He ambushed me.
I was running more than ten minutes late the next morning. I’d finished up at my locker, mentally rehearsing my excuse to Ms. Hurstenwild, when I got that creepy, ominous feeling. The one that says there’s someone, possibly-s***h-probably a serial killer, right behind you. I turned around to find Will all up in my personal space, staring me down like he was a freaking matador or something.
“Didn’t get my text, I guess?” he said in this airy way, like he couldn’t really care. Which would be believable if he wasn’t in the process of cornering me in an empty hallway about it.
I was rattled, but I did my best not to make it obvious. “Pot, kettle,” I said, even airier. So airy it was approaching helium. Okay, maybe it was obvious after all.
He shoved one hand into the pocket
