go on but she clammed up. âDo you want us to play twenty questions to get it out of you?â
She laughed, then took a breath. âHis name is Logan, remember the guy fromââ
âAndy Foleyâs party?â Wren asked. Jazz nodded.
âWhat party?â
âIn December, you were puking your brains out and couldnât go. We went to see Gray in Sticky Wicket. Logan played kings cup with Jazz,â Wren explained.
âOh, right. This has been going on since then?â
âNoâI mean, we met that night, but it turns out he runs. I saw him at the park a few weeks back, we got to talking, and, well, weâve been training together. He says I keep him on paceâweâre both trying to get down to a seven-minute mile.â
âHow romantic,â I said.
âSo, yeah, Iâm kind of bummed about it.â
âNoâyou need to go to the dance,â Wren said.
âAbsolutely. So he can see you there, realize that his amazing running partner is also scorching, and he will fall head-over-Nikes for you.â
âMizunos.â
âHuh?â
âHe trains in Mizunos.â
âWhateverâhe wonât be wearing running shoes when you train to do something else in seven minutes.â
Jazz blushed. âMadison, geez.â
âIâm loving this idea. Come on, Jazzâitâll be fun.â Wren batted her eyelashes. I put my hands together in prayer. We stared Jazz down until she gave in.
âOkay, okay, fineâbut where will I find a date?â
âConsider Zach your hookup source.â
âWhoâs the guy who went to the movies with us the last time we all went as a group? Zachâs friend . . . the blond, not the one who smelled like pepperoni.â
Wren laughed. âThe one you sat next to?â
âUm, Kyle, maybe?â I said.
âYeah, we had a great conversation about history mash-ups and movies. He was pretty cool. I could handle, um, being fixed up with him.â
âIâm seeing Zach later,â I said.
âNo, wait. Just ask Zach if you think Kyle would be into it. Then, I donât know, get me his number, Iâll call him. Thatâs how this works, right? Have to get over my nerves somehow.â
âConsider it done,â I said.
It was hard to focus on homework across from Zach OâKeefe. We sat at my dining room tableâwell, I sat; Zach took up two chairs, his legs draped over the seat of one, his body slunk down in the other, the tip of a pencil grazing his bottom lip as he read from his history textbook. Dark curls fell over his forehead. His hair had been short when we first met, close-cropped to keep out of his eyes during fall soccer. I loved the length now, the wildness of it. The way he owned the space around him was distracting.
While he studied history, I studied himâhis angles and edges, the gentle swirls and waves of his hair. How his orange tee fit him just right, not too tight but showed off his chest, his arms. I could spend hours drawing his arms alone, the way his biceps and triceps curved into each other. As a subject, he was captivating.
I was supposed to be working on a dwelling design for the scholarship portfolio. Iâd chosen to put an addition on my houseâwell, at least to draw the floor plans for it. Something functional and beautiful and congruent with the original house design. Right now, all of those words described Zach.Except, I couldnât get his nose right. He had a small bump near the bridge that I kept turning into a beak. Noses always gave me trouble.
Without warning he snatched the sketchbook from me.
âHey,â I said. A long, jagged line now went through the picture where my pencil had still been in contact with the paper as he pulled it away. I squirmed in my seat while he looked at the drawing. Zachâs idea of art was the Manchester United flag he had hanging above his bed. I knew he would never say