Ashes and Ice Read Online Free PDF Page B

piercings. My fingers twitch.
    “Yes, Nanan. I am fine.” I walk out the door and I don’t look back.

Chapter 8
    Connor
    I flinch at the door. Yeah, that’s right. I fail at subtlety and anything else remotely cool or socially acceptable. I stop at the classroom door’s threshold causing the few students behind me to pile up awkwardly like an ill-orchestrated game of dominoes.
    I hear a few unkind murmurs slip past the students’ lips in varying volumes and threat levels. But I seriously don’t care. I don’t care because she is there. Standing in the doorway, I stare past the entrance of Dante’s third circle of hell, otherwise known as English Composition, toward the girl hunched over a notepad, a black cascade of hair falling over one shoulder, sitting at a desk etched with a variety of pencil tattoos—a desk directly beside mine. The girl I rejected yesterday at lunch before cursing myself for the entirety of yesterday afternoon, evening, dreaming hours, and the miserable 4,089 steps to school this morning is sitting beside me. Glory to seating charts and Katherine McKenzie’s expulsion from Madisonville High for leaving that chair open and placing this black-haired goddess beside me. English Composition is awesome.
    After a long prayer of gratitude, marked by my dorkish staring, at the door, I make my way to my seat, nearly skipping, but not quite because dudes don’t skip. I slide into my seat, which scratches the linoleum, making an unfortunate, embarrassing sound. I clear my throat.
    No response.
    I drum my index fingers on the desk, trying to appear casual, nonchalant. But the beating sound seems to augment my nerves instead of soothe them. I can almost feel my chest pounding against my t-shirt and fear that the whole classroom can hear its distinct and fast-paced bum-bums.
    The girl sighs.
    Does she hear it? I can’t see her face, but can almost see her eyes rolling and her mouthing “pathetic moron” with her perfect, full, pink lips. My heart beats faster. I am a pathetic moron. The bell still has not rung. A brave, rebellious soldier deep within me toys with the idea of apologizing about yesterday, introducing myself, striking up conversation, and impressing her with my wit and charm. When I remember that I have neither, I silence the deceitful bastard and continue sulking, wishing to be someone else—someone cooler, someone who isn’t completely and utterly terrified of taking chances, someone who could talk to this girl without fear of rejection.
    As if on cue, the king of hell—AKA Dominic—enters the classroom, flanked by his faithful minions, Jared and Phil. Damn it. Steroids and STDs ‘R’ Us have perfected the lazy/cool/confident stride I am attempting and I wish I could puke on them just so they would appear a bit less perfect.
    Jared abruptly stops beside me and drums his palms on my desk. “Everyone! Let me introduce you to our very own internet celebrity, Connor Devereaux!”
    I stare at him as Dom comes around and puts his hands on my shoulders.
    “What?” It’s all I can manage.
    “Oh, you didn’t see?” Phil takes out his cellphone and props it in front of me, his thumb poised over the play button.
    Before I know it, I see the video play out my demise on the track on Tuesday. At the end, the camera zoomed in and caught sight of my wet, glassy eyes. As soon as the video stops, the three guys roar in laughter. My eyes don’t move away from the screen, but travel down to the corner: 14,234 views. I sit back in my chair and swallow. I know I look like a loser, but I hadn’t quite grasped how utterly pathetic I looked.
    “Did you see his face? He was so gonna cry!” Jared’s voice hitches on bellows of laughter. Phil’s finger moves to the send button and a screen flashes announcing the video has been sent to all contacts. Within a few seconds, ringtones and vibrating cellphones announce a new message and, as my classmates check their phones, I hear a crescendo of