Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 90972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
He has to know what he’s doing as he stands so close, pretty much blocking out the sun with his huge frame. I hear the laughter in his voice when he suggests, “We’ll have to study again together sometime soon.”
Here’s the thing. He sounds like he means it. Until now, I’ve been able to act like none of this is bothering me, even as I tremble inside. The promise in his voice, the nastiness, makes me shiver the way I would if I touched a snake.
Somehow, I find it in me to lift my gaze and meet his. So sure of himself. Pleased, like he’s done anything worth being pleased about. “I don’t think so,” I reply, stone-faced. “I’ll study alone. And I’m not interested in anything you think you could teach me, anyway.”
“You say that now.” There is something so sinister in his slow, knowing smile. Like he’s promising something terrible. And as much as I want to know what it is, I can’t give him an excuse to linger any more.
I wish I could say it’s a relief when he walks away. I really do. But when I hear his soft whistling, I get the feeling he has something else in mind. He’s planning something, isn’t he? If he is, what am I supposed to do about it? Is there anything I can do? Or is he only trying to get in my head?
“Oh, I almost forgot.” My heart drops like a rock when he pauses and turns his head to call that over his shoulder. “How is your dad doing?”
My dad? “Why would you care?” I ask while an icy finger skitters down my spine.
“Oh, it’s just I heard he ran into a fist with his face. I was wondering how he’s doing.” And as he speaks, he very slowly and deliberately flexes his hands. He doesn’t wait for an answer—not that I can come up with one. All I’m capable of is staring at him with my mouth open, hoping he isn’t insane.
Which it very much sounds like he is.
Is he responsible for hurting Dad?
And if so… why?
Just another mystery I will probably never solve.
Finally. I have always looked forward to Friday afternoon, as much as anybody else ever does. But something about feeling like every moment of my school day puts me in jeopardy makes the end of the last class of the week feel so much sweeter.
It would be funny if it wasn’t so sad, the way I basically jump out of my seat and almost bolt for the door. I’m working a handful of hours at the store this weekend, but that’s all I have on my schedule. Otherwise, I plan on locking myself in my room and staying there. Away from the world, away from everybody and everything.
It’s a shame I can’t get away from my constant, gnawing sense of dread. I can’t get Kellen’s voice out of my head. Was he saying he’s the one who beat up Dad? Why would he do that? One more question on top of so many others.
All I need is a quick trip to the bathroom before I go. I wish I could ignore my bladder the way I’m learning to ignore the assholes who still insist on hounding me over those pictures and memes. But it’s either take an extra minute or bounce in my seat the whole way home, hoping there’s no traffic to hold me up. I would rather take care of this now.
It is beyond a relief to find the room empty, the stalls open. I duck into the first one and waste no time taking care of business. Maybe I’ll get lucky and I won’t run into anybody. That would be a nice way to start off the weekend.
The hopefulness that fills my heart doesn’t last long. The door squeaks when it swings open and lets in the sound of fading voices in the hallway before it swings shut again. Whoever just walked in doesn’t head for a stall. She walks over to the sinks across from the stalls, instead. I just hope she's in too much of a hurry to start her weekend and won’t care about seeing me.
That hope dies a quick death after I flush the toilet, make sure everything’s in place, and then open the stall.
Of course. This was all going too well. Tiana stands with her back to me, applying lip gloss as she bends over the counter to lean in close to the mirror. Our eyes meet in the reflection – she doesn’t react at first, but goes back to her gloss, but I can’t afford to let my guard down. I go to the sink farthest from where she’s standing to wash my hands, working fast but doing everything I can to look casual. Like there’s nothing terrifying about being in the same room with her, one on one. She’s just a person. How does she have this much power over me?