Dating and Dragons

Chapter One

I thought I’d already experienced every “new girl at school” nightmare imaginable in the run-­up to today, but I guess my brain wasn’t creative enough to come up with this scenario. I’m not arriving at school naked or late for a final exam I haven’t prepared for . . . but I am being dropped off at my new high school for my first day of junior year by my overly excited grandma, who is insisting we take first-­day-­of-­school photos together in the parking lot.

“But it’s not the first day of school,” I argue for a third time.

“It’s your first day at this school, Quinn,” Grandma replies. She grips the steering wheel with both hands and leans close so her face is only a few inches away from the windshield. “It doesn’t matter if it’s February. Can I park here?” she asks, pointing to an open spot.

I look out the window. “No, the sign says it’s for the seniors.”

“Well, I’m a senior!”

I turn to the back seat. “Andrew, care to help me out at all?”

My fifteen-­year-­old brother lifts one shoulder without looking up from his phone.

Great, he’s as engaged and useful as ever. I face Grandma more fully. “The parking lot is filling up. It’s really okay—­we can just get out. We can get pictures another time or we can take a selfie in the car.” Or I can do everything in my power to make sure Grandma never drives us again. I grab my book bag to show her I’m ready.

“Nonsense. My only grandchildren are finally living close enough for me to see them every day, and I’m making up for lost time. I want a first-­day-­of-­school photo.”

She frowns and adjusts her orange silk scarf. You’d think it was Grandma’s first day of school the way she dressed up for this ten-­minute drive, but then she’s always prided herself on being the most elegant woman in any room. She doesn’t wear stereotypical “grandma clothes”—­she’s always in colorful blousy tops, linen pants, and her ever-­present floral scarfs. She’d fit in better on a yacht than she would in rural Ohio.

My brain flails and I glance feverishly around the parking lot for onlookers. A ton of students are still meandering into the building, so there’s no way we can do this without witnesses. I begged Mom and Dad to let me drive this morning, but they needed both cars to get to their new jobs. We just moved two hours west to Laurelburg, Ohio, a week ago to be closer to Grandma. “She’ll get such a kick out of it!” Mom had argued with pleading eyes. “You know how happy she is to see you two!”

Oh, she’s happy, all right. To my horror, she’s rolled up to a group of guys circled around a fancy red car. And if their varsity jackets are to be believed, they’re athletes. I scoot down in the seat like a snake slithering into a hole.

Grandma lowers her window and waves at them. “Hey, boys, hope you aren’t getting into trouble over here. What a good-­looking group you are!”

A small moan comes out of me, and I squeeze my eyes shut. There’s no one in the world Grandma won’t talk to. Behind me a door opens and slams closed. I glance over my shoulder to see Andrew dashing through the cars toward the school building before Grandma can notice. The traitor! I can’t believe my younger brother is smarter than me.

“Can I get you to take our picture?” Grandma says, and I slither down farther.

I hear muttering and a hoot of laughter and then Grandma drives away. “Well, they were very rude. Don’t waste your time on them.”

“I’m sure that won’t be a problem,” I say.

Grandma is making sure I have absolutely no chance of making new friends here. I don’t need help being awkward. I’ve never been popular, but at least—­for a while—­I had close friends at my old school. Everything had been so comfortable and easy with them . . . until our group imploded. I take a deep breath and remind myself that this move is for the best. It’s what I wanted. I don’t miss the old school or the anxiety I felt there, always worrying about running into one of them in the halls.

Grandma continues to slowly drive down the parking lot row and my gaze catches on a group of five students chatting together. I can’t exactly explain it, but they look like my kind of people. Like, under the right circumstances, I might have enough courage to walk up and say hi. And is the South Asian girl wearing sparkly green d20 earrings? My hopes lift even more.

Unfortunately, Grandma notices them as well.

“They look nice. I bet one of them will take it.” This time she rolls down my passenger-­side window and leans across me. “Hiya! Can I get one of you to take a photo?”

Unlike the other group, who just laughed and ignored her, these kids stop and turn toward the car. They exchange confused glances and then one of the guys steps forward. My stomach flips over. Why does he have to be cute? Like, annoyingly cute. His light brown hair is swept over his forehead, his blue eyes match his winter coat, and his cheeks are pink from the cold. His gaze catches mine for a second before he flashes a grin at Grandma. “Sure. In the car?”

“Not in the car, of course! We need it with the school in the background!” She puts the car in park right there and turns on the hazard lights, blocking anyone else from driving through this aisle. Then she ushers me out of my seat, and I force myself to follow, sweating profusely under my coat despite the frigid February air.

