Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 46398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 232(@200wpm)___ 186(@250wpm)___ 155(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 232(@200wpm)___ 186(@250wpm)___ 155(@300wpm)
No. I can’t.
I’m not here. This is happening to somebody else.
It’s not me.
I have to fake it until I get free. I have to fake it, and that means doing whatever Mr. Jay says.
I swallow, tears pricking my eyes.
It almost comes up, but I swallow again. That happens three times before I’m certain I won’t throw up. I stay bent over the drain for another few seconds, then stand up straight and face Mr. Jay. I’m a mess on the inside. I’m disgusted and afraid and tired, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to keep going.
I have to keep going.
“Doesn’t it feel good to do the right thing?” Mr. Jay asks in a voice that’s sweet as honey. “Your mother picked this punishment for you.”
“Y—” I’m almost sick again, but I choke it down. In another few seconds, I’ll start crying. The only reason I make myself stop is that I’ll get another punishment. I can’t take another punishment. Not tonight. “Yes, sir. It feels good to do the right thing.”
I keep on doing the right thing for three months before I see my mother again.
When I do, she can’t believe the person I’ve become. She’s proud of all the progress that I’ve made and so relieved that I finally saw how wrong I was before I came here.
My mom cries and kisses both my cheeks. “You’ve grown so much. You’ve turned out so well.”
She’s so pleased with everything the school has done for me that she makes me stay another two months and finish out the year so I can graduate with my classmates.
DEAN
The next time I show up at the shop for my shift, I feel like I’ve been given a new lease on life. Rick gives me some mild shit over how the cops came to interview him, then slaps me on the shoulder and reminds me in a fake-stern voice to stay out of trouble.
“I always stay out of trouble,” I tell him with a smirk.
“I know you do,” he says with another deep laugh, his eyes twinkling. He’s been in trouble when he was a kid. Thank fuck he has a soft spot for me.
What I have today is a full list of projects out ahead of me. Some of them are as simple as oil changes. There’s a decent job for you. You start with dirty oil and end up with clean oil.
But mostly I fix broken things at this job. It reminds me every time I’m here that if you really try, you can fix broken people, too.
It’s not usually as simple with people. Can’t swap out old parts for new ones. Can’t replace dirty oil with clean. But you can take a good look at the parts that aren’t working and shine them up until they do.
Mostly, anyway. At least I fucking hope you can. I don’t want to be broken anymore.
“Are you going to be at the bar tonight?” Seth, another one of the guys at the shop, nudges me on his way past, a rag in his hands and his hat pushed back on his head. “I was thinking about trying that place out. I figure it must be good.”
“It’s just a bar. Nothing fancy.”
“Yeah, but you always talk about it, and you’re picky.”
“Me?” I point at my chest. “You think I’m picky?”
“I think you know what you like. And you like that bar. Mind if I come along, or is it supposed to be a secret?”
“You can go wherever you want.” I feel myself getting defensive, like he’s trying to pry into my life, but he’s right. I’ve mentioned my bar quite a few times at work. If I didn’t want anyone to know I went there, I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I don’t have to do that anymore. That was a school rule, not a real-life rule. I can say whatever the hell I want to whoever I want. There’s only one thing I can’t say, and it has nothing to do with the bar. “But I’d like to see you over there sometime. You like burgers?”
He laughs. “Who the hell doesn’t like burgers?”
I shrug, “You never know.”
“Yeah. I can get behind a good burger, especially when they have decent beers on tap.”
“It’s a bar, so they’ve got lots of shit on tap.”
“Good.” He knocks his hand against my shoulder. “I’ll look for you. What time do you think you’ll be there?”
I tell him what time I’m planning to head out and give him an estimate on when I’ll be at my barstool. “I’m usually there at the same time most nights, so I’m easy to find.”
“I know.” My stomach drops. For a few seconds, it doesn’t come back up. He knows I’m easy to find? What the hell else does this guy know about me? What does he think he knows? “It’s okay, man. Don’t look so freaked out. You live next door. Everybody knows that.”