Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 103104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
“Turn it off,” I whisper, holding my stomach. “Please.”
“Hello? Are you listening, moron?” Jolena says. She’s shorter than me, even in her high heels, and I tower over her, thankful at least for my five foot, eight inches. I’ve never met my sperm donor—some man who got my mom pregnant—but I figure I get my height from him since she’s petite.
“Move out of my way,” I say, keeping my voice low, struggling to keep it from cracking.
“Oh, it has claws. Make me.” She takes a step closer until I can smell the cloying scent of her flowery perfume.
I battle my jumpy stomach. “Trust me, I’ve known meaner girls than you. Wanna try me?”
Her lips curl and she laughs, the sound tinkling out to several other students who’ve stopped to watch. She throws her gaze around, surveying them all, and some of them visibly shrink away. Others come closer, their faces almost fascinated, wondering what I’ll do, what she’ll do…
A delicate shrug comes from her. “Consider yourself warned. None of the cheerleaders want you back. We don’t need sluts on our squad.”
My gut reaction is to just dart away. It’s what I would have done if I’d had an interaction with her in the past, because I just wanted to make things easy for myself here. Don’t make waves. Graduate.
I hear her muttering behind me as I walk away, calling out a juicy name, but I tune it out, focusing on deep breathing. My hands tremble as I fumble with the locker combination I received in the mail with my registration packet last week.
“You look different,” are the words I hear from my left. My eyes dart to the guy who said them, taking in the clipped light brown hair on the sides, the top longer and swept back, the dark brown eyes. About six foot and muscular with a hint of mischief in his gaze, he flashes a grin. “You used to have light hair. The black is wicked cool. Saw you when you parked your car.” His accent is obviously Bostonian, maybe Southie, with the R sound missing. Pahked yah cah.
He arches a brow, and the silver piercing there glints in the florescent lighting. “Name’s Wyatt. I’m new since last January, but I heard all about you. I’ve seen your picture in the yearbook. We’re locker neighbors.” Locka neigbahs. Another grin as he leans in closer to me. “People are staring at you like crazy. You’re like…a celebrity. Welcome back. I’m honored to be your neighbor.” He places a hand over his heart.
Ha.
I didn’t expect anyone to be nice, and I don’t trust the feeling. I turn toward my locker, gripping the lock. The combination doesn’t work, and he watches me try it a third time until it finally gives. I fling it open, blocking his face.
Wyatt shuts his locker and shuffles away in my peripheral vision. My eyes move down to a sealed envelope at the bottom of my locker. I frown. How did this get here? I check the outside and glance at the small vents where someone must have pushed it through.
For Ava is scrawled across the envelope, and chills ghost over my neck, imagining who would have left it. Plus, how did someone find out my locker number? I received all the information about registration details just a few days ago. I chew on my lips and stuff my lunchbox inside the space, tempted to just leave the letter there. I eye it and my hand shifts closer, my fingers an inch away when I stop. What if it contains anthrax? I roll my eyes at my own ridiculousness. I’m smart enough to know anthrax spores released into the air could harm not only me but several people, including the person who delivered the letter. Okay, fine, but I’m still not touching it. I’ll grab some gloves from the science lab later and then toss it in the trash.
I’m putting my lock back on when I change my mind and fling the door open again, snatch up the letter, and tear at the flap. What if it’s from Piper?
Dear Ava,
Your eyes are the color of the Caribbean Sea.
Shit. That’s stupid.
What I really mean is…you look at me and I feel something REAL. And that never happens.
It’s been ten months since you were here, but I can’t forget you.
I’ve missed seeing you walk down the hall.
I’ve missed you cheering at my football games.
I’ve missed the smell of your hair.
And then everything fell apart that night.
If you need anything, I want to be there for you. Text me. Please. 105-555-9201
P.S. I’m a Shark, but I’d never hurt you.
P.P.S. I’ve tried to fight it with everything I have, but I want you. Still.
My heart pounds as I read the words, and I’m vaguely aware of a bell ringing and students streaming past me, heading to classes. I want to crumple the letter and set it on fire. I want to piss on it.