“Wait, where did Andrew go?” she exclaims.

“He ran for the building a minute ago,” I say quietly.

“That boy,” she mutters. “Well, at least I’ll have a photo with my favorite grandchild.”

Picture Boy chuckles and my cheeks heat. The rest of the group has shuffled a little closer so they can witness the scene. To my delight, the South Asian girl does have on dice earrings. I imagine someone wouldn’t wear those unless they were a gamer. I’ll have to look for her in my classes . . . ­assuming this weird situation doesn’t ruin my chances of being friends with her. Next to her stands a South Asian boy her same height, his hands in his pockets and a delighted look on his face, along with another person I can barely see beneath their puffy coat and rainbow crocheted hat. And then there’s that guy—­you know, the one who always seems perfectly fine in sandals and cargo shorts in twenty-­degree weather. His long hair is pulled back in a low ponytail and his face is tipped up to the sky.

Grandma hands her phone to Picture Boy. The phone is attached to a large fabric strap so she doesn’t lose it. “I’m so glad to find a well-­behaved young man here. Some of these kids are twerps.” She tilts her head back toward the other group.

“Oh yeah, anyone could tell you that.” He glances at me. “Do you go here?”

“Um, yeah,” I mumble.

He studies me, as if he either doesn’t believe me or is trying to figure out if he’s seen me before. “Huh, okay. I’m ready when you two are.” Then he holds up the phone and gestures for us to stand closer. I glance down at myself, feeling self-­conscious. Most of my clothes are a bohemian style—­lots of long, patterned skirts and cropped sweaters and beaded necklaces, which I think look cool together, but not so much when my top half is wrapped in a quilted purple coat. Grandma slips her hand around my waist, and I stand up straight.

“Say ‘fuzzy pickles’!” he calls.

I smile at the odd phrase despite my current misery. He takes a few, going so far as to take pictures both vertically and horizontally.

Grandma nods approvingly as she swipes through the photos. “Oh, that’s cute! Thanks so much.” She pushes me closer to him. “This is my granddaughter, Quinn, and she’s new here. Will you look out for her? She’s nervous.”

Can I please wake up from this nightmare now? But before I can respond or pull an Andrew and sprint toward freedom, Grandma has already turned her attention on the rest of the group hovering close by.

“Aren’t you freezing?” she says. “Where are your shoes?”

Picture Boy’s mouth tugs up into a smile and he shifts slightly so his back is to the rest of the group. “First-­day pictures, huh?”

“I tried to talk her out of it.”

“They’re better than some of mine, at least. I’m straight up glaring in my fourth-­grade photo—­Mom keeps it on the fridge to make her laugh.”

I chuckle lightly. “If I tried that, Grandma would haul me back here tomorrow morning for a reshoot.”

“From my view, the photos were too good to need reshoots.”

His gaze catches on mine and nerves swirl in my stomach. Is that his roundabout way of flirting with me? Or am I being egotistical and he’s only complimenting his own photo­graphy abilities?

“We should get inside,” someone from the group announces, clearly eager to escape Grandma’s clutches.

Picture Boy rocks back on his heels. “Any chance I’ll see you in French first period?”

I shake my head. “Pre-­calc.”

“Oof, good luck with that first thing in the morning. I’ll look for you. I wouldn’t want to let your grandma down.” He flashes me a grin and my pulse leaps. Maybe I’m not so grumpy about Grandma stopping the car here anymore.

I grab my book bag and kiss Grandma quickly on the cheek, her skin papery and cool. My hopes rise that today might be a good first day after all.

Unfortunately, I don’t see Picture Boy in any of my classes (and my eyes were wide open looking for him). I think I see the ponytail guy in chemistry and the puffy coat person in English, but I didn’t talk to either of them in the parking lot, so it feels weird going up to them like we know each other. Instead, I spend my first day treading silently from class to class, pretending I know what’s going on even though none of the classwork lines up with what we were doing at my old school.

The next few days aren’t traumatizing, but they’re lonely. Laurelburg High School isn’t huge—­there are about a thousand students total—­but it’s enough that you can get lost in the shuffle. I miss walking to classes with Paige and my other friends, and texting them after school, and seeing them on the weekends. I miss having people who already know me well enough that I don’t have to explain anything about my life—­they just get it.

But I don’t have friends like that anymore, and that’s not just because we moved. In fact, the move was a welcome relief from the last few months at my old school. Being new is rough, but it’s nothing compared to being the outcast. At least here I can walk down the halls without the fear of passing my ex–­best friends and having to endure their whispers and smirks.