One of the Guys Read Online Free PDF Page A

with them. Technically, Winston is not a punishment. That’s what Mom said when she and Brian sat me down to inform me of my new educational pathway. I should be grateful and happy to be here. I feel like a total jerk because I’m not.
    â€œTonya?” Mrs. Kemper raises her voice, snapping me back to reality.
    I shift my weight, regretting the basketball shorts again, but I’m having a hard time parting with them. “My name is Toni, actually. Hey.”
    The girls study me like I’m something they might be tested on later. The library smells like cinnamon, and comfortable arm chairs form what I’ve dubbed the Circle of Feelings. Beautiful hunter-green walls surround us as we pour our hearts out. Mazes of books that look older than Earth listen to each confession. The snapping fireplace fills awkward silences, which, until now, have been few.
    As everyone stares, I get a wicked itch on my left butt cheek.
    â€œTell us a little bit about your background,” Mrs. Kemper says, pushing for more.
    â€œI’m from Shelburne.” I shift my weight again, hoping that might extinguish the itch. “I used to go to Burlington High. My stepfather wanted to send me here. So. Yeah. Here I am.”
    I don’t know what else to say, other than to express the need to scratch my butt, and that’s probably unacceptable here.
    â€œDoes anyone have a question for Tonya?” Mrs. Kemper scans the group.
    The red-haired girl from my Business Mathematics class, whose name I learned this morning is Shauna Hamilton, raises her hand and asks, “Is your last name really Valentine?”
    â€œUm, yeah.” What an odd question. Why would I make something like that up?
    â€œThat’s so romantic.” She sighs and crosses her ankles.
    Shauna started off the group session today by proclaiming her love for a boy named Ryan, who goes to boarding school in Connecticut. Ryan has blue eyes. Ryan likes poetry. Ryan smells like fresh linens. That’s already more than I care to know about Ryan.
    I recognize a few other girls from my classes. The girl with the black bob is in my French class. Her name is Lemon, which is easy to remember because, well, I don’t hear that name every day. Emma Elizabeth Swanson, the only girl before now who has spoken to me all week, is sitting directly across from me, staring at her shoes, a sour expression on her face. She’s stayed silent the whole time.
    I wonder what I must look like to these pretty, delicate, poised girls. I itch my knee and lean forward, back aching. I feel beaten down after another long day, and the throbbing behind my eyes won’t go away. There’s just so much freaking work. I’m worried I won’t be able to keep up with it all.
    â€œA lady should always cross her ankles or legs,” Mrs. Kemper says with a kind smile.
    I cross my ankles, surprised that no one laughs at me. Everyone must be accustomed to posture-corrections, not that any of them need it.
    When the group session ends, I run to the bathroom and scratch my butt in peace. I splash water on my face for a pick-me-up and then slip my cell phone from my sock. My fingers hesitate on the keys as I debate whether or not to text Loch.
    I need more than a text. I need to hear his voice. I need to feel his stable presence beside me as I complain about the demanding expectations of Winston Academy. I need to look him in the eye when I tell him that I miss our hunts, our former lives, which are evaporating so quickly, and that I still believe, will always believe, that Champ lives in Lake Champlain, waiting to be discovered by us.

    I forgot that Loch isn’t home. He’s working. So my after-school routine consists of homework and sulking. After an hour of calculus, my brain feels like it might explode so I watch some Family Guy reruns on my laptop and chow down on Snickers ice cream. But I’m so stressed out that I don’t laugh