Crazy Little Thing Called Love by Beth K. Vogt

swirling together.
    She’d survived the first day at another new school. Proven that she knew how to be the perfect new girl, even if it meant walking into Niceville High School two weeks after classes started. One day she should count up how many times the phrase “new student” had been attached to her name. When she went to college—wherever she went—she would stay there from the first day of freshman orientation until the day she walked across the stage and received her diploma.
    As she left home that morning to walk to school, she’d straightened the worn HOME IS WHERE THE AIR FORCE SENDS YOU tole-painted wooden plaque hanging in the foyer. As Hollister family tradition dictated, it was one of the first things Mom put up in the new house. As far as Vanessa was concerned, home was where the military dragged you kicking and screaming, not bothering to ask if you wanted to move. If you were ready to say goodbye again. If you wanted to make new friends . . . not knowing how long you’d be in town . . . or if what they offered you was true friendship.
    Vanessa pulled on the curved metal handle of the door, the blast of air-conditioning shoving back the humidity that greeted her. In August, temperatures in the Florida Panhandle were set and locked on “swelter and sweat” from nine in the morning past ten at night against a backdrop of overgrown underbrush and the nonstop noise of crickets and frogs. By the time she walked home, her short-sleeve T-shirt would cling to her back, her bangs wilted against her forehead.
    â€œHey, Vanessa! Vanessa Hollister! Wait up!”
    She paused halfway down the concrete stairs. Who, among all these unfamiliar faces, wanted to talk to her? And why?
    A thin girl with a riot of red curls piled on top of her head jogged down the stairs, a grin splitting her face, which was splattered with freckles. “Glad I found you. I didn’t know where your locker was. I’m Mindy Adams—we’re in Honors English together.”
    â€œHey.”
    â€œSo, you’re new here.”
    Vanessa swallowed back the snarky comment that sprang to mind. “Yeah.”
    â€œYour father military?”
    â€œYeah.” When Vanessa moved down the stairs, Mindy kept pace with her, pink flip-flops slapping against the concrete.
    â€œI’ve lived here all my life.” Mindy set her backpack at the bottom of the stairs. “Must be cool to travel.”
    â€œSure.” Whatever . People had no idea what it was like to be in a military family, moving whenever Uncle Sam said to pack up.
    â€œSo . . . I just wanted to say, if you need anything . . . have any questions about school or anything, you could call me.” Mindy held out a torn piece of notebook paper, folded in half. “Here’s my phone number. I ride the bus. You?”
    â€œNo. I walk home. I don’t live far from here.”
    â€œToo bad. I thought we could sit together and talk—if we were on the same bus.” She lifted her hand, waving the torn piece of notebook paper again.
    â€œYeah. Too bad.” Vanessa took the paper—not that she’d call Mindy. Acquaintances were fine. Friendships . . . well, that only led to people getting hurt. “Thanks.”
    â€œSure. I gotta run before my bus leaves. See ya tomorrow!”
    Vanessa waved. Of course she’d see Mindy tomorrow. In class. Probably pass her in the hallways. Casual. She tucked the paper into the back pocket of her jeans, adjusting her backpack on her shoulders, a trickle of sweat slipping down her back. Time to get home, see how many boxes Mom had unpacked and how many were waiting in her bedroom. Maybe her mom was ready to talk about what color Vanessa wanted to paint her room this time.
    Vanessa kept her head down, weaving through the moving pack of students heading to their cars or the line of yellow school buses along the perimeter of