The Game of Boys and Monsters by Rachel M. Wilson Read Free Book Online Page A

Pointy sticks pretend like they want to keep her hair up, but it’s an act. Messy curls fall in just the right way all around Mandy’s face.
    â€œWhat did your mom say about the pink hair?” I ask, knowing Mandy’s pageant-obsessed mom would never approve.
    Mandy pouts mischievously. “She threatened to cut it out. I told her I’d dye it back for competition but that if she cut it, I’d switch my dance to a dubstep.”
    â€œCan you do a dubstep?”
    â€œNo! But I sure can make an ass out of myself faking it.”
    She does a couple of twisty moves with her legs, some robot arms, and I laugh.
    Mandy and I spent every possible second together from birth into middle school. We started drifting even then, but since she started at the academy, we’ve only seen each other at her family’s Christmas parties or the occasional mom-daughter brunch.
    We made plans.
    They fell through.
    Mandy bounces on her toes. “How’s your life?” she says as if it’s been a few days and not a few years since we were friends. “Did you miss me?”
    I’m afraid to answer: Yes, of course, every day.
    â€œHow’s Bailey?” Mandy asks, naming the girl who became my closest friend by default after Mandy.
    â€œShe says Oregon is nice. She moved away in the middle of freshman year.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œHow’s Lena?”
    â€œBeats me,” Mandy says. “Lena was a capital B.”
    I want to holler applause, but I just say, “Ah,” and nod.
    â€œYou still dominating the science fair?” she asks, and I sigh my assent.
    Starting in seventh grade, thanks to Dad, I won four in a row. I love that Dad says the world needs more female scientists. I just wish he’d stop pushing me to be one of them.
    â€œOkay, here’s a fun game,” Mandy says, hiking up her skirt to straddle the wall, her knees just a couple of inches away from me. Touching through clothes doesn’t count, but having Mandy within poking distance still doesn’t feel safe.
    I scoot back, trying to pass it off like I’m just making room.
    Mandy goes on. “The freshmen are split up by discipline. Can you tell who’s who?”
    She’s always been good at filling up awkward spaces, making things fun that weren’t fun before. Let it last. Please, please let this last.
    I scan the circles of freshmen. Any group of mostly girls is likely to be dancers, but the prevalence of bunheads and unnecessary stretching clinches it. When I guess, Mandy says, “No doubt.”
    I decide one group is studio artists based on creative wardrobe choices. One girl wears feather epaulettes like wings, and a guy wears a T-shirt that’s been cut in half and stapled back together.
    Mandy goes “Annhh!” like a game show buzzer. “Musicians,” she says.
    I thought the musicians would be more reserved. “How can you tell?” I ask.
    â€œContext clues.” She points to the girl with the feathered shoulders—who has her arm draped over a cello case.
    â€œOh, duh.”
    One circle screams theater, dressed to impress. There’s a Louise Brooks clone with a bob and cloche hat, and a guy going for steampunk cowboy. This group’s louder than the others, splashy and bright, but one sure clue tells me they’re in theater: they’ve barely met, and already they’re touching.
    I take a deep breath—I can breathe—and hug my hands tight to my ribs. There’s my chest moving up and down. An accidental touch is so easy. The words are my antidote: Don’t touch, please, please.
    I thought I’d outgrown this game or at least squashed it down into something I could ignore, but the moment Dad left, it started again, and this time it feels deeper and harder to shake.
    Mandy never knew about my “games”: See if you can hold your breath as we take the next curve or the car will fly out into nothing; try