Chapter 1

The underside of the varsity bleachers smelled like a potent cocktail of wet grass, Axe body spray, and three decades of calcified chewing gum. To the average student, it was a structural hazard. To me, Samantha, first-chair clarinet and unspoken protagonist of Lincoln High, it was the set for the climax of my romantic arc.

It was 4:00 PM on a Friday. The golden hour. Or, well, the aluminum hour, considering the lighting down here was mostly filtered through metal slats.

Brett "The Jet" Davis stood in front of me, still wearing his pads. He looked like a Greek god who had recently rolled around in the dirt. Steam was literally rising off his shoulders. He held his helmet in both hands, blinking at me with those big, beautiful, terrifyingly empty cow eyes.

"Uh, hey, Sam," he said, shifting his weight. "Did I fail a math quiz? I thought I got a C-minus on that last one."

"This isn't about math, Brett," I said, my voice dropping an octave to what I hoped was 'sultry jazz singer' but probably sounded more like 'recovering from a cold.' "This is about potential. This is about us."

Brett frowned, his brow furrowing in deep concentration. "Us? Like... the study group? Did Kevin quit?"

"No, Brett. Look at me." I took a step closer. I had rehearsed this moment in the shower, in the car, and during third-period Biology. I knew exactly what he needed. He didn't need a simple 'I like you.' That was for side characters. He needed Inspiration. He needed to be shaken out of his jock hierarchy stupor to realize the quirky girl in the band tee was his destiny.

I took a deep breath, channeling every John Hughes movie I had ever pirated.

"You play it safe, Brett," I began, gesturing vaguely toward the football field behind us. "You run the plays the coach calls. You stay in the pocket. You date the cheerleaders because that’s what the script says you should do."

Brett opened his mouth, probably to defend his ex-girlfriend, Tiffany, but I held up a hand.

"But life isn't a playbook," I continued, stepping into his personal space. I could smell the grass stains. It was intoxicating. "You have to play big, Brett. You have to look at the thing that scares you—the thing that seems totally wrong, totally mismatched, totally impossible—and you have to run toward it."

Brett went very still. His eyes widened. It was working. I could see the gears turning, however slowly, behind those hazel irises.

"You have to take the shot," I whispered, leaning in. I tilted my chin up, closing my eyes just a fraction. This was it. The swelling violin music was practically audible. "You have to claim what you want, no matter what people think. No matter the consequences. If your heart is pounding, that means you're alive."

I waited. The silence stretched. A pigeon cooed somewhere in the rafters.

Then, Brett gasped.

It was a wet, sharp sound of pure epiphany.

I opened my eyes. Brett was staring at me, beaming. He looked like he had just discovered fire, or perhaps realized that the push door was actually a pull.

He reached out and grabbed my shoulders. His grip was strong, firm, electric.

"You're right, Sam," he breathed. "Oh my god, you are so right."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "I am?"

"Yes!" His face was glowing with sweat and realization. "I've been such a coward. I’ve been worrying about the rules. About what the school board would say. About the... you know, the laws."

I paused. "The laws?" That was a weird way to describe high school social hierarchy, but I rolled with it. "Screw the laws, Brett. Follow your heart."

"I have to do it," he said, his voice trembling with emotion. "I have to take the shot."

I puckered my lips. I was ready. I was so ready.

"I'm going to ask out Mrs. Higgins," Brett declared.

My lips remained puckered for a full second before my brain processed the audio.

I froze. "Who?"

"Mrs. Higgins!" Brett shouted, shaking me slightly in his excitement. "The AP Chemistry teacher! I know she’s forty-two, and I know she’s currently going through a messy divorce, and I know she technically gave me detention last week, but you're right! It’s the impossible thing! It’s the thing that scares me!"

My stomach dropped through the floor, dug a hole to China, and died there. "Brett, no. That’s not what I—"

"I was playing it safe with girls my own age," he rambled, eyes wild with this newfound purpose. "But I need to play big! I need to claim what I want! I love the way her safety goggles fog up when she yells at us!"

"Brett, that is a felony," I squeaked. "Or at least a firing offense. I meant me! I was talking about me!"

He didn't hear me. He was already releasing my shoulders, bouncing on the balls of his cleats.

"Thanks, Sam! You're the best friend a guy could ask for. Seriously. You just changed my life!"

"Brett, wait!"

"I’m gonna go find her! She’s grading papers in her Volvo!"

He turned and sprinted out from under the bleachers, kicking up a cloud of dust.

"Mrs. Higgins!" he bellowed as he ran across the parking lot, his voice echoing off the brick walls of the gymnasium. "Mrs. Higgins, wait up! I’m ready to take the risk!"

I stood there in the shadows. The smell of old gum seemed suddenly overpowering.

Somewhere in the distance, I heard the distinct sound of a Volvo engine revving in panic and tires screeching away.

"You're welcome," I whispered to the empty air.