“Talk to me,” I say softly once we’re alone, tapping her arm until she peeks at me through her thick lashes. “Mia is right, you were set on going to Stanford. What happened?”
“Kyler, it’s—”
“And no excuses,” I cut her off knowingly.
Her cheeks turn red. Sucking in a long breath, she closes her eyes and admits, “My grades dropped. I missed too much school and had two options. Retake my junior year and get setback a year or drop out and take my GED to stay on track.” When she opens her eyes, I see sadness willowing in the dark depths staring back at me, the blue-rimmed orbs glassy from an onslaught of embarrassed tears. “The grade point average when I chose to drop out was under a three, and then every time I tried studying for the GED exam, something was going on with Mom that I had to fix. I barely passed it.”
The heavy exhale that escapes my lips is accompanied by a “Fucking Katherine” that, thankfully, doesn’t seem to offend Leighton. She loved her mother unconditionally because that’s just who she is, but I know she’s probably screaming inside.
“You shouldn’t have to give up your dreams because of her,” I tell her.
“Sure, but it doesn’t work that way. Stanford is picky about who they admit.” She leans forward and shakes her head. “Maybe I should take a year off. I’ll work and—”
“Absolutely not,” I cut her off, standing.
“Ky—”
“Leighton, you’ve worked your fucking ass off for this opportunity. What if you take time off and decide not to go at all? Then what will you do with yourself?”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“You don’t have to do that alone.”
She doesn’t answer right away. “I know I don’t, but I’m used to it.” Her words are muffled under context we both understand.
I kneel beside her chair and pry her small hands apart to squeeze one. I’ve done it before, forced my way into the fort she built around herself. “We’re going to fix that, okay? You shouldn’t have to do it on your own when there are people to help you. It’s going to be different.”
She tries pulling her hand away, but I latch onto it. “You’re only saying that because you feel sorry for me, Kyler. You don’t have to.”
Owning up to it, I shrug. “I do feel bad, but that doesn’t mean it’s the only reason I’m going to make sure you get the education you want and deserve.”
Slowly, she blinks at me. “What other reason could there be?”
Oh, Lele. Sighing, I say, “Just because we aren’t blood like we thought doesn’t mean I don’t care. You’re my friend, one of my best friends, and I failed you once. I’m not going to do that again.”
Her throat bobs again.
Then her head.
“Good.” I stand and peck her cheek, tugging her up from the chair until she’s standing directly beside me. I drape an arm around her shoulder. “Guess we should do some house hunting then, huh?”
She chokes out a, “What?”
“If we’re going to be roomies,” I say with arched brows, “then we’ll need to find a place that works for the both of us.”
The look she gives me is humorous, but I hold back from laughing. Ignoring her gaping lips, I pull her toward the sliding doors where everyone is waiting.
Neither of us says another word.
Chapter Two
Leighton / Age 12
The wrought iron gate surrounding the property tells me we shouldn’t be here. I’ve never seen a house so big in my life, not even the others we’ve passed in our old jalopy of a car that sticks out like a sore thumb compared to the expensive, polished looking ones driving by us on the way here.
My mouth goes dry when I study the huge house set back from where we’re parked. I try to pay attention to the things Mom says to the man in a black uniform standing outside, but the mansion staring back at me is too stunning. It’s a mixture of dark wood and glass, sleek and vibrant, and reminds me of the modern-styled homes I saw in the magazines hoarded in our two-bedroom apartment back in Phoenix, Arizona.
According to Mom, the landlord kicked us out because he had family moving to the city and needed a place for them. Even though Mr. Navarro always gave me the creeps and never smiled, I don’t think that’s the real reason. The envelopes all stacked up on the counter were never opened on time and I was always home from school before she was from work to see the letters taped to our door. Warnings, final notices, and then the eviction statement in big, embarrassing bold letters.
I’m still not sure why she packed what little we owned—all which could be fit into our beat-up 1999 Lexus—and drove us to California. What confuses me even more is why we’re in a fancy gated community trying to get access to the intimidating home. We don’t belong here. I may be young, but I know that people who have nothing of value shouldn’t be at a place like this.
“Ma’am, for the last time—”
“Ma’am!” My mother’s shrill shriek makes me wince in the passenger seat. “Do I look over the age of forty?”
The poor man sputters. “Well, no, of course not, but—”
Mom nods once and gives him a look that makes me feel sorry for him. “I thought so. Now, I’m asking you one more time to make sure you heard me correctly. Tell Harry Bishop that he’s going to want to see Katherine Grier. Understood?” The man’s sigh makes me brace for whatever argument Mom is about to retort with, but before he can even speak, she says, “I have something he’s going to want to see, you can be sure of that. Leighton, pass me the folder.”
The folder. The pristine manilla folder that she practically made me death grip since passing the faded “Welcome to Los Angeles” sign. I do as she says, passing it to her and watch her tilt her head at the man. “I do believe this will make him very interested. And don’t think you can just say you’ll give it to him so you can get rid of me and that paper. I have the original and other copies.”
It’s my turn to stare at her, confusion contorting my face. In the five hours we’ve been on the road—well, six and a half after a bad accident that blocked traffic and the many pit stops for pee breaks and food—I’ve asked her twice about where we’re going. Not once did she enlighten me on anything involving our spontaneous road trip. Knowing better than to ask a third time, I remained quiet and listened to whatever the radio had on, usually classic rock since Mom hates the Pop100 station I love, or her rants about life that made me want to roll my eyes because most of it was about the last guy who dumped her.
“Well?” the determined woman sitting beside me presses, crossing her arms on her chest. She’s wearing one of those shirts that makes her boobs look really good, which is something she tells me is important. “You may not have them yet, but trust me, Leighton, they’re going to be assets when you’re older.”
Right now, the small sports bra I’m wearing makes my tiny boobs look nonexistent in my favorite band tee. It’s faded from so much wear and stained with who knows what from over the years, but I love it. It’s my comfort shirt when Mom drags us places, which I’m not unused to.