Perfect (Book Two)

Twenty-One: Some Secret Admirer...

Friday afternoon, Hanna sat on the soccer bleachers, watching the Rosewood Day boys' team battle Lansing Prep. Only she couldn't really focus. Her normally manicured fingernails were ragged, the skin around her thumbs was bleeding from nervous picking, and her eyes had become so red from sleeplessness, it looked like she had pinkeye. She should have been hiding at home. Sitting on the bleachers was way too public.

I'm watching you, A had said. You'd better do what I say.

But maybe it was like what politicians said about terrorist attacks: If you holed up in your house, afraid they were going to strike, it would mean the terrorists had won. She would sit here and watch soccer, like she had all last year and the year before that.

But then Hanna looked around. That someone really, truly knew about The Jenna Thing—and was poised to blame her—terrified her. And what if A really did tell her dad? Not now. Not when things might be getting better.

She craned her neck for the millionth time toward the commons, looking for Mona. Watching the boys' games was a little Hanna-Mona tradition; they mixed SoCo with syrupy Diet Dr Peppers from the concession stand yelled sexy insults at the away team. But Mona was AWOL. Since their weird fight at the mall yesterday, Hanna and Mona hadn't spoken.

Hanna caught a glimpse of a blond ponytail and a loose red braid and cringed. Riley and Naomi had arrived, and had climbed up to a spot not that far away from Hanna. Today, both girls carried matching patent leather Chanel bags and wore obviously brand-spanking-new swingy tweed coats, as if it were actually a chilly fall day and not still a summery seventy-five degrees. When they looked in Hanna's direction, Hanna quickly pretended to be fascinated with the soccer game, even though she had no idea what the score was.

"Hanna looks fat in that outfit," she overheard Riley whisper.

Hanna felt her cheeks heat up. She stared at the way her cotton C&C California top gently stretched against her midsection. She probably was getting fatter, with all the nervous eating she'd been doing this week. It was just that she was really trying to resist the urge to throw it all up—although, that was what she wanted to do right now.

The teams broke for halftime, and the Rosewood Day boys trotted to their bench. Sean flopped down on the grass and started massaging his calf. Hanna saw her chance and clomped down the bleacher's metallic seats. Yesterday, after A texted her, she hadn't called Sean to tell him she wasn't going to Foxy. She'd been too shell-shocked.

"Hanna," Sean said, seeing her standing over him. "Hey." He looked beautiful today as usual, despite his shirt being sweat-stained and his face a teensy but unshaven. "How are you?"

Hanna sat down next to him, tucking her legs under her and arranging her pleated uniform skirt around her so all the soccer players couldn't see her undies. "I'm..." She swallowed hard, trying not to burst into tears. Losing my mind. Being tortured by A. "So, um, listen." She clasped her hands together. "I'm not going to Foxy."

"Really?" Sean cocked his head. "Why not? Are you okay?"

Hanna ran her hands through the closely cropped, sweet-smelling soccer field grass. She'd told Sean the same story she'd told Mona—that her father had died. "It's...complicated. But, um, I thought I should tell you."

Sean unfastened the Velcro on his shin guard and then tightened it up again. For a brief second, Hanna got a glimpse of his perfect, sinewy calves. For whatever reason, she thought they were the sexiest part of his body. "I might not go, either," he said.

"Really?" she asked, startled.

Sean shrugged. "All my friends are going with dates. I'd be the odd guy out."