Ripple Read Online Free

up,
chica
,” she says, recalling our first year of friendship in seventh-grade Spanish class. We became close after building a piñata together and then becoming conversation partners. We realized Spanish words were like secret code that put us in our own little world. No oneoutside of class seemed to understand when we mentioned
chicos guapos
, cute boys. Or
niñas molestas
, annoying girls. It gave us a bond that’s lasted. “I’ll be with you all the way this year,” she says. “I’ll help you study. I’ll help you volunteer. I’ll get you into U of M. I promise.”
    I rest my head on her shoulder, try to curb the swirly, sick feeling. “Thanks.”
    An air horn blasts, and the marching band squeaks out the Pineville High fight song. The Pep-Till-You-Puke Barbies on the cheerleading squad tumble, thin as Pixy Stix, onto the football field. They build and rebuild a human pyramid.
    Seth’s old girlfriend, Simone Channing, is always at the peak, her arms high, her smile so wide, her bottom teeth show. Her brown eyes are like binocular lenses as she darts glances at Seth.
    I try not to be jealous. But he and Simone still talk all the time. Take the same buses to away games. Have the same friends. And even though Seth swears it’s over between them, that he’s only ever looking at me, Simone—with her black hair, petite curves, and smooth, light brown skin—is always two steps away from him. Waiting.
    Students amble and flow into the bleachers around us. Across the field, the away team’s bleachers are filling, too. At the mike near the twenty-yard line, Principal Levy sweeps his arm in the air like a broom. “That’s right. Keep moving in. Get settled.”
    Behind us, several guys snort out laughs. “Dude. Shh! Shh! Wait. It’s working.”
    I start to glance at them, but some guy presses his face against the side of my head, stopping me. The stubble on his chin scrapes against my earlobe as his arm shoots out toward the bleachers across from us.
    â€œSee, it’s beautiful in its simplicity.” His voice beats warm and low in my ear. “If you put ‘Reserved Seating’ signs down, people. Just. Don’t. Sit. There.” The scent of spearmint gum streams across my cheek as I watch students sitting in some spots and not in others. Sketchy letters form from the empty spaces.
    F O O T B A L L B L O W S
    The guys behind us explode with laughter.
    Principal Levy catches sight of the prank. His heated gaze sweeps the crowd, searching for the culprits, until his glare stops on our clump of bleachers. On the idiots laughing it up behind me. And on me right in the middle of all the offenders.
    I feel the sting of Principal Levy sizing me up. Like
I
am a part of this. U of M, my parents, and definitely my grandmother would
not
be amused. Panic prickles through me, followed by intense bitterness at this guy, no longer touching me but still hovering in my personal space.
    I glare at him. His square cleft chin. Dark brown bangs splaying across his forehead. A silver hoop in his lower lip glinting in the field lights. Black tattooed letters scrawl across the side of his neck in some kind of Latin phrase. The T-shirt under his army-green jacket shows a cartoon squirrel clutching two huge acorns and the words MY NUTS ARE BIGGER THAN YOURS .
    His pale blue eyes hook mine. He gives a killer smile, then leans in until there is barely any space between us. “I hate football, too.” His face drips with pride. He stands, thrusts his hand out. “Jack S. Dalton.”
    And although I’d normally be thrilled to have a guy looking at me like he’s looking at me—all sizzle and swagger—I never so much as flirt with guys in Pineville, especially not guys in my school. I don’t want to risk losing Seth. And with Principal Levystill eyeing this section, me included, I’m getting more pissed every second