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Unabashed

Seventeen Years Old, Tennessee

Second semester, senior year.

I’m taking Ceramics.

Second semester, junior year, my very darkest months, Mom and Dad stood by, eyebrows doubtfully lifted as I shuffled my schedule, transferring into the most challenging classes Rosebell High had to offer. They failed to hide their incredulity when I aced every single one, though I’m not sure why they were so surprised. After Beck passed, I gave up friends and clubs. I took a break from volunteering, and I quit on the Byrnes. I sank everything I had into school; it only made sense that I’d excel.

Last month, when Paloma suggested we sign up for Ceramics together, I vacillated. How would CVU perceive such a slack course? I went for it, though, partly so my parents will start to think of me as healed—whatever that means—and partly so I can hang out with Paloma last period of the day.

I beat her to the classroom, an outbuilding behind the library. She coasts in three seconds before the bell. Ponytail swinging, she hurries to the table I’ve claimed. It has stools for four, but none of the underclassmen have opted to join us, which is just as well.

“This is gonna be excellent ,” she says, settling onto a seat. She’s still waiting to hear from USC, though I’ll be shocked if she doesn’t get in. Her GPA’s even better than mine. She pulls her bag onto the table, unearths a tube of lipstick, and uses the reflective screen of her phone to paint her mouth a glossy pink. When she’s satisfied, she turns her voluminously mascaraed gaze on me. “So? How was the first day of your last semester?”

“Better than expected. Yours?”

She grins. “The beginning of the end. Want to celebrate with bread pudding later?”

I nod, flashing her a smile as the bell rings.

Our teacher, Ms. Robbins, sports goldenrod nail polish and wears her sandy curls in a nest atop her head, reminding me of Ms. Frizzle from The Magic School Bus books. I listen as she talks about her grading policy, which is an A for effort, basically, and scope out the classroom. Cluttered shelves skirt the perimeter, a gallery of completed projects donated by students from semesters past. To the left there’s a closet storing jars of glaze. To the right sit a half-dozen pottery wheels, dusty with dried clay. Behind Paloma are bricks of fresh clay, ripe with potential, and tins that hold potter’s needles, sponges, and modeling tools. The air smells earthy and lush.

Ms. Robbins’s space is the antithesis of classroom , and I kind of love it.

She’s passing out the course syllabus when the door bangs open. Isaiah—

who I kissed

—blows in with nonchalant confidence.

Paloma catches my eye and smirks.

“Sorry I’m late,” he tells Ms. Robbins.

She smiles shrewdly, making me suspect that she’s had him in class before. “Don’t let it happen again, Mr. Santoro.” Scanning the room for seating options, her gaze lands on the table Paloma and I share because— shit —we’ve got empty stools. “There’s a spot there, back by the clay.”

Isaiah’s attention lands squarely on me.

He smiles the most unabashed grin I’ve ever witnessed.

Fire consumes my face.

He makes his way over, looking comfortable and cool in jeans, a Memphis Grizzlies sweatshirt, and beat-up black Chucks. On one white rubber toe, someone’s drawn a smattering of pink stars.

Ms. Robbins tells us to take a few minutes to read over the syllabus as Isaiah drops his backpack on the floor and pulls out the stool nearest mine. With a last-period-of-the-day sigh, he sits. “What’s up, Paloma?” he says, tipping his chin in her direction.

“Nada. Excited to get my hands on some clay.”

He turns his smile on me, milder now, more inquiry than salutation. I give a slight nod— let’s play it cool —before looking down at my syllabus, pretending to focus on its bullet points while I get lost reliving the warm want of our November kiss .

It’s confusing and embarrassing and really freaking distressing to admit that I’ve thought about Isaiah Santoro a hell of a lot since that day.

“Lia,” he says. “You ready to get your clay on?”

I let my eyes rise to his. “Sure. Ms. Robbins seems cool.”

He gives me a quick once-over: my ponytail, my fleece, the aquamarine-and-sapphire ring I resumed wearing the day he and I met. He says, “She’s the best. She advises Art Club.”

“You’re in Art Club?” Paloma asks.

“Yeah. I talked Trev into joining this year too.”

“Like you guys don’t have enough going on with basketball.”

I furrow my brow and say to Isaiah, “You play basketball?”

As if I should be keeping tabs on his extracurriculars.

“He’s captain of the team,” Paloma tells me. “He’s been varsity since he was a freshman, which is very unusual.”

“That’s me: very unusual,” he says, charmingly self-deprecating. “League games start next week. Hope to see you both in the stands.”

“Obviously,” Paloma says.

Isaiah looks to me.

“Oh. I don’t really know basketball,” I say, leaving out the part about how my deceased boyfriend was a football fan. “But I guess I could come watch.”

“You don’t watch ,” Paloma says. “You scream your face off.”

“You don’t have to scream your face off,” Isaiah tells me, his voice quiet and focused, as if we’re a lone pair on this vast, vast planet. I’m trying to figure out what to make of that when he adds, “Showing up’s enough.”