He doesn’t even ask who I’m meeting since he doesn’t believe the lie. After all, I don’t have any friends. And who would want to meet Kansas Montgomery?
As James stoically speeds down the main road, I frantically think about what to do. I hate how they always disregard me like an unwanted phone call, so that’s why I wave my phone in James’ face.
Out of the blue, they both scream.
“Shit!”—“Watch out!”
Brakes squeal. A hard jolt catapults me forward, and my head hits the headrest of the passenger seat.
“Holy shit, Kansas! Are you crazy?” James snaps at me.
Startled, I sit up and rub my forehead.
James looks grimly from me to the road, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.
“It’s not her fault he hopped in front of your car. Death wish or something,” Arizona defends me for once, and I hear the shock in her voice. “Luckily, you didn’t hit him.”
“She distracted me with her fucking cell phone!”
I slide a little to the middle, lean forward, and look at the young man who was apparently the reason for the hard braking.
He stands to the right of the hood and peers through the windshield. Dark, narrowed eyes examine us one by one, and even though his blond hair hangs over his face, you can clearly see that the dude would like to roast us alive. For a moment, I have déjà vu, as if I’ve seen him somewhere before, but if I had, it wouldn’t be a good memory.
“Do you know him?” Arizona’s voice sounds a bit too shrill.
“No.” James gets out. “Are you okay?” he asks the blond.
The scowling guy doesn’t reply but continues to stare intently into the interior of the car as if he has completely forgotten where he is.
“Good Lord, he’s got a mix of rebel and surfer charm,” Arizona whispers to herself in awe. “Definitely a Hill.”
Hillis what she calls the super-rich Kensington types who live in the hilly west side of Cottage Grove. Guys like Chester, Hunter, and Zachery. All the shitheads she’s into. But Mr. Gloomy Eyes wears jeans and a T-shirt, not the usual checkered trousers and Burberry polo that make the Hills always look as if they’re going straight to the golf course after school.
When I suddenly find myself face-to-face with him, I instinctively slide back a little. My heart suddenly beats faster.
“Hey, are you okay?” James asks, louder. “Do you need help?”
The blond moves to the side without paying attention to James. He slowly crouches. Only then do I notice the chaotic mess spread across the curb and the side of the road—ropes, some mechanical junk, carabiners, and strange-looking seatbelt straps. Not something needed at school, but he seems too old to be a student.
Before I can think about it any further, several cars behind us honk. I glance through the rear window. We’re in the middle of the road, causing a traffic jam.
“Okay, then!” James shrugs, getting back in and slamming the door. “By the way, Arizona, Sigmund Freud called it the death instinct, not death wish.”
Mr. Gloomy Eyes is still kneeling dangerously close to the car, collecting the contents of his backpack. He doesn’t seem to care if he gets run over.
“No matter what drove him, did you see that look? Like he wanted to stab us. So sexy... Oh, man, a definite ten!”
James ignores her and gives me a bitter look. “Put your phone away, now! I’m taking you to Kensington, no argument! I’ll call Dad and tell him you wanted to skip again. Maybe he’ll come by personally to check on you.” His eyes sparkle. “Don’t look at me like I’m the monster! You only have yourself to blame for this. It’s no wonder you have no friends when you steal from your classmates.” Shaking his head, he accelerates and then says, “I sometimes wonder where my little sister went. What happened to you? Do you still understand her, Ari?”
Arizona doesn’t reply, doesn’t say anything in my defense.
My hands are shaking, and I bite my bottom lip hard. I’ll get through it. Maybe Mom was right after all. Maybe I just have to wait long enough, and then everything will be okay.
Chapter 2
As I hide between the school fence and a thick cherry laurel, I write a message to Mr. Spock:I have to go to summer school.The sentence alone is enough to make the catastrophe clear.
The problem with being late is the exact timing. I have to wait until the hallways are empty but still make it to the classroom before the teacher. Today, we have Philosophy with the over-punctual Mrs. Elliott, so I walk through the wrought iron gates right after the second bell. Kensington High – Private school is written on them in gold letters. Behind it lies the courtyard with the old English cobblestones, sycamores, and oleander bushes. My everyday walk to Golgotha.
