Unmaking Hunter Kennedy by Anne Eliot Page B

nodded, hitting a whole new level of painful-blush-burning at the tops of her ears. “You lift with Charlie. He tells me you guys have fun,” she covered.
    Curtis didn’t seem to notice her ears because he was intently studying her cami. What was in her cami!
    Maybe he’s checking out the chest that doesn’t fill out my cami?
    Help. So awkward.
    Where in the heck is Jenna? I need a rescue.
    In horror, she watched as his eyes travelled lower then back up. He didn’t seem repulsed.
    His gaze seemed almost appreciative!
    But then, a glint in his eyes suddenly gave her the urge to deck him. And deck him really hard.
    The heat plus the stress of him talking to me must be making me bonkers. As if I’d ever publicly deck Curtis Wishford again.
    Even if he deserved it.
    Which he might right now...if he doesn’t stop.
    She sought solace in the fact that she and Jenna had done the exact same thing to Curtis for years. Secretly stared him up and down, any chance they got. The chip-eating , prom-dreaming conversation was just a snapshot of years and years of inappropriate staring plus commentary about this one guy.
    Karma in action.
    But why hasn’t he stopped looking yet?
    If he won’t end this madness, I will.
    Curtis and I both know we don’t talk to each other.
    Why would he break the rules?
    “Have your legs always been that long?”
    “Since seventh grade,” she reminded him, grabbing her binder to hold it in front of her like a shield.
    “Seventh grade feels like ancient history to me.”
    “I wish...” she started, but then changed her mind. There was no point in continuing that sentence. She looked away, determined, this time, to never look back at his beautiful face.
    “Vere, you’re so—” Curtis stopped mid-sentence when Howie Rutherford, his teammate, stood and knocked over a stool, distracting everyone in the room.
    “Mr. Peterson!” Howie called out.
    I’m so what? So what?!
    Vere gritted her teeth and figured she didn’t want him to finish his sentence.
    She could guess what he was thinking: So hopeless. So pink and red? So weird. So challenged in every way?
    “Mr. Peterson!” Howie hollered again. He was one of those kids who didn’t know how to speak, only shout.
    “What is it, Howie?”
    “You’re going to have to give an extra one of these head injury forms to Curtis Wishford and maybe to Vere Roth too.”
    “Why?” Mr. Peterson sighed and tapped his foot. Everyone was used to Howie’s classroom antics.
    Vere locked eyes with Curtis and hugged her binder tighter.
    Her heart had officially stopped beating one second ago.
    Curtis shot her a half-smile, one that couldn’t hide his obvious regret. Regret that had to stem from him approaching her at all.
    The classroom grew silent as Howie continued, “Does the person who CAUSES the concussion have to sign the form, or is it only the person who RECEIVES the actual injury?”
    Howie had turned an innocent stare to Mr. Peterson, who’d zeroed in on Vere and Curtis.
    Vere figured it was medically impossible for someone to blush black. She tried not to care that she’d reached this extreme status and with a maximum audience.
    She couldn’t do anything about that, but she could at least keep her face straight. “I hate you, Howie Rutherford,” Vere called out just before biting down on the insides of her cheeks.
    Hard.
    Howie grinned.
    “Vere? Curtis? Do you—or do you NOT—have the Concussion Form?” Mr. Peterson waved the forms in the air.
    All remaining chatter ceased. Every eye in the room swiveled to them.
    “You’re so lame, Howie.” Curtis placed his hands on Vere’s table, glowering at his friend. “Let it go,” he added, shooting Vere an unreadable glance.
    A few students giggled quietly.
    “Howie, you have two seconds to explain yourself,” Mr. Peterson bellowed. “Or all three of you can hit the principal’s office.”
    “Curtis needs one of those forms in case Vere knocks him out with a head-butt again.” Howie