Page 29 of Rules

“Not the healthiest of eating habits, I’d say.” I break the silence.

Brook jumps, startled by my presence.

“Jesus Christ!” Her hand shoots to her chest, pressing against her heart as she turns to look at me. “You scared the shit out of me, Max!”

Grinning sheepishly, I scratch the back of my head. “Sorry?” I offer weakly.

“Don’t you ‘sorry’ me!” Brook grits, and before I can even see it coming, something’s flying at my head.

If I were somebody else, I’d either take cover or get hit in the head because, damn, her aim is good, but I’m not one to scare easily. Instead of dodging, as any sane person would do, my hand shoots up, grabbing the thing she threw at my head tightly in my palm.

Unclenching my fingers, I look down. “Paint tube? Seriously, Brook? Violent much?”

Green eyes narrow at me from across the room. “Showoff.”

Without another word, she turns her back to me, shutting me out. But I’m not ready to go just yet, so I enter the classroom, letting the door fall shut behind me. I can hear the coach’s warning voice in the back of my mind, reminding me what’s at stake and not to screw it up, but I can’t make myself go. I’m already late, so a few more minutes won’t make any difference.

“It’s called natural talent, Firecracker.”

She rolls her eyes at me, not bothering with a retort. “What are you even doing here, Sanders? The hockey rink is that way.”

Back to Sanders, I see.

Irritation prickles at the back of my neck. It seems like for every step forward I make with this girl, she runs two steps back.

“Following my schedule, Taylor?”

She laughs her you-actually-think-you-are-the-shit pretend laughter. “You can only hope so.”

“I was actually going to the library.”

“This is the art room,” Brook points out dully.

“I can see that.”No shit, Sherlock.No matter how much I want to say it out loud, I keep the comment to myself. Walking closer to her, I look around the room. Big, floor-to-ceiling windows letting natural light illuminate the space. Stools, empty easels and the smell of paints and oils fill the room. It’s the complete opposite of the hockey rink, which only serves as more of a reminder of how different the two of us are.

Yet, here you are again.

She looks over her shoulder wearily. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Light’s good in here,” I continue, ignoring her question. “Way better than a dim library.”

Narrowed green eyes follow me without blinking, and just when I think I’ll get to look at what she’s hiding on that canvas, she rotates it so it’s hidden again.

“You’re not staying here.”

I wasn’t planning to, but now that she said it...

“C’mon! You’ll do your thing, and I’ll do mine.”

Really, would it be that bad? Last time when I was freaking out, trying but failing miserably to concentrate on studying, Brook was the one who helped me through it. There wasn’t one person, except Jeanette—not my parents or teachers or friends—who could understand how my brain worked. Not one person who could help me when the panic and mixed words became so overwhelming my head was going to explode. But somehow Brook understood it. Without me having to say a thing, she understood it. She knew what to do; she knew how to help me.

“No way.” Brook shakes her head decisively. “You go on your way, and I’ll stay here and finish this.”

“What about homeroom?”

“Keeping tabs on me, Sanders?” She throws my words back at me.

“You won’t even know I’m here.”

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