Page 39 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
“What the actual…” Kimberley trails off, shaking her head. “Why would…”
Jessa cuts her off. “Oh my gosh, her aunt is the band’s manager. That’s how she weaseled her way into Ryder’s life.” Jessa throws a cutting stare my way. “Gosh, girl, get the hint. He’s not interested.”
“The feeling’s mutual!” I lean forward. “I don’t want anything to do with him.”
The girls face each other, pause for a beat, and then turn to me with more laughter.
“Oh, please,” Jessa says with a cruel smile. “It’s so obvious you have this pathetic little crush on him.”
What is happening? Is this plain jealousy? Do they think I’m a roadblock to them being with Ryder themselves? How many other ways can I say I don’t like him?
“She’s a total gold digger, Jessa.” Kimberley’s exaggerated nods seem to make her eyes enlarge. “She’s trying to get in with the band just as they’re blowing up.”
Jessa smirks at me. “It’s pathetic.”
“And her delusions are dangerous,” Kimberley adds as if I’m not even here. “She’s wrecking band practices, hoping the negative attention will draw Ryder in. He should get a restraining order.”
I’ll give them the fact that I ruinedonepractice, but why are they pluralizing it? What exactly did Ryder say to them at lunch? I haven’t seen him since lunch yesterday, and I kept my distance as per his instructions. What could’ve happened for him to be on my case again?
Ugh. Even when he’s not in my presence, he’s still ruining my day!
Just as the room spins out around me, the bell rings.
Jessa and Kimberley are quick to pack up their materials, giggling and gossiping for all to hear. I, on the other hand, wait for everyone else to leave with their insane theories about me.
“Miss Winter,” my teacher calls as I leave my desk.
I make my way over to his paint-splattered desk. “Yes, sir?”
“I know it’s only your second day,” he says, annoyingly clicking a pen, “but if you’re feeling overwhelmed by... the attention of others, I hope you know there’s a guidance counselor you can speak with.”
Hard pass.
“Thank you,” I manage, and leave the classroom.
Geez, what a stupid suggestion. I hated every conversation I had with the grief counselor who social services made me see. There’s no way I’m volunteering my time with a private school guidance counselor.
I get into the hallway and my vision doubles. I lean against the wall, and the dizziness drags me sideways.
Just one more class.
One more class and I’m out of here.
I force my feet forward, and with jitters controlling my hands, I lift my schedule to check where I’m headed, and my heart drops like a stone.
Photography.
The classroom is a few doors ahead, and I watch students file in. There’s a teacher standing by the door, greeting students. At least I think it’s only one teacher. My double vision could convince me that the teacher has a twin.
I scuff my feet forward, and the teacher waves with a blur of multiple hands. “Are you Alice? I was told I had a new student joining us.”
On my approach, I’m hit with the familiar scent of developing chemicals. My headache pulses at the thought of seeing a red-tinted dark room and hearing a class discussion on composition.
“Whoa. Are you okay?”
The teacher reaches for me as I sway back and forth.
I shake my head, my cheeks ballooning out at the thought of stepping inside the classroom.
