Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 96077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
So what if that brunette vixen is still on my goddamn mind even after I swore I’d forget about her?
In a month, by the time we’re breaking ground, she’ll be long forgotten.
Chapter 4
Taylor
I had no plans to stay in this town after I graduated from high school. I wanted to go to college, but that path wasn’t in the cards for me. For one, my mom was still dating Lonny my senior year of high school, and I couldn’t leave McKenna on her own with them. The other reason—the one so many of us battle around here—is that I just didn’t have the grades to get into any schools, let alone qualify for scholarships or financial aid.
I can remember going to talk with our school’s counselor my senior year. At the time, I was still carrying around a bud of hope for what my future could entail. Maybe I could still get into college, and maybe I could take McKenna with me. I could find us a small apartment and get a part-time job. I was sure I’d be able to juggle it all if only I could get us out of Oak Dale. My naivety at the time still makes me laugh.
Our high school’s counselor was a heavyset woman with an affinity for floral patterns. Her gray hair was always swept up into a severe bun and her thin lips rarely curved into a smile, at least around me. It’s why the whimsical dresses always threw me off.
“Put the idea of college out of your mind,” she said almost as soon as I walked in that day. Well, hello to you too, lady. “Your grades aren’t where they need to be. You have far too many absences and no extracurricular activities of any kind.”
“I was on the soccer team for a few weeks my freshman year,” I said with a self-deprecating smile. Truly, I just wanted her to throw me a bone. Unfortunately, this lady had none of those to spare.
She straightened her glasses on the bridge of her nose and flipped through my file. “I talked to some of your teachers. You do well on exams, but you don’t seem to care about the other part of your grades: homework assignments, projects, papers. Anything you do manage to turn in is only halfway done at best. You should be glad you’re even graduating.”
It wasn’t that I didn’t care. I wasn’t a slacker. My senior year, my mom was drinking heavily and more in love with Lonny than ever. I spent most of my time outside of school trying to avoid our trailer and making sure McKenna stayed away from it as well. Sometimes we stayed with Jeremy. Sometimes we slept out in our car. If we did stay at home, I had to be watchful and alert, scared something bad would happen if I ever let my guard down.
That year, McKenna was getting sick a lot too. She was wheezing and coughing in her sleep, and we thought she had a lingering cold. My mom didn’t have the money to take her to the doctor. She hoped McKenna would get over it on her own, but she didn’t, and I had to skip school a few times to help out on the hard days.
Things only started to turn around when we were able to get McKenna in to see a doctor. Her diagnosis of asthma came with an expensive price tag, but at least it was treatable.
The next major breakthrough came when my mom finally ended things with Lonny.
Unfortunately, it was too little too late for me.
McKenna has it different, though. She’s just now a freshman in high school, and I’m working hard to make sure she doesn’t have to bear the same weight on her shoulders that I did. With the approval of her doctor, she even tried out for the freshman soccer team, and she has a small group of friends, girls who care more about grades than boys. She brought home straight As on her report card last week, and my mom put it up on the fridge.
She’s doing better than ever—thriving, really—and I’m going to ensure it stays that way. It’s why I’m back at Oak Dale High School today, back in the familiar hallway that leads to the counselor’s office. I have a meeting scheduled with the same oh-so-lovely woman from four years ago. I find that she’s just the same as I remember after I knock on the door and enter her office: red-cheeked and tired. How many students has she watched pass through this school? How many dreams has she dashed? I used to resent her, but now I actually kind of pity her. She has a hard job.
“Ms. Larson,” she says, eyeing me over the rims of her glasses. “I’m surprised to see you here.”