Chapter 2: Rivals, Rumors, and Red Faces

The next second, Carter grabbed Diego by the collar and yanked him out of his seat: “You Green Arrow wannabe! You’ve been shady since you were a kid!”

The gym teacher watched the whole thing, not looking the least bit bothered: “You two, don’t fight here—if you want to fight, save it for the 800-meter run.”

Coach Thompson had this glint in his eye, like he was hoping they’d burn off their energy before PE. He waved his whistle, already tallying laps in his head.

The 800-meter race began. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Carter had ridiculous stamina, and Diego stuck to him like glue, neither willing to let up.

As they neared the finish line, Carter kicked it into overdrive, leaving Diego eating his dust.

But when Diego hit the finish, he totally wiped out. One minute he was sprinting; the next, he was face-down on the track, grimacing. Everyone winced in sympathy.

It happened so fast—one second, Diego was flying, the next he was sprawled on the track, wincing. The nurse jogged over, first aid kit in hand, but Diego just waved her away, insisting he was fine.

During the break, he limped over to me and asked, “Savannah Blake, do you have a band-aid? It hurts, I think I scraped my knee…”

He tried to play it cool, but I could see the embarrassment in his eyes. Diego hated showing weakness, even over something as tiny as a scraped knee.

“Where? Roll up your pant leg, let me see…” I said, already fishing in my backpack.

He hesitated, then rolled up his jeans just enough for me to see—a nasty scrape, already puffy and red. I winced on his behalf.

The scrape was pretty gnarly, so I pulled out a little bottle of antiseptic and a band-aid, patching him up as gently as I could. Carter bounced around nearby, yelling, “If I tossed you into the Mississippi, everyone in America could drink sweet tea!”

His voice carried across the field, drawing laughs from a couple of freshmen. I ignored him, focusing on Diego’s knee, but I could feel Carter’s stare drilling into the back of my head.

Monday, at the flag-raising ceremony. The air was thick with boredom and the smell of fresh-cut grass.

By rule, everyone had to wear school uniforms. (Ours was a private school, so yeah, we were stuck with the plaid and polos.)

Carter never wore his. Not once. Not even for picture day.

Not even the student council or the vice principal dared call him out. He was basically untouchable.

Today, as always, he wasn’t in uniform.

Other students out of uniform had already been called out, sent running laps around the football field for punishment. Only Carter stood behind our class’s lineup, making us the main attraction whether we liked it or not.

He leaned against the bleachers, arms crossed, acting like he owned the place. A couple of freshmen whispered, probably placing bets on how long he’d last before getting busted.

When the kids in the back row started grumbling about him, I couldn’t help but sneak a glance too, curiosity getting the better of me.

The second our eyes met, Carter acted like he’d been struck by lightning—he flinched, shivering like someone dumped ice down his shirt.

His whole body jerked, and he looked away so fast I thought he might pull something. I had to hide my smile. Was he actually scared of me?

When the kids doing punishment laps ran past him, Carter shuffled over and joined them, running three laps without a word of protest.

Everyone was floored: “Is the school bad boy turning over a new leaf?”

The whispers spread like wildfire. Even Mrs. Walker looked impressed, scribbling notes on her clipboard. Carter jogged by, face flushed, pretending he didn’t care, but I caught him sneaking glances my way.

Back at his seat, Carter was panting, slumped against his chair. He yanked up his T-shirt to wipe his face, accidentally flashing a set of abs that didn’t match his goofy reputation at all. For a split second, I forgot how to breathe. Carter noticed and smirked, but then tried to play it cool, like nothing happened.

“Hmph, I just suddenly felt like exercising. It’s not because someone’s glare was too intimidating, don’t flatter yourself!” he huffed.

He tossed his hair back, pure bravado, but I could see his hands fidgeting. He was so easy to read, it was almost endearing.

After saying that, he instinctively pulled out a pack of cigarettes. But when he caught me still watching, he wiped a nervous bead of sweat from his forehead. “Wh-what are you looking at? Just because you have big eyes? You think I’m still scared of you?”

He tried to sound tough, but his voice cracked on the last word. I raised an eyebrow, and he fumbled with the pack, hands shaking just a little.

So I stopped looking at him, focusing on my notes instead. (Let him stew in his own drama.)

But then he started yelling: “I’ll smoke! I’ll smoke! So what? You can’t control me now!”

His voice bounced off the lockers, but nobody really cared. A few kids giggled, but Carter just kept waving the cigarette around like he was starring in his own movie.

I ignored him, staring straight ahead, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

His bravado fizzled, and he poked the cigarette against the back of his hand, muttering, “…Hmph, not like I’m scared of you or anything…”

He grumbled it so quietly, I almost missed it. For all his bluster, he couldn’t even light up in front of me.

The bell rang. He still hadn’t smoked. The unopened pack sat on his desk, and I caught him glancing at it, then at me, then back again. I pretended not to notice, but inside, I was grinning.

After that, whenever he wanted a cigarette, he’d just pop a mint instead.

He ended up quitting smoking all on his own.

At first it was subtle—a mint here, a stick of gum there. But by the end of the month, his pockets were minty-fresh, and the cigarettes were history. Even his friends teased him, but Carter just shrugged, tossing another mint in his mouth and shooting me a lopsided grin.

Carter used to skip class, pick fights, leave early, and absolutely hated studying.

Now, it was like he’d been swapped for someone else—showing up on time, actually listening in class. It was weird, but in a good way.

All the teachers praised him: “Let’s give Carter Reed a round of applause for his progress. Congratulations on finally getting a passing grade!”

The whole class clapped, and Carter puffed up with pride, sneaking a look at me like he was waiting for a gold star. I just rolled my eyes, but couldn’t help feeling a little proud.

He came to brag to me: “I’ll never get trapped in the prison of marriage again, never turn into some sad househusband doing laundry and cooking all day, never just take it if someone hits or insults me, and I’ll never let anyone cheat on me! I’m getting into an Ivy this time! I’m taking back everything that’s mine!”

He rattled it all off in one breath, waving his arms like he was giving a TED Talk. His friends snickered, but Carter just doubled down. He was unstoppable, logic be damned.

I pointed out, “But your family’s so loaded, you don’t have to work this hard. As long as you don’t gamble or start some doomed business, you could coast for, like, three lifetimes.”

He glared at me, totally indignant. “There you go again! There you go again! Always trying to mess with my head!” he snapped, snatching up a test paper and scribbling like his life depended on it. “This time I won’t let you brainwash me!”

Then he got confused: “Why can’t I understand this English test?”

I told him, deadpan, “Because it’s a chemistry test.”

He stared at the paper, then at me, then back at the paper. “No wonder none of this makes sense,” he muttered, shoving it back in his backpack.

Autumn rolled in, and the air turned crisp.

I always dressed carelessly and, once again, didn’t bother to wear enough layers.

Weirdly, Carter had started piling on clothes lately.

He looked miserable, sitting next to me and sweating like crazy. (And not the hot kind of hot—just plain overheated.)