Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 408(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 408(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
“It sounds good,” Dad says with a smile that tells me he genuinely means it. He spends a little while giving us pointers like he always does, and we try them out, but then since it’s getting late, the guys take off.
I’m about to start on my science homework when I remember I left my books in my mom’s car. I run out, grab my stuff, and am heading back inside when a girl sitting on the steps of the house next door catches my eye. The place has been empty for several months but recently sold.
As I step toward her, getting a closer look, I notice her shoulders are shaking, and it sounds like she’s crying. “Hey, are you okay?”
Her head springs up, and her tearstained eyes meet mine. “Umm, yeah.” She swipes at her tears and sniffles.
“Doesn’t sound like it.” I jump over the fence separating our houses and have a seat next to her on the steps. “You move in here?” I nod toward the house behind us, which is identical to mine. The four-story townhouses on this street each have their own garage, driveway, and small yard in the back.
“Yeah,” she says, her voice coming out hoarse. “Today. I start school tomorrow.”
“At Brooklyn High?”
“Yep. Sophomore.”
“Same. Where are you from?”
“Michigan. Dad got a job offer he couldn’t turn down. Had to leave my friends, my boyfriend… It’s going to suck to start at a new school tomorrow without knowing anyone.”
I can’t really relate since I’ve lived in this home most of my life and have gone to school with the same people from day one, but I can imagine how bad it would suck to start over in high school.
“You know me,” I say, extending my hand. She glances up at me and smiles. “I’m Camden Blackwood.”
“I’m Layla Higgins