Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 152045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 760(@200wpm)___ 608(@250wpm)___ 507(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 760(@200wpm)___ 608(@250wpm)___ 507(@300wpm)
I drop my eyes, clenching my teeth. He just doesn’t get it. I’m in love with motorcycles. I’m in love with racing.
“And I want you to behave,” he continues. “There’s nothing to prove. I don’t know why you act like there is.”
I shake my head. He says that to me? Right now? At the same time he’s trying to make me feel like I’ll never be able to have what I really want? There’s everything to prove.
“Won’t you ask me what I want from you?” I press.
He says nothing. Because of course, he’s perfect. Everyone else is wrong.
“I want to feel like I don’t always have to lie to you,” I tell him, but a sob lodges in my throat, making it almost a whisper. “I’m not bad, you know?”
Tears fill my eyes.
I’m pretty great, and he shouldn’t forget it. I’m not letting him make me forget that, either.
He doesn’t say anything, and I simply tell him, “I have to go to school.”
I hang up, but I doubt he wanted the conversation to continue anyway. He won’t apologize or admit he’s wrong, and he’s not ready to surrender. Let him process for a while.
I start the shower, scrolling through texts, TikTok, Instagram, and Snapchat, seeing the picture of Hunter and me everywhere. Pirates are talking shit, and the Rebels aren’t helping.
I power off my phone. “Great.”
I strip down, even though I had a shower last night.
Standing in front of the mirror, steam fills the bathroom, and I gaze at myself in the mirror.
Someone is always going to misunderstand me. Everything I do will be a problem to someone.
All I can do is what I must. “You’re going to be someone’s villain,” I say into the mirror. “So be their fucking villain.”
I turn off the shower, get dressed, and grab all the money Hawke gave me.
I walk briskly through the school parking lot, gazing around haphazardly at the sparse number of cars. I’m about forty-five minutes early—on purpose—but there are usually a few more people here by now. Track and band have morning practice, but there’s no one around. No sounds. The place is nearly empty.
I jog up the steps and dive into the school. Following the same route that I took when I explored on Monday, I hurry down the hall, to the stairs, and descend to the lower level. I run into the auto shop and spin around, looking for a crowbar. Spotting one on a rack, I snatch it and leave, glancing through the door to my left and spot the empty cage. The guys aren’t working out this morning. Hmm.
I leap back up the steps, all the rushing keeping me warm during the chilly morning.
I slip into the women’s locker room, my school bag knocking against my thigh as I trail down a row of lockers. Stopping at eighty-one, I plant my hand on the steel of Mace’s locker—black, like ours. A combination padlock secures it.
A shower runs down the hall to my left, but I look around, not seeing or hearing anyone else.
I don’t waste time. Jamming the straight end of the crowbar through the loop of the lock, I throw all of my weight and muscle into it, yanking and prying, until the locker door pops open. But not because I broke the lock. The whole damn latch busted. Whoops.
It falls to the ground, and I drop the crowbar, grabbing my jacket hanging inside.
I give it a shake, holding it up and seeing that it’s entirely unharmed. She made a very good show of putting it in her locker yesterday.
Slipping it on, I catch sight of pictures taped to the inside of the door. One of her flanked by two guys dressed in military fatigues. Another of a woman with a baby in one arm and a cigarette in the other hand. She stands on a porch, in the midst of people in lawn chairs around her. The woman doesn’t look much older than Mace is now.
I close the door, best I can, and leave the rest. There’s no way to hide what I’ve done. I won’t try.
I start to leave but notice Codi coming out of the shower, wrapping a towel around her body. I quickly jump down another aisle before she sees me.
I leave the locker room, suspicion climbing up my skin. She could have sports before school, but something tells me this is the only place she has to shower.
I’ve never heard her speak, but everyone seems to care about her a lot.
The hallways are still empty except for a janitor installing a tarp over the broken window to my left. I turn and start to pass my first class, but I see Mr. Bastien holding a packet of stapled papers and reading from it as he writes on the whiteboard.
I was going to head back outside for a bit, but I stop in the doorway, noticing the empty classroom.