Oh. My. Gods.
Page 40
to have it.” He dips his head a little so he’s looking into my eyes.
“She says you have excellent taste in pastry.” “Really?” He nods, smiling just a tiny bit. I almost miss it. “Tell her thank you,” Mom says, breaking that momentary con
nection between me and Griffin. He looks up at her, his eyes wide like he’d forgotten she was even
here. “Sure,” he says. That polite smile returns. “No problem.” Without another word, he turns and runs back up the street. “He seems like a nice young man,” Mom says, watching him
retreat. “Yeah,” I say. “If you catch him on a good day.” Too bad he doesn’t have many.
“You’re not wearing that,” Nicole says the second she walks in my room. “Fuzzy gray sweats will send Griffin into Adara’s arms—not yours.”
She is wearing a dark denim miniskirt and layered red and white tanks and more bangle bracelets than I ever thought a person’s arm could hold. Her look is more back-off than boy-attracting, but I’m not about to argue. Dressing for boys is not in my repertoire.
“Fine,” I say, stepping out of my Nikes and heading to my dresser. “What should I wear?”
“Let me see.” She pushes me out of the way and begins digging through my drawers, tossing pants and tees over her shoulder. “No.” Throws item. “Nope.” Throws item. “Nuh-uh.”
I catch my baby blue velour track pants before they can land on the floor. “Do you have to throw everything?”
She keeps rummaging, ignoring my question. “Ah-ha!” Pulling a pair of shorts triumphantly from the pile, she waves them over her head. “Put these on.”
They’re the gray shorts with pink pinstripes I bought for the Race for the Cure last year. Pink is so not my color—except for the occasional furry pillow, of course.
“Nicole, these aren’t really—”
“Don’t you have anything besides T-shirts?”
“Um, no. Not—”
“Here then.” She pulls her arms inside her tank top, wiggles around for a second, then emerges with the white under tank in hand. “Put this on.”
“I don’t—”
“Hurry up.” She flings the tank at me. “You shouldn’t be late for your first meeting.”
I catch the tank, think about arguing, then decide it’s futile. Tank and shorts in hand, I head to the bathroom and change out of my comfy gray sweats. I feel practically naked with my legs and arms fully exposed. I’m not used to showing so much skin except on competition days.
When I get back to my room, Nicole is sprawled on my bed, flipping through an old issue of Runner’s World.
“You actually read this stuff?” she asks, lifting her head. “Holy dolmades!”
She sounds shocked.
“What?”
“You,” she says, dropping the magazine to the floor, “look hot.”
I can feel my cheeks burning red.
Not just because of the compliment. The shorts hug my hips closer than I’m used to, and the tank stretches tight across my breasts, even in my chest-flattening jog bra.
“I had no idea you had curves under those T-shirts.” She circles me, gauging my appearance from every angle, I guess. “We can definitely use those to your advantage. And your legs are great—lean and toned and shapely.”
“Th-thanks,” I stammer. “Do you really think I can . . .”
I can’t make myself ask the question.
Nicole looks at me for a long time before saying, “If you want him, we’ll get him. Don’t worry. And those . . .” She gestures at my chest. “. . . will just make the bait more appealing.”
I’m not sure how good I’ll be at using those at all, but if they’ll help me, then I’m all for it.
“Now that your appearance is set—though you might want to try something other than a ponytail for your hair,” she waves a hand at my apparently inadequate hairstyle. “Let’s discuss strategy.”
I reach up and tighten my ponytail. My hair only has two styles: ponytail and down. Ponytail for running. Down for school.
Not even the great Griffin Blake can induce anything more elaborate from me.
“Before we get to, um, strategy,” I say, knowing that this is a question I need answered before this goes any further, “I want to ask about your history with Griffin. It seems like you have some bad blood and I don’t want to—”
“There’s no history,” she snaps. “Not the romantic kind, anyway. It’s just a personal disagreement. Don’t worry about it.”
Keep your nose out of my business. I hear the unspoken caution as clearly as if she’d said it aloud.
“Okay.” I can take a blatant hint to move on.
She runs her hands through her spiky blonde hair, sending it in all different directions. “Listen,” she says, taking a seat on my bed. “I don’t really like to talk about this. I mean, I never have talked about this with anyone.”
“I get it.” I sit down next to her. “You don’t have to tell me anything.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “You should know.” Taking a deep breath, she says, “Griffin and I used to be friends. Best friends.”
Wow, I did not see that one coming.
“When we were young we got into trouble. Big trouble.” Her eyes shine bright with unshed tears. “My parents wound up exiled from Serfopoula. That’s why I didn’t start at the Academy until Level 9.”
