Best rally girl ever,” he commented, with his stupid Longhorn hashtags.Īs I’m giving my phone dirty looks, I shift my body, suddenly uncomfortable for reasons I don’t even understand. His number is painted on her cheek, her top is cut so low she might as well be wearing a Band-aid for a shirt, and she’s holding up a tray of carefully detailed chocolate-covered strawberries, decorated to look like footballs. It’s his rally girl, mooning at him as she leans in the window of his car. I decide to check on his social media again, and the newest picture causes my stomach to sink and my face to curl up with distaste. I try to distract myself with things that actually matter-homework, a four-hour shift at the bookstore, and the $1 clearanced paperback I couldn’t resist bringing home with me since I don’t have to pay actual money to buy books right now.Īround bedtime, my mind drifts back to Carter. I may not pay attention to the goings on around school, but Carter would have been 17 a year ago, and if a scandal involving a minor and a teacher had made the news, I would have noticed that. I tried to fact-check Grace’s story about the art teacher, but there’s no record of it. While I don’t have a clear picture of who he is, one thing is abundantly clear-whatever he is, for whatever reason, that guy is every variety of bad news. Everything Grace told me about Carter Mahoney should have diluted my interest in him.
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