CHAPTER

THIRTY-ONE

AMBER: SOPHOMORE YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL

First day of sophomore year, and I’m saving a seat in math class for Ford. He struggles with math, a lot. But I’m here to help him. I prefer art and English, but math isn’t horrible. Someone stops right in front of my desk, and I grin as I look up, thinking it’s Ford. My smile drops when I see Justin, the school bully, sneering down at me instead.

“Waiting for your loser boyfriend?”

I glare back at him, not standing down. “Ford’s not my boyfriend. He’s my friend.”

Justin holds his hands in the air, and his two minions flanking him snicker. “He’s not your boyfriend, but he sure wants to be. In his dreams,” Justin’s voice is mocking and annoying.

His two buddies high-five him. “That pip-squeak will never have a girlfriend. He’ll just wind up married to that stupid coin he carries.” Justin bursts into laughter at his own comment and his buddies join him.

Justin takes one step toward me, crowding so close to my desk, I have to look straight up to meet his gaze. His eyes are brown like Ford’s, but they’re a cold, muddy brown. They’re not warm and bright the way Ford’s are. “You know, I could take you out, Amber. Show you what it’s like to hang out with a real man.”

Ew. Gross. I don’t want Justin to show me anything. “No thanks. Not interested.”

He leans down, placing both of his hands on my desk, his mousy brown hair flopping into his eyes with the movement. “I know you’re just trying to save his feelings. You want me. I can see it all over your face.”

He’s probably talking about how red my face is. But it’s red with anger, not with a blush. Why is it the very worst teenage boys who have all the confidence?

“The lady said she’s not interested,” a deep, deadly voice echoes around the room. Justin eases away from my desk, and he and his friends turn to look behind them.

Ford stands there, towering over all of them. Yeah, I’m guessing Justin hasn’t seen Ford since he finally hit his growth spurt—and voice change—this summer.

Justin blinks a few times, unable to speak as he looks up at the man he referred to as a pipsqueak.

I bite my bottom lip to keep from smiling.

“Ford?” Justin asks in disbelief.

“Justin,” Ford responds, crossing his arms.

Justin’s minions have disappeared, and Justin is still staring at my best friend. Ford hasn’t threatened him or thrown punches. All he had to do was be his usual strong, steady self. My chest fills with pride at how awesome he is.

“I think you should find your seat, Justin. Class is about to start.” Ford blinks slowly before sliding into the seat I was saving for him, his long legs barely fitting beneath the desk.

Wordlessly, Justin turns and heads to the back of the class to take his seat.

I snicker. “That was amazing. ”

Ford is unamused. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I huff a laugh at his concern.

The bell rings, and our teacher passes out an algebra packet and tells us we will work through the new material as a class this week.

Ford stares down at his paper, his entire body tense. His face starts to pale, and I know he’s holding his breath.

I place my hand on his desk, not touching him but letting him know I’m there. He exhales the breath he was holding and glances over at me. “This looks like hieroglyphics,” he whispers.

I offer what I hope is a reassuring smile. “We’ll get through it together.”

His throat works as he swallows, and he looks doubtful. “I read an article the other day that said people with autism are usually really good at math and science. I’m apparently the only dumb person with high-functioning autism.” His deep baritone is hushed, not wanting to draw the teacher’s attention.

“That’s ridiculous.” I roll my eyes. Ford is smart. Just not in the typical sense. He’s smart in the way he thinks before acting, in how he cares for others, in how his brain processes hockey strategy, and in how much effort he puts into taking care of others. Intelligence isn’t always about grades.

But I can’t tell him that now because the teacher is narrowing his eyes in our direction.