Pointe by Brandy Colbert Read Free Book Online Page B

two seemed real tight. You were a good friend to him when he was here, Theo.”
    â€œThanks, Eddie,” I say, staring down at the toes of my black riding boots. Surprised that he remembers how we used to be.
    But four years apart have turned Donovan’s life upside down, and now even the familiar pieces of his former existence—his mother, his house, his bedroom—must seem so far removed from who he is today.
    â€œTry not to think about it,” Eddie says, his hair winking silvery blond in the bright lights shining over the patio. “We’re gonna get a game of flip cup going later, if you’re up for it. You could be on my team.”
    He gives me a smile so wide and genuine, I smile, too. And for a moment, it makes me feel a little less stupid for confiding in him.
    â€œMaybe,” I say, glancing behind him, where the two guys I always see him with are hanging back, watching us. I don’t know their names. They turn their heads as soon as I make eye contact. I look at Eddie again. “But thank you.”
    â€œAnytime, Theo.” He tips an imaginary hat to me in such a nerdily endearing way, I can practically hear his friends teasing him already.
    I turn toward the lawn and start across the perfectly manicured grass toward the Andersons’ gazebo. I navigate my way up the steps and sit cross-legged on the floor. I sip my beer and close my eyes but I can’t shake this. Him. Donovan.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    Footsteps are crossing the yard, crackling through the layers of fallen leaves. I open my eyes to Hosea Roth’s dark figure silhouetted against the autumn night sky. I stand, hold carefully to my beer.
    He stops.
    â€œOh. I didn’t know anyone was out here. Sorry.”
    â€œWait,” I say. “It’s Theo.”
    I step out of the shadows; he squints up at me.
    â€œWell. I guess it is.” He pushes a few loose strands of hair behind his ear. “Twice in one day.”
    Which is strange, considering he always blended into the background before. This morning seems so long ago, though I remember every second we were alone together.
    We stare at each other. He says, “I can leave . . .” just as I ask, “Do you have a cigarette?”
    He laughs, then pulls a packet from the front pocket of his hoodie. “Cloves okay?”
    I nod and sit down on the steps. Hosea sits next to me and leans against the cool, painted wood. His usual black T-shirt has been replaced by a thick cotton hoodie, the kind you have to pull on over your head. Or maybe the shirt is underneath. My face goes warm when I think of this, as if I were undressing him in my mind.
    He knocks loose a clove, holds it out to me. He lights mine first, cups his hand around the flame until it sparks on the tobacco. Then he leans back and lights his own, takes a long drag. His face is defined by a square jaw, hard lines that make him look angry even when he’s not. I wonder if he ever wears his hair down, if it makes him seem softer. Less stoic.
    â€œWhat does Marisa think about this?” he asks, moving his clove around in lazy circles, sending tendrils of smoke curling out from the end.
    â€œAbout the smoking? It’s more of a don’t ask, don’t tell situation.”
    â€œAnd the beer?” He grins and even in the dark I can tell it’s a nice grin.
    â€œA girl can’t live on ballet alone.” I smile at him and look away and I wonder how this snuck up on me.
    Hosea Roth. He’s always just been there. I was in eighth grade when he moved from Nebraska, started at Ashland Hills High, but even when we were at the same school the next year, he never stood out to me. Not for more than what he was already known for. Now I don’t know how I ever could have missed it, that something deeper was lurking behind his image.
    â€œYou look like you could,” he says as he returns the lighter to his pocket. “Live on