I was wearing old jeans, which had once been tight but now sagged in weird places,
and a yellow T-shirt advertising a band I didn’t even like anymore.
Also my hair: I had this pageboy haircut, and I hadn’t even bothered to, like, brush it.
Furthermore, I had ridiculously fat chipmunked cheeks, a side effect of treatment.
I looked like a normally proportioned person with a balloon for a head. This was not even to mention the cankle situation.
And yet—I cut a glance to him, and his eyes were still on me. It occurred to me why they call it eye contact.
I walked into the circle and sat down next to Isaac, two seats away from the boy.
I glanced again. He was still watching me. Look, let me just say it: He was hot.
A nonhot boy stares at you relentlessly and it is, at best, awkward and, at worst, a form of assault.
But a hot boy... well. I pulled out my phone and clicked it so it would display the time: 4:59.
The circle filled in with the unlucky twelve-to-eighteens, and then Patrick started us out with the serenity prayer:
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
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