“She says you have excellent taste in pastry.” “Really?” He nods, smiling just a tiny bit. I almost miss it. “Tell her thank you,” Mom says, breaking that momentary con
nection between me and Griffin. He looks up at her, his eyes wide like he’d forgotten she was even
here. “Sure,” he says. That polite smile returns. “No problem.” Without another word, he turns and runs back up the street. “He seems like a nice young man,” Mom says, watching him
retreat. “Yeah,” I say. “If you catch him on a good day.” Too bad he doesn’t have many.
“You’re not wearing that,” Nicole says the second she walks in my room. “Fuzzy gray sweats will send Griffin into Adara’s arms—not yours.”
She is wearing a dark denim miniskirt and layered red and white tanks and more bangle bracelets than I ever thought a person’s arm could hold. Her look is more back-off than boy-attracting, but I’m not about to argue. Dressing for boys is not in my repertoire.
“Fine,” I say, stepping out of my Nikes and heading to my dresser. “What should I wear?”
“Let me see.” She pushes me out of the way and begins digging through my drawers, tossing pants and tees over her shoulder. “No.” Throws item. “Nope.” Throws item. “Nuh-uh.”
I catch my baby blue velour track pants before they can land on the floor. “Do you have to throw everything?”
She keeps rummaging, ignoring my question. “Ah-ha!” Pulling a pair of shorts triumphantly from the pile, she waves them over her head. “Put these on.”
They’re the gray shorts with pink pinstripes I bought for the Race for the Cure last year. Pink is so not my color—except for the occasional furry pillow, of course.
“Nicole, these aren’t really—”
“Don’t you have anything besides T-shirts?”
“Um, no. Not—”
“Here then.” She pulls her arms inside her tank top, wiggles around for a second, then emerges with the white under tank in hand. “Put this on.”
“I don’t—”
“Hurry up.” She flings the tank at me. “You shouldn’t be late for your first meeting.”
I catch the tank, think about arguing, then decide it’s futile. Tank and shorts in hand, I head to the bathroom and change out of my comfy gray sweats. I feel practically naked with my legs and arms fully exposed. I’m not used to showing so much skin except on competition days.
When I get back to my room, Nicole is sprawled on my bed, flipping through an old issue of Runner’s World.
“You actually read this stuff?” she asks, lifting her head. “Holy dolmades!”
She sounds shocked.
“What?”
“You,” she says, dropping the magazine to the floor, “look hot.”
I can feel my cheeks burning red.
Not just because of the compliment. The shorts hug my hips closer than I’m used to, and the tank stretches tight across my breasts, even in my chest-flattening jog bra.
“I had no idea you had curves under those T-shirts.” She circles me, gauging my appearance from every angle, I guess. “We can definitely use those to your advantage. And your legs are great—lean and toned and shapely.”
“Th-thanks,” I stammer. “Do you really think I can . . .”
I can’t make myself ask the question.
Nicole looks at me for a long time before saying, “If you want him, we’ll get him. Don’t worry. And those . . .” She gestures at my chest. “. . . will just make the bait more appealing.”
I’m not sure how good I’ll be at using those at all, but if they’ll help me, then I’m all for it.
“Now that your appearance is set—though you might want to try something other than a ponytail for your hair,” she waves a hand at my apparently inadequate hairstyle. “Let’s discuss strategy.”
I reach up and tighten my ponytail. My hair only has two styles: ponytail and down. Ponytail for running. Down for school.
Not even the great Griffin Blake can induce anything more elaborate from me.
“Before we get to, um, strategy,” I say, knowing that this is a question I need answered before this goes any further, “I want to ask about your history with Griffin. It seems like you have some bad blood and I don’t want to—”
“There’s no history,” she snaps. “Not the romantic kind, anyway. It’s just a personal disagreement. Don’t worry about it.”
Keep your nose out of my business. I hear the unspoken caution as clearly as if she’d said it aloud.
“Okay.” I can take a blatant hint to move on.
She runs her hands through her spiky blonde hair, sending it in all different directions. “Listen,” she says, taking a seat on my bed. “I don’t really like to talk about this. I mean, I never have talked about this with anyone.”
“I get it.” I sit down next to her. “You don’t have to tell me anything.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “You should know.” Taking a deep breath, she says, “Griffin and I used to be friends. Best friends.”
Wow, I did not see that one coming.
“When we were young we got into trouble. Big trouble.” Her eyes shine bright with unshed tears. “My parents wound up exiled from Serfopoula. That’s why I didn’t start at the Academy until Level 9.”
