Fall for You

Chapter 1

This fall wasn't like every other, because I met him, and he. . .

Ran into me with a lunch tray full of food. . .

The weather is cooling off, and I finally found a reason to wear the beige sweater I splurged on last March. It's an important day for me, and it was so meticulously and lovingly selected to match my favorite plaid skirt.

I look down and want to cry. I'm covered in pizza, minestrone soup, and a splash of chocolate milk.

Looking up is a mistake, too. We make eye contact. It's brief but intense. He's terrified. I'm horrified.

Evan has these haunting blue eyes that his glasses do nothing to temper. It's certainly not the first time I've noticed, but it is the first time I've been this close to him. It's the last thing I could ever be ready for. Yet, here I am, speechless and dumbfounded, with a greasy glob of cheese stuck to the fuzz of my sweater.

I wish I could just yell at him and be done with it, but I can't find the words because a) this was technically my fault. I dropped a five-dollar bill and whirled around to pick it up. And b), I just don't have it in me. This tendency is amplified by c), my secret crush on him, and d), the sentence he's able to spit out first. "I am soooo sorry."

He hands me his crumpled napkin and squats down to pick up the mess.

While he's busy with that, I go to work on my sweater. "It's okay," I reply, even though it isn't.

"What the hell just happened?"

Brody. Of course.

My boyfriend of three weeks arrives in time to make matters that much worse. He's a football player, the school's star quarterback. It's the exact moment Evan is on one knee, handing me the five-dollar bill. He proceeds to stand up with the tray of spoiled lunch teetering in his grip.

"Uh..." His eyes drift upward. For a boy of medium build—if I'm being generous—the angle would suggest that death is imminent. I've never seen him at such a loss for words. "It's not, well . . . you see..." I've seen him take on my AP US History teacher and win, as far as I'm concerned, and he's one of the best teachers in the district.

Brody looks at the splotch of tomato sauce on my breast and his face flushes to match. "Maybe you should watch where you're going, Dumbass. She has a choir thing later."

"Drama tryouts," Evan corrects him. "For the winter musical."

These details would be extraneous and inconsequential to Brody. Singing is a big part of who I am, and it would be the safest guess, sort of like stating the obvious, but I'm still impressed he linked it to my plans for the afternoon. It means, to a degree, he was half-paying attention to me on the drive to school this morning.

"What did you just say to me?" He looks the fool by comparison and he's intelligent enough to realize that.

Evan is not only precise. He is also accurate. He must have gleaned this information from the brief conversation I was having with my friend, Reagan, in History. She sits directly in front of me. Evan is by the window, one row over and two seats up. My plans for the afternoon weren't a secret or anything, and I wasn't making any effort to keep my voice down. Still, as brilliant as he is—he'd only have to hear it once—it comes as a shock that he bothered to tune in. From what I can remember, he was reviewing his notes. The sun was hitting the back of his perfect haircut. If he had turned around at all, or acknowledged my existence at any time prior, I would have remembered.

I stop blotting my sweater. It's hopeless, anyway. "It's fine." I give Brody a look of warning and grab his wrist when his body lurches forward.

Brody is apparently experiencing something equal but opposite. He's also in shock, but not the conflicted kind. Not knowing anything about Evan, he would consider this a declaration of interest. On his "territory," it would be trespassing, for sure. Knowing Brody, he'd feel compelled to even the score and then some. It's in his wiring. It's what the school loves him for.

My intervention works until he realizes that I'm protecting Evan. It just makes matters worse. He wrenches free of my grip and takes a swing at Evan's messy tray. It goes flying to the side.

"Hey!" some other girl shouts as the tray finds its next victim.

Half of the lunchroom was already staring. By now, everyone else has joined in. A good amount of them are standing, too. A few cameras are rolling. One kid is practically close enough to trip over.

"Look." Evan takes a step back. "I'm sorry. I don't want any trouble."

I slip into the gap he left. "Brody. . ." I'm now in front of him, looking way up. My raised hands are just a symbolic gesture. They'd do nothing to actually stop him. "It was an accident. Don't do this."

He keeps prowling closer. Evan and I are forced to inch backwards. We slip into an alcove, free of any higher authority.

Everyone is chanting fight, fight, fight. It feeds the fire and the trash talk fans the flames.

"She's cheating on him!"

"Kick his ass!"

As untrue as this may be, our time is out. Detonation has been triggered.

Brody attempts to nudge me out of the way, but the momentum goes awry because of the chocolate milk I've been tracking with my shoes. Plus, I'm determined to stay put. And when he attempts to hit Evan, his elbow clips my cheekbone. While I'm reeling from the pain, my feet slip. Brody stumbles into me, and I go flying forward.

I get my arms up in time to protect myself from face planting, but I hit my knees really hard and collapse to my stomach. The moment I feel a breeze on my ass, the crowd bursts out laughing. Before I even come to a full stop, I'm fumbling for the back of my skirt. It takes a painfully long time just to locate the damn thing. Of course it flipped all the way up. Of course I'm wearing high-cut underwear with a pumpkin print and have a major wedgie.

I have no doubt the cameras are zooming in. I'll be everyone's favorite meme for the rest of my known life.

After a few failed attempts to wrangle my skirt back down, I roll over and sit up. By this point, my clothes are filthy, my hair is a mess. Then there's my face, burning hot and not just from embarrassment, and I'm ugly crying.

It seems Brody is no longer in the mood to quarrel. My exposed ass is apparently the extinguishing agent.

He is still smirking when he offers me his hand to help me up. I swat it away and intend to tell him exactly how I feel. How I've honestly felt for a while now. I just couldn't find the right time or place. I was just too nervous, too scared. There were never enough witnesses. I was never quite angry or reckless enough to speak the truth. But that has now changed. "We're done here. You're a sorry excuse for a boyfriend, and I never want to see you again."

Then I storm off to avoid the fallout. I've already been burned enough for one day.