Page 6 of Lost Boy
This guy has to be at least six-three and over two hundred pounds. He has curly brown hair that’s long on top and shaved on the sides, with a few golden highlights woven in. His bright eyes are a strange, olive green color and stand in stark contrast against the tan, sun-kissed skin tone, as does his brilliant, way-too-happy smile.
I subtly close my notepad and lift a shoulder. I don’t own this table. I stop staring at the oversized boy in front of me, duck my head, and stab a bite of the salad I added to my plate of pizza in an attempt to be healthy and balanced now that I have the option.
The table jostles as he slips into the attached seat and sets his tray down in front of me. I peek from under my lashes and see that he has some sort of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans, two slices of pizza, and a large pudding on the side.
I can’t help it.
My head and my brows immediately shoot up in surprise at the massive amount of food on his plate.
He must not know what it’s like to be hungry. Or maybe he does. Often. It’s got to be hard to keep a body that size fueled properly.
He chuckles at the obvious expression on my face.
“I’m six-four, play basketball for hours a day, and run two point five miles. I’m fucking hungry, dude. A lot.”
If I wasn’t numb to everything. If it was before. If it was five years ago. I might have smiled. I might have laughed.
But it’s not. And I feel like a pillow is pressing down on my face, suffocating me with regret and painful memories. Even through the numbness, there’s an echo of hurt and a shadow of harsh truth. And there always will be.
The spark of happiness I felt a moment ago dies, and I know my face falls, if only by the slight cinch in his strong brow. He’s wearing a typical letterman’s jacket over the same preppy uniform as the other students. The same preppy-ass uniform I’ll be wearing in a few days.
I lean to the side and glance behind him. There’s a table of what appears to be popular kids laughing and smiling in our direction, and I finally understand what this is.
Laugh at the new kid. The poor, orphaned emo kid. The kid with half a head of blue hair.
It’s too easy, really. There are a lot of choices to single out. I can hardly blame them.
“Name’s Ryder. You?” he asks with another beaming smile.
CHAPTERTHREE
RYDER
“Fallon,” he replies in a low mumble, darting one last look to the open cafeteria behind me before returning his cool blue-gray eyes to mine. I already know his name. I already know a lot, actually. Coach Rivers isn’t just my basketball coach; he’s my dad’s boyfriend.
I like to think it’s all because of me too. They started dating my freshman year of high school when I made the varsity team, and Coach took me under his wing, instantly earning brownie points with the old man. Dad’s twelve years older than Joel, but they’ve never let that, or the fact that he’s my coach, affect their relationship.
Fallon lowers his eyes back to his salad and stabs at it. “Your friends are laughing,” he states in a quiet, bored tone. Very matter-of-factly. I search his face for any trace of anger, fear, or annoyance. Something. Anything. But he gives me absolutely nothing. He’s a blank slate, showing no emotion.
I twist in my seat and catch a glimpse of Cole and Jamison, indeed looking like assholes right now. But they’re actually really great guys. All of my friends at the academy are.
“They’re just horsing around, making bets on whether I can get you to sit with us.”
“Why?” He sounds suspicious.
“Why not? I don’t see anyone else around for you to sit with. You don’t want to eat alone, do you?”
“Yes.”
“Ouch.You wound my pride, Blue.”
Joel warned me he doesn’t talk much. That I’d have to try hard to be his friend, and it may not be easy. It’s okay, though. I can put in the work for him. He also warned me that Fallon got into a fight in the group home he stayed at for a few days before Joel was contacted. So the dark bruise surrounding his left eye doesn’t shock me too badly. Although, it definitely pisses me off.
Fallon is small. Even seated, I can tell he’s probably under five-ten. Anyone who would hit a guy smaller than them just because he looks like an easy target is a bully and a coward. I’m not a fighter—I’m a ballplayer—but the thought of someone hitting him has me clenching my fists tightly.
“It’s Fallon,” he says softly after an extended pause.
He doesn’t like the nickname?
