Total pages in book: 215
Estimated words: 199344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 997(@200wpm)___ 797(@250wpm)___ 664(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 199344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 997(@200wpm)___ 797(@250wpm)___ 664(@300wpm)
I remain in my seat as the students pack up and bail around me, my hands gripping the sides of my desk, not sure if I have the lady balls to pull this off. If I get caught . . .
This is a bad idea. A really bad idea.
Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap on a cracker.
“Everything alright, Zoey?” my biology teacher, Ms. Lennon asks, her bag slung over her shoulder, more than ready to get out of here. Though I suppose she can’t leave while there’s still a freaking-out teen taking up residence in her classroom.
I swallow over the lump in my throat and force a smile. “Umm, yes,” I say, my tone wavering and making it clear that I am anything but alright. “All good.”
Ms. Lennon’s brows furrow, and she watches me a little too closely as I scramble to pack up my things and get to my feet. “If there’s anything you need to talk about, or just need a friend, my door is always open,” she says, following me out of the classroom and pulling the door closed behind her before searching for her keys. “You know that, right?”
My forced smile shifts into a real one as fondness spreads through my chest. I’ve noticed the teachers watching me ever since the whole trash thing started in the cafeteria last Tuesday. I think they’re waiting for me to break, but either way, it’s nice of her to offer. “Thank you,” I tell her. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Ms. Lennon gives me a wide smile, and with that, I take off, knowing it’s now or never. I can only hope this crazy little stunt doesn’t end with a pair of handcuffs strapped tightly around my wrists.
15
Zoey
Needing the school to be almost deserted, I stop by my locker and take extra long to collect my things, slinging my bag over my shoulder before closing the door. Glancing up and down the hallway, it occurs to me that Tarni didn’t even bother to hang around and say goodbye like usual, but the second the thought enters my mind, it’s already gone.
At least ten minutes after the bell sounds, I make my way outside. My hands shake violently as I shove them deep into my pockets. Then, without a soul in sight, I let out a nervous breath before finally making my break for it.
I slip out of the building and make a sharp right, taking the long way around to keep hidden from anyone still lingering outside the school. I hear the football team on the field getting started with their drills, and I realize this could be my only chance. I step out from behind the building and slip into the boys’ locker room, my face scrunching at the foul, lingering stench of stale boy sweat.
I can happily say that until this very moment, this is the only room in the whole school that I hadn’t been in—and for good reason. There’s nothing particularly exciting about it, apart from one tiny little thing—Noah’s keys to that fancy Camaro that’s sitting so lonely out in the student parking lot.
And now all I have to do is figure out which one of these lockers belongs to him.
Creeping deeper into the room, I glance around, hoping like hell there’s no one left in here. The lockers are dirty with the players’ things scattered from one end of the room to the other. Half of their lockers have been left open, while only a few of them have bothered to keep their things tidy.
Noah was always the neat and tidy type. He never liked people touching his things and made a point to always make sure everything had a spot. With that snippet of information, I look closer at the few tidy lockers, knowing one of these would be his. Red varsity jackets linger at most of the lockers, but there’s only one of the clean lockers without a jacket.
Bingo.
Noah’s only been here a week, and this school isn’t put together enough to have a spare varsity jacket on standby to give him. I’m sure that will come later, but for now, he’s the only football player without one.
Striding across the locker room, I grip the little combination lock and stare down at it, wondering what four-digit code he would use.
I start with his birthday, and when that doesn’t work, I mentally kick myself for not trying Linc’s birthday first. How stupid could I be? What other code would he possibly have? My heart pounds, and I try to get this done as quickly as possible, but when the lock still doesn’t open, my brows furrow. Maybe this isn’t his locker after all.
Glancing around, I try to figure out which of the others could be his, but none of them make sense to me. This is the only one that stands out. It just feels . . . right.