My thumb runs along the edge of my stacked papers, feeling for the staple on the last form, the one I wrote my backup list of teachers on.
“You have two assistants.” I’m hemming, hawing, hedging—all of it.
His head falls back with a belly laugh, and I pause with my thumb on the top of the page I need for reference.
“I guess you could say that, but Tory D’Angelo isn’t much of an assistant. I just like keeping an eye on that kid, keeps him out of trouble. I was glad they gave me two of you. I promise I won’t overburden you.” He leans forward and cups the side of his mouth. “I know some of you like to use these gigs to get homework done.”
A nervous laugh shakes my chest and shoulders.
“Yeah, umm.” I mash my lips together and kick myself inside over what I’m about to do. “No, I was just going to say I hope it’s okay that I stay, even though you already have Tory. I . . . I like it in here. It’s quiet enough.”
He punches out a laugh and pushes off from the table, leaning forward to the stack of papers Tory left behind. He rolls them and slaps them against his other palm.
“If you can find quiet with Tory in the room, then you have Zen secrets I need to learn.” He holds up the roll of papers. “The guy had one job today, to make sure he took these things home.”
“I can give them to him,” I volunteer, clearly having some out-of-body experience.
Mr. Newsome lowers his head and holds the roll out toward me, his head cocked to the side.
“You sure? I don’t mind hassling him. It’s one of my favorite hobbies,” he jokes.
I shake my head and smile. “No, really. I don’t mind.” Yes, yes! I do mind. What is this being that has inhabited my body and is making me do things I am loathe to do?
“Great.”
And in less than a minute, I go from fixing the debacle that is my last hour of the day to walking out of Mr. Newsome’s class with a sweaty stack of papers from teachers who probably don’t expect Tory to follow instructions anyhow.
After I exit the building, I unbend Tory’s sheets and stack them with mine, noticing culinary on the top. At least I don’t have to cook with him.
“What took you so long?” Abby swings her feet out and leaves the comfort of the short cement wall that weaves between the math building and library.
“Overachiever,” I say, handing her the stack of papers. She scrunches up her face and taps on Tory’s name with her thumb.
“You are? Or he is?” She’s joking, of course. I take the papers back and feel for my keys in my front pocket. Tomorrow, I’ll be bogged down with a heavy bag and folders.
“I’m stuck being a TA with him in Newsome.” This is actually the first lie I’ve ever told Abby. I comfort myself with the logic that it’s a slight exaggeration. I’m not stuck. I just blew my chance to get unstuck.
Abby lets out a slow laugh that starts like a trickle but becomes a fire hose of amusement as she crosses her arms and has to pause to catch her breath.
“Holy shit, you have the worst luck! The only person worse to be stuck with is Ava.” I smile into the air while I press the unlock button on my key fob.
“Yeah,” I hazily agree. Though that isn’t really true. There’s one person who would even top her on the list, and I can’t seem to get away from him. Even when we both try.
Chapter Four
This marks the second time I’ve been to the D’Angelo house in three days. That’s a record for me, one I had no intention of setting. I figured coming here now, though, during football practice, would spare me having to see the twins or any of their friends.
Lucas.
I’ve never prayed harder for my little beater of a car to not break down. It’s idling pretty high as I crawl along the D’Angelo’s street. My fifteen-year-old Honda may be approaching two-hundred-thousand miles, but it got me through a year of back-and-forth to my other school without fail. It was loyal by me, so I’m loyal by it.
As if I could get a new car.
The white brick home with black trim and fancy shutters comes into view as I slow at the side of the opposite curb. This place looks a lot different in the daylight. I’m pretty sure there were condoms hanging from the huge oak tree in the center of their front yard when I left Saturday night. I wonder whether the twins took care of the mess or if their parents deal with it, chalking it up to the price of having two popular teenagers in the house.
I kill my engine and lean forward to kiss the top of my steering wheel, a superstitious gesture I started a month ago when the pinging sound became louder. I’m busy separating Tory’s papers from my own when I notice someone moving toward the back of the wide driveway that winds up the side of the property and to the infamous garage at the back of the twins’ house. A bolt flashes from the back of my neck straight to my gut, my heart pounding with a dose of adrenaline. I’m not even sure what I saw, but just being here after what happened in that garage two days ago puts me on edge. Without pause, I sink down below window level, my knees bent as far as they will so I practically rest my shins on the gas and brake pedals.
No matter who it is, I now have to stay here until I’m sure they’re gone. I won’t be able to climb out gracefully, and I’m not certain I didn’t just make a scene. My car sorta sticks out, what with the patch job on the driver’s side fender and the two-tone blue paint from years of enduring Indiana winters and salted roads. But from across the street I’m not immediately visible, and I intend to stay that way.
I slow my breathing to hear what’s happening outside, but it’s no use. I’m basically panting like an overheated golden retriever. And my makeshift bun has fallen to shit yet again, so I’m swimming in a web of my own hair. When I hear what sounds like the rumbling of a nearby vehicle, I brave lifting my body just enough to see out my driver’s side window. A small trail of exhaust puffs out from behind the retaining wall. Someone is probably pulling out of the garage, which means if I wait another moment, I can drop these papers at the front door and put a rock on top of them, call it a day.
I swallow and flinch when I see the chrome bumper, but hold steady, feeling pretty well-hidden. A deep gray truck rolls into view then pauses again, no more exhaust to obscure the details. For a moment, I think maybe someone forgot something inside, but even as I rationalize, I know better. I’m glued to the scene, and I don’t think I could not follow through, merely to confirm this awful gut feeling. I don’t want to be right, mostly because this is something I don’t want to be burdened knowing. It’s too late, though. Really, I knew it the second I saw the color of the truck. It’s too easy to put together.
I know that truck.
I see it every night.
In the driveway next door to me.
Still, even in the face of this blatant evidence, I hope there is something else happening, another explanation. The truck continues its path backward, the dark silhouette of the driver just vague enough that it could still be explained, could be anyone.
But the license plate—I know that plate.
The brake lights trigger more panic, and I tuck myself a little lower in the seat, ready to duck out of view, but the truck is idling again. Waiting.