Last Breath by Brandilyn Collins, Amberly Collins Read Free Book Online Page A

Why did he always do that? Every other guy tended to stare me up and down. The popular, cocky ones all tried to impress me. The unpopular ones treated me like some princess on a pedestal. I didn’t particularly care for any of that.
    But Gary was different. He was good-looking, but not at all arrogant about it. Quiet, but not self-effacing. He didn’t even seem to want many friends, as if his aloneness contented him.
    How could anyone be content without tons of friends?
    I knew lots of people at our large high school, plus many more at surrounding schools. My freshman yearbook was so marked up with written notes, you could hardly see half the pictures. While Gary obviously would hate the limelight, I sought it, singing to anybody who’d listen. In fact, one day I knew I was going to be lead singer in a band.
    Nothing about us was the same. None of my friends would ever think of putting the two of us together.
    So why did Gary Donovon pull at me so much?
    â€œHey, Simon.” I tapped my desk with a long red fingernail. My voice held a tinge of amusement. “I’m over here.”
    His gray eyes scanned back to me.
    I held his gaze, a little smile on my face. “You know the conversation?”
    He shrugged. “Yeah.”
    All around us buzzed fifteen versions of our French assignment for the day. Our teacher sat at her desk, reading a magazine. “Okay. You take the first line.”
    Gary focused on my hands. “Aimes-tu les fleurs?” Do you like flowers?
    â€œOui, très bien.” Yes, I like them very much.
    â€œLequel est-ce que tu aimes le mieux?” Which is your favorite?
    â€œLa rose blanche.” A white rose.
    Gary shifted in his chair. “Vraiment? Pourquoi?” Really? Why?
    The last line of Mrs. Wright’s conversation was totally lame.
    â€œLes roses blanches sont purs et frais. Je veux les toucher.” White roses look pure and fresh. They make me want to touch them.
    Gary’s gaze rose again to my face. Long seconds passed as he looked at me, his lips pressing together. For the first time I noticed darker gray flecks around the outside of his irises.
    Strange. It almost felt like he wanted to tell me something …
    I waited.
    His gaze fell away.
    A sigh puffed from my lips. “Forget the last line?”
    His head pulled back. “No. I just …” He cleared his throat, then rattled off the sentence. “Ah, j’ai pensé que tu préférais les roses rouges.” Oh. I thought you’d like red ones better.
    I nodded. “Well. Very good. I give you an A.”
    One half of his mouth curved. He still wouldn’t look at me. “You get an A too.”
    And with that, he turned around and faced the front.
    I stared at the back of his head. What was it with this guy? Everybody else was still talking, and the teacher would read that magazine of hers for another good ten minutes.
    An even bigger question filled my thoughts. Why was I afraid to ask him why he cut our conversation short—again? With any other guy I’d push it in a flirty way—“Hey, why won’t you talk? Something wrong with me?”
    Instead I sat back, arms folded, focusing on his neck just above the collar line of his blue shirt. The bottom of his hair looked a little ragged, like it needed trimming.
    He was going to tell me something. I felt it.
    For two months I would wonder what it was.

11
    O ne day in early December I walked into French class and saw the school principal standing near Mrs. Wright’s desk. I dropped my pink three-ring binder on my desk and plopped down. What was up?
    As soon as the bell rang, the principal announced that Mrs. Wright had just gone home sick, and there was no one to take her place.
    â€œYou all need to stay in this room, understand? I don’t want to find anyone walking the halls. And keep the noise down.”
    With that, he left—and we had a free hour.
    The room immediately