Teardrop by Lauren Kate Page B

She had skinny arms, but her hugs were mighty.
    They’d paused at the bleachers, two long rows of rusty benches on either side of the track. Eureka could hear Coach talking about pacing, the regional meet next month, finding the right position at the starting arc. If Eureka were captain, she’d be talking the team through these topics. She knew prerace drill backward in her sleep, but she couldn’t imagine standing up there anymore, saying anything with certainty.
    “You’re not ready to think about boys yet,” Cat said into Eureka’s ponytail. “Stupid Cat.”
    “Don’t you start crying.” Eureka squeezed Cat harder.
    “Okay, okay.” Cat sniffed and pulled away. “I know you hate it when I cry.”
    Eureka flinched. “I don’t hate it when you—” She broke off. Her eye caught Ander’s as he was coming out of the visitors’ locker room on the other side of the track. His uniform didn’t quite match the other kids’—his yellow collar looked bleached; his shorts were shorter than those worn by the rest of the team. The uniform seemed dated, like the ones in the fading photographs of cross-country teams of yesteryear that lined the walls of the gym. Maybe it was a hand-me-down from an older brother, but it looked like the kind of thing you picked up at the Salvation Army after some kid graduated and his mom cleaned out his closet so she’d have more room for shoes.
    Ander watched Eureka, oblivious to all else around him: his team in the end zone, pregnant clouds pressing closer in the sky, how peculiar it was to stare like that. He didn’t seem to realize it was unusual. Or maybe he didn’t care.
    Eureka did. She dropped her eyes, blushing. She started to jog again. She remembered the sensation of that tear gathering in the corner of her eye, the astonishing touch of his finger against the side of her nose. Why had she cried on the road that afternoon when she hadn’t been tempted to cry at her own mother’s funeral? She hadn’t cried when they’d kept her locked up in that asylum for two weeks. She hadn’t cried since … the night Diana had slapped her and moved out of the house.
    “Uh-oh,” Cat said.
    “Don’t stare back at him,” Eureka muttered, certain Cat was referring to Ander.
    “Him who?” Cat whispered. “I’m talking about Sorceress over there. Don’t engage and she might not see us. Don’t look, Eureka, don’t—”
    You can’t not look when someone tells you not to, but one swift glance made Eureka regret it.
    “Too late,” Cat mumbled.
    “Bou
dreaux
.”
    Eureka’s last name seemed to shudder like a shock wave across the field.
    Maya Cayce had a voice as deep as a teenage boy’s—itcould fool you until you caught a glimpse of her face. Some never fully recovered from that first glimpse. Maya Cayce was extraordinary, with thick, dark hair that hung in loose waves all the way down to her waist. She was notorious for her fast clip down the hallways at school, her surprising, slender grace thanks to legs that stretched for decades. Her smooth, bright skin bore ten of the most intricately beautiful tattoos Eureka had ever seen—including a braid of three different feathers running down her forearm, a small cameo-style portrait of her mother on her shoulder, and a peacock inside a peacock feather underneath her collarbone—all of which she’d designed herself and had done at a place called Electric Ladyland in New Orleans. She was a senior, a roller-skater, a rumored Wiccan, a transcender of all cliques, a contralto in the choir, a state-champion equestrian, and she hated Eureka Boudreaux.
    “Maya.” Eureka nodded but didn’t slow down.
    In her peripheral vision, Eureka sensed Maya Cayce rising from the edge of the bleachers. She saw the black blur of the girl taking long strides to stop in front of her.
    Eureka skidded to avoid a collision. “Yes?”
    “Where is he?” Maya wore a micro-length, flowy black dress with extra-long, extra-flared bell sleeves, and