Page 63 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
I keep my focus on the novel in my hands. “I dunno. At his locker?”
“I heard you, like, keep tabs on him.”
That’s a nice way of saying,‘I heard you’re a crazy, delusional stalker.’
“Come on, don’t leave me hanging,” she whispers, leaning in even closer. “You must see so much of him at home. What’s he like? He must practice his music twenty-four-seven.”
“Well, he does practice… a lot.”
“Does he walk around shirtless?” There’s a dreamy look in Chloe’s eyes, and I wouldn’t discount the chance she startsdrooling. “I feel like rockstars probably walk around shirtless a lot.”
The image of Ryder wandering through Miranda’s gothic mansion without a shirt makes my face burn. “No, he... we barely see each other.”
“That’s so weird.” Chloe leans back, sniggering as she looks off into the distance. “If I lived with Ryder Hamilton, I’d be following him around and filming everything he does. You could make serious money by posting candid videos online.”
The idea churns my stomach. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“Why not? There’s already video of you and him together. This is your moment to really cash in.”
“Chloe,” Ms. Patterson interrupts just as my half-eaten banana swirls around inside my stomach. “Get back to the subject at hand, please.”
Chloe shifts in her seat, frowning. When Ms. Patterson moves back to the board, Chloe turns to the girl on her other side and whispers, “No, she didn’t say anything.”
Halfway through class, Ryder and Brooks stride in. Our teacher is obviously peeved, but doesn’t give them detention. I’m sure Miranda and Mr. Kensington have made sure small things like tardiness get overlooked.
Conversation moves from yesterday’s video to students wanting to know all about the Sky Chaos photo shoot last night. Apparently, some images were already published on their social media accounts. After the videos of me, the Sky Chaos photos are the last thing I want to check out.
I go through the rest of the day with my head down. I’ve spent my high school career excelling in classes to the point I could graduate in my junior year. What’s the point of getting ahead if you can’t take advantage of it? I zone out, only coming back into my body when the bell rings and I need to move on to the next classroom.
At lunch, I avoid the cafeteria at all costs. On my first day, influencer-wannabe Madison Pierce tried to befriend me in order to probe information about Ryder. Now, after yesterday’s incident with school journalist Jasper Whitmore, Madison has also made a video about me.
I’m not here. I’m not here. I’m not here.
My hand brushes against the imprint of my phone in my skirt pocket. I still haven’t replied to Jill. I hate that I’m making her worry. I just don’t want to admit what’s happening right now. This life is so foreign to the one I knew with her. Even if there weren’t mountains separating us, I still think there would be a divide in our friendship. She doesn’t know how to console me, and I don’t know how to let her.
In art class, I try my best to zone out Kimberley and Jessa’s cackles and snide comments. With Jessa having eye-witnessed the camera fiasco, everyone’s waiting to see if something will go down between me and her.
I’d rather eat glass than give any of them the satisfaction.
I’m not here. I’m not here. I’m not here.
The day progresses, and it’s my last class of the day.
Photography.
I’m nauseated at the thought of pretending to be interested in f-stops and composition. I should’ve seen Ms. Thornesmith about this already and asked about transferring out of photography. I’d do literally anything else.
I edge toward my photography classroom with the sheepish intention of telling my teacher I won’t be in class today or ever again. The familiar aroma of developing chemicals tickles my nostrils, and I dodge the classroom completely.
Who am I kidding? I’m too numb to articulate anything. Instead of making my way to the administration office, I head toward a small alcove near the library.
Not a perfect solution, but it beats an impromptu panic attack in front of my classmates. I hug my knees, the exhaustion of barely sleeping pressing down on me. Four counts in, hold for four, four counts out.
My temples throb. All I want to do is go home.
I’m not here. I’m not here. I’m not here.
“Skipping class again?”
