Total pages in book: 241
Estimated words: 234779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1174(@200wpm)___ 939(@250wpm)___ 783(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 234779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1174(@200wpm)___ 939(@250wpm)___ 783(@300wpm)
“You’re not allowed to be in my room alone with me at all,” he points out, moving up behind me and stealing most of the breath out of my lungs. Dragging a finger along the edge of my backpack strap, he adds, “If you’re gonna break the rules, might as well go big or go home.”
I should definitely go home. I’m just about to say so, but then I hear him unzipping my backpack. Looking back at him over my shoulder, I’m a little thrown by how close he is, but I manage to keep my voice steady. “What are you doing?”
He reaches into my backpack, then draws out my copy of Hunger Games and holds it up to show me. “Borrowing your book.”
My heart pitter patters in my chest, but I try to play it cool. “Oh. Okay. You’re going to read it?”
With that light, teasing tone of his, he says, “Maybe. You gonna make it worth my time?”
I lift an eyebrow in censure. “Suzanne Collins is going to make it worth your time.”
Feigning a grimace, he tells me, “I’m not really into older women.”
“You’re the worst,” I tell him.
“Nah, you like me.”
I kinda do, but hearing him say it so smugly drags a groan right out of me. “A little less with each passing second.”
Now he grins at me. “Liar.”
My cheeks are a permanent shade of red when he’s around, so I embrace the heat and lie my butt off. “I actually like someone else.”
“You do not,” he states, though he sounds a shade less amused. Without even giving me a chance to respond, he demands, “Who?”
I search my mind for even one name that isn’t his, but I come up with nothing. Somehow, I can’t think of a single other boy at school.
My awkward silence lasts too long and Hunter nods smugly. “That’s what I thought.”
“Mark,” I blurt.
It’s only a name without a face attached, I’m not even sure I know anyone named Mark, but Hunter’s face darkens.
“Poplowski?”
“Yep. Mark Poplowski. It’s him I like, definitely not you.”
Sounding entirely unconvinced, he asks, “What do you like about him?”
Oh, God, I don’t know. “He’s… modest.”
Hunter smirks. “Nope.”
“He is,” I insist. “And… smart.”
“He’s lucky he can spell his name.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “He’s kind to others.”
“When we walk down the halls, he regularly knocks a person’s books right out of their arms just for fun.”
Heaving a sigh, I offer half-heartedly, “He has nice eyes?”
He rocks his head side to side, then says, “I can probably give you that one.”
Victoriously, I nod. “There. I’m shallow and I like dumb, mean Mark with the nice eyes.”
Hunter rolls his eyes and walks past me. “You’re full of shit.”
“And excellent book recommendations,” I add, taking a couple of steps toward him since he’s standing in front of his desk now. “I’m full of those, too.”
“Don’t worry, I’m gonna read your stupid book,” he tells me, putting it down on his desk and unzipping his backpack. Nodding his head toward an extra chair in the corner, he tells me, “Get comfortable, you’ve got a lot of homework to do.”
I roll my eyes at him, but as I walk over to grab the chair, I can’t keep a little smile off my face.
___
When we first sat down, I checked the time literally every two minutes. I knew it would take me a few extra minutes to walk home from his house, so I knew I had to leave at a certain time. No matter how enjoyable it was to help Hunter with his homework, I knew I had to get home before my mom to avoid another fight.
But then his mom gets home, and his stepdad is with her. Hunter and I are still in his room with the door closed, so when I first hear them, I think maybe they don’t realize they’re not alone.
The sound is muffled so I can’t tell what they’re saying, but their voices are raised and tinged with anger.
I look over at Hunter, uncertain what to do. His gaze is locked on his closed door, dread written all across his face. He waits a few seconds to see if they stop, I guess, and when things only seem to escalate, he finally responds. His jaw locks and he shoves back his chair, then he storms across the room and rips his door open.
“Can you guys knock it off?” he calls out. “I have a friend over.”
Now that the door’s open, I hear his stepfather call back, “Like I give a fuck about your little fucking friends.”
“Stop it,” his mother snaps. “Stop being such an asshole.”
“Fucking make me, woman.”
That sick, gnawing, dreadful feeling I always get when my mom is mad at me settles in my gut. I start gathering my things quickly, figuring I should leave if his parents are fighting.