Gone Too Far by Natalie D. Richards Page A

covered though.
    â€œWe need to get some good ones of the new uniforms, so don’t be afraid to get close.”
    I smirk. “Am I ever?”
    She hums agreeably. “Oh, I checked your basketball shots. They were awesome.”
    â€œYes, nothing says ‘fine art’ like shots of armpits and blurry nets.”
    â€œIt’s the yearbook. They like that kind of crap. Next year you’ll be in some artsy college and you can take all the depressing pictures your heart desires. Now, tell me the truth. Do these jeans look looser? I’ve lost four pounds.”
    â€œYou look great with or without those four pounds.”
    I follow her down the asphalt leading to the stadium entrance. The concession stand is buzzing, people lined up for hot chocolate and popcorn and the cotton candy they spin right there. I give it a longing look and Tacey shakes her head.
    â€œNo chance, Woods. We need to get the band. Make sure you get the hats—”
    I stop then, forcing her to turn to look at me. “I was hoping to avoid the hats.”
    â€œWell, don’t. The school board spent serious money on those hats.”
    â€œThey have feathers, Tacey. Feathers. ”
    â€œIt’s just business, okay? The PTO wants a feature page on the new uniforms, and they donate a hefty chunk of cash toward yearbook production—”
    â€œSo we sell our souls to make them happy?”
    Tacey sighs, tugging at her ponytail. “Look, I know it’s not your dream job. I know it’s not super artistic.”
    I feel a pang of guilt. It isn’t my dream job, but it is hers. She lives for this kind of stuff.
    â€œIt’s fine,” I say. “Seriously. I’ll get the hats. I’ll even do half time. It’ll be velvet and feathers everywhere.”
    She looks back to her phone, a long curl sliding over her shoulder. “Perfect. Now, I need to go find Manny. He’s avoiding my texts.”
    I wave her off and slip into the quiet space beneath the bleachers. There’s a hallway here that leads to the locker rooms and equipment storage. It’ll be swarming with players and cheerleaders soon, but right now, it’s mostly empty. So I take advantage, snapping a few more pictures, of the brick wall and a football player talking on the phone, equipment only half on.
    My phone chirps with a message. I juggle the phone into my free hand and pull it up.
    Jackson goes down Tuesday morning. Bring camera and be early.
    My fingers turn to ice, but the message remains, as bright and sure as the promise in those words.
    â€œTaking pictures of equipment closets?”
    I jump and my phone drops. It’s caught before it hits the ground.
    â€œRescuing your stuff might be my superpower,” Nick says.
    I should smile, but I can’t. Because the text message is still glowing on the screen, right where Nick can see it.
    â€¢ • •
    His smile falters, and I’m sure it’s partly thanks to the stress that’s tightening my face like a vise. I command myself to grin, but it’s a feeble attempt. Mostly I’m trying to stare some sort of subliminal message into him. Do not look at my phone. Do. Not. Look.
    â€œUh, here,” he says, offering the phone without incident.
    Too freaking close.
    I reach for it, my hand slapping over the screen. My fingers brush his palm as I take the phone. I notice the feel of it—the feel of him—way more than I should. Nick clears his throat and looks every inch as awkward as I’m feeling.
    â€œSo, what were you taking pictures of?”
    â€œHuh?”
    He points his thumb toward the wall of the stadium, shifting on his feet. “I saw you out there earlier. You were taking pictures of trees or…something.”
    I push myself through the fog, back into the real world, where I know how to form words. Whole sentences, even. “Sorry.” I scratch my head. “Yeah, I was just playing