Page 2 of Ruthless Court

Last night, at twelve seventeen, he texted:

Ryan: You’re coming to school tomorrow, right?

Me: That depends. Are you planning a chemistry quiz?

Ryan: Better.

Me: Human sacrifice?

Ryan: Go to sleep, Hannah Banana.

I stared at the message until one in the morning.

Hannah Banana usually means he wants something.

A paper proofread.

A ride to Dad’s gym.

The answer to question seven.

Lately, it has sounded different.

Softer.

Ryan sits beside me at lunch even when his teammates gather at another table. He waits after class and carries my books despite my repeated assurances that my arms function. Last week, he walked me to the bus and listened while I told him about an archaeological discovery in Turkey.

He asked questions.

Real ones.

Or real enough that I talked for fifteen minutes.

Ryan McBride likes me.

The thought still feels too large to hold without dropping.

Mom appears in the doorway wearing a robe and holding coffee.

Her gaze moves from my hair to my shirt, then settles on the lipstick.

“Presentation today?”

“Possibly.”

“What are you presenting?”

“Myself.”

Her eyebrows rise.

I grab my backpack before she can investigate.

“Is that my perfume?”

“No.”

“Hannah.”