𝐅𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘 • Randall Floyd

Chapter 6

"DO you mind facing me more?"

He hadn't been drawing her for very long—in fact he had only made two strokes of his pencil before he asked that question. But Willa obliged without protest and turned her body around completely so that her right arm was pressed into the cushioned leather seat.

Randall's body was symmetrical to hers, only where he put pencil to paper she was hugging her Baja jacket close to herself.

"What kind of crowds do you run in at your high school?" Randall asked. He was making conversation to divert from the subtle sounds of scratching lead, gentle music and muffled partying teenagers.

"I don't know," Willa replied.

"I bet you're a part of the student council or something."

"That's insulting," she deadpanned.

"It wasn't meant to be a bad thing."

"You just called me a brown-noser."

Randall laughed through his nose. "I just meant that I can see this being a hobby for you. You seem like the kind of person that's good at a lot of things. Besides, the girl at the party with a sketchbook being an artist is too predictable."

Willa gently scoffed. "And that isn't an insult?"

Randall sighed, pushing against the inside of his bottom lip. "I'm really putting my foot in it tonight."

"I mean, you weren't doing so bad before."

"Art must bring out the asshole in me, what can I say?"

Willa watched him take glances at her every now and again as he drew her, and she thought about the situation objectively.

This likely popular kid—good looking, going into his senior year and at an end of school blowout in the middle of the woods with full kegs—yet he isn't with his friends. Instead he's in the car of some girl from out of town he's barely known longer than twenty minutes outside of one fleeting interaction, and he's sketching her portrait.

It didn't make any sense.

"I can't work you out," she said frankly.

"No?" he asked as his lips slanted upward.

"No. You scream athlete but I guess I'm seeing what you mean about the whole hobby thing with me. You just come across as more complicated than all-American jock. It's hard to put a finger on."

"Sounds like someone owes me an apology," he teased, but she didn't play into it. "Reach in my pocket."

Her eyebrows knit together as she grew suspicious. "Why?"

"Do it and find out."

He was so collected about it that it convinced her to give it a chance. So she reached over, only for him to tilt the sketchbook away from her.

"But no peeking at the masterpiece."

She rolled her eyes and dipped her hand into the chest pocket of his button down. Immediately her fingers grazed a folded sheet of paper, so she dug deeper to pull it out.

She unfolded it two ways and read the form addressed by the Lee High School Athletic Department:

I voluntarily agree to not indulge in any alcohol, drugs or engage in any other illegal activity that may in any way jeopardize the years of hard work we as a team have committed to our goal of a championship season '76.

It was the most ridiculous thing Willa had ever read. It wasn't a form, it was a pledge disguised as intending to honour the school and the legacy of the team in a way that was so comical Willa was tempted to laugh.