Signs of You Read Online Free PDF

both Brecksville and Broadview Heights into one school. All the buildings on the sprawling campus are painted in blue and gold; plus there are multiple baseball f ields, tennis courts, soccer f ields, and a football stadium, all adorned with the W.H. Bee, f ists up, wings back, stinger nowhere in sight.
    Finally I spot Jay and Noah near a small elm tree, so I make a beeline for them (no pun intended), coaching myself as I go. You will not see your mother. You will not see anything out of the ordinary. This is the Midwest. Only boring things happen here. Just breathe. And try to be normal.
    Noah is talking, and he looks upset. His blond hair is disheveled, and he’s waving his arms around. Plus, he’s wearing what appears to be a soaking wet T-shirt. It’s a classic Noah shirt. It’s NASA blue, which matches his eyes, and has a fake periodic table on the front with only three elements: Ba, Co, and N.
    â€œHey,” he grumbles at me. He turns away from Jay and wipes his shirt with a McDonald’s napkin. “You wouldn’t happen to have any spare nerdy science shirts, would you?”
    â€œUm,” I say. “Maybe in the car?”
    Noah goes back to looking super upset, yet I still laugh. I can’t help it. Because Noah always makes me laugh or smile. It’s like his job in our group; we all get bummed about something, and he’ll read the situation perfectly and f igure out a way to make us feel better. Plus, he’s an awesome friend. On the f irst anniversary of Mom’s death, he blew up my phone all night with texts; he could tell I wasn’t okay even though I said I was. None of us had a license yet, so he got his mom to drive him to my house even though it was almost midnight. I opened the front door and there was Noah, holding a bunch of f lowers in his outstretched hand. They were wildf lowers—long and ratty-looking wildf lowers with clumps of dirt still hanging from their roots.
    I found out later that he tried to buy roses at Heinen’s, but they were closed. So he made his mom pull off on the way to my house so he could pick wildf lowers from the side of the road.
    Crazy, I know.
    â€œSo how did you manage to get the whole fake periodic table wet?” I ask.
    â€œUnbelievable. So I’m standing by this tree,” Noah says, pointing at the trunk. “Waiting for you guys. Enjoying my amazing biggie Coke. The perfect healthy start to a school day.” The faintest grin appears on his face. “And all of a sudden Carl comes down out of the tree.”
    â€œWhat?” I ask.
    â€œYeah, I know; right?” He runs a hand through the honey blond mess on top of his head. “The bastard climbed up there just to mess with me, and then swang down and knocked my Coke out of my hands. It went all over my shirt.” He points at the ginormous wet spot as if it’s not amazingly obvious to begin with. “But the worst part is that all I managed to call him was a shithead. Very unsatisfying.”
    I consider correcting Noah’s conjugation of the verb “to swing,” but decide against it. His incorrect usage does not alter the fact that anyone who purposefully swings down from a tree to knock a drink out of your hands def initely deserves to be called much more than a shithead.
    â€œSorry, Noah,” I say. “That sucks.”
    There’s a group of kids at W.H. who apparently live to torment us and anyone else who is decidedly uncool. And Carl is one of them. They do stuff like that to us all the time—they steal books out of our lockers, post Facebook crap like Riley and Kate made out in the locker room, picture unavailable . They even put bologna and eggs on the Dragon Wagon to mess with the paint. And yes, Kate and I did spend an entire gym period hiding in a shower stall together to avoid the dodge ball tournament; however, no making out ever occurred. Kate got hit in the boob the last time we played and has