Chapter 2: Mistaken Again—And Wanted Posters

Sean had a cocky half-smile, not even glancing at the guys coming toward him, and started rolling up his sleeves.

There was a baseball bat leaning against the wall.

"How many of you? Come at me all at once."

Seeing three guys in varsity jackets walking over, I worried there were limited spots to ask questions, so I hurried out of the shadows:

"Can I—can I join in too?"

Sean froze, and so did the three guys.

One of them blurted, "Dude, Sean, seriously? You bringing a girl to cheer you on in a fight?"

Fight?

Wasn’t this a study group?

I stared at Sean, clutching the baseball bat. His face was both familiar and not, wearing that white shirt... No one said the bad boy couldn’t wear a white shirt.

I looked down and saw Sean’s legs, standing perfectly straight.

Now I was totally confused.

Maybe this was the bad boy in a white shirt, standing straight! Or maybe I was just losing it.

A bad boy with a temper, ready to brawl.

Today I’d accidentally crashed a fight. I might not make it to tomorrow.

The guy in the varsity jacket was still ranting: "Sean, are you gonna fight or not?"

"No!"

I meant to say, “No! I need to fix this,” but only a “No!” came out, and the rest got stuck.

The whole alley went silent.

I covered my ears and ran away, using my backpack to hide my face.

Make a wish, hope it comes true right now.

I wished the bad boy Sean Wilder was also face-blind like me.

But my wish didn’t come true.

The rumor that “Sean Wilder isn’t up for it” spread across campus.

It started with one of the guys who’d fought Sean the day before.

That guy, lying in his hospital bed, told everyone: "Let me tell you, you know Sean, right? He’s not up for it!"

"Is that true? Totally! Some girl next to him said it herself."

Maribel recounted the story like she’d witnessed it herself, acting out my panic and Sean’s confusion with dramatic flair. I wanted to crawl under my comforter and disappear like a groundhog on Groundhog Day.

I lay stiffly on my bed, feeling doomed: "I’m not making it to tomorrow."

"But it’s cloudy today."

As soon as Maribel finished, another roommate shouted:

"Oh my god, check the campus confessions page, Sean just posted a wanted notice!"

"Looking for a girl with black hair who showed up at the end of Oakwood Alley at 10:10 yesterday."

"And there’s a sketch!"

Hearing that, I scrambled down to look at the portrait.

It was wildly abstract—a few squiggly lines stacked together, barely resembling a girl.

I let out a huge breath. Unless someone was an art major with psychic powers, I was safe.

Finally, I breathed a sigh of relief. As long as I avoided the witnesses, no one would know it was me.

A few peaceful days passed. Maribel noticed my shyness and decided to help me meet people, dragging me to club activities.

She had a sixth sense for free pizza and social events. Before I knew it, I was signed up for three clubs I didn’t even remember joining.

"I heard Carter Evans is coming—the one I showed you before, the valedictorian in our department."

"A ton of people signed up just for him. Our barely-hanging-on club usually has twenty people, but look at this crowd now!"

I looked at Carter, surrounded by classmates like a celebrity.

He had that approachable vibe, like he’d help you move your couch or lend you his notes. The room buzzed when he walked in.

Carter was tall, in a plain T-shirt, but he stood out—like he had a gentle glow around him.

There’s a world of difference between valedictorians and bad boys. I really should’ve paid more attention.

...

The club activity was meaningful: teaching safety skills to kids at a local elementary school.

I helped the kids with their crafts.

They handed me safety scissors and glue sticks, and I became the unofficial “glitter wrangler.” I can handle glitter, right? Wrong. I forgot about my nerves for a while.

During the painting stage, I spilled paint on my clothes. Maribel took over, and I went to the restroom to clean up.

After wringing out my shirt, I turned and saw the back of someone in a white shirt.

The height and build looked just like Sean Wilder from that day.

No way, is this guy haunting me, even fighting at an elementary school?

He even wants to fight little kids?

Driven by curiosity, I followed and saw him standing in front of a pretty sturdy little boy.

Saving a life is better than building a seven-story church. Or so my grandma says.

I grabbed a broom and charged over:

"Stop!"

The sturdy boy looked at me in surprise, snot dripping down.