Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
“Shit.” Clay breathes out.
I nod. “Yeah.”
Exactly.
“Well, then,” she says. “You have to find him.”
I smile, and she smiles back, and I make another round of drinks.
Marymount Academy dismissed at noon today, but there are students still lingering in the parking lot. A few drift through the halls. Thanksgiving is in two days, and has always been my favorite holiday, a sentiment no one around me ever shared. There’s no stress to look a certain way, like on Halloween, or pressure to shop, like on Christmas. It’s just staying at home with a houseful of people and some really good food. This year will be a shitshow with my family falling apart, but I’ll try to make sure the kids can’t tell. We’re supposed to go to my grandparents’ house, but the invitation wasn’t extended to my mother. I’m sure my father will stay away so he doesn’t have to face us.
“Krisjen, hey!” someone calls out.
I look up, spotting Cate Laurel, Emaline Truax, and Antoinette Viega, juniors last year when I was a senior. They walk toward me, down the hallway.
Cate comes in for a hug. “What’ve you been doing? We miss you.”
We never hung out.
I glance at the girls’ locker room behind them, hoping my former coach is still in there.
“Oh, just working.” I smile, thankful I put on some lipstick. My clothes look like shit, though. “Waitressing.”
Toni’s face falls. “Why?”
I chuckle to myself. “What are you all up to?” I ask instead. They’re out of uniform, with fresh makeup on. Definitely not going home.
But Cate cocks her head. “Are you still hooking up with Trace Jaeger?”
I lift my eyebrows.
“Where will they be tonight?” she pries.
I hesitate, feeling the wind blow through the corridor from the open double doors at the entrance. “At home, I guess. There’s a storm coming.”
She grins, the two others’ faces lighting up.
Oh no.
I mean, I get it. I invaded the Bay last year, too, but …
I let my eyes fall to Emaline’s exposed stomach, Cate’s short-shorts.
I know the Bay now. It’s different.
“Don’t cross the tracks,” I warn them.
“Can’t make any promises.” Cate starts to back up, the others following. “We’re bored. You understand.”
“We’ll stay away from Trace,” Emaline says. “But the rest are fair game.”
“Which one’s the single father?” Antoinette asks her friends. “I want him.”
She doesn’t even know his name.
Laughter fills the hall as they spin around and rush out the door.
Shaking my head, I walk to the locker room door and yank it open.
Let them come if they want. The guys can take care of themselves. I’m not even going over there tonight. I finished my shift.
I step inside the locker room, the smell of basketball leather permeating the air, which is still thick from the showers the students took today. There’s no one around, the rows empty except for the odd towel or shoe left lying around.
I kind of miss it here. In high school. There was no pressure to be anyone yet.
But that’s about all I miss.
I head down to the coach’s office, because even though I wasn’t a great lacrosse player, I was reliable. I showed up, gave it my all, and Reva Coomer agreed to write me a recommendation for college if I ever needed one. I emailed last week to take her up on that offer. I’m still not feeling much interest in school, but it might be my only means of escape. It can even be somewhere semi-local so I can still be close to Paisleigh and Mars.
But as I approach the coach’s office and look through the window, I see it’s empty. Turning the knob, I open the door. It’s not locked. She must still be here. I’d texted to tell her I’d pick up the letter by three.
She could’ve emailed it, but I wanted to say hi. I’d hated her lessons the least.
Crossing the office, I open the door on the opposite side, peering into the corridor that only the coaches use. Across it lie the head coaches’ offices for the boys’ sports, and their locker room beyond.
Milo sits in Coach Davenport’s office, Ana Moreno straddling his lap. She’s a junior.
I watch as they lock hands and she moves over his mouth, deep and slow. Gross.
How old is she? Sixteen? I pull out my phone and hold it up, walking to the window and zooming in like I’m filming. Which I’m not because she’s a minor.
Milo’s dumb, though.
Ana sees me and quickly hops off him, backing up with her fists balled at her side.
Milo looks back at me and says something to her, sending her out the opposite door. I try to hold back my smile as I slip my phone in my pocket.
He rounds the desk and opens the door to the corridor, and I hold my hand behind me, ready to grab the knob to Coomer’s office and bolt if I have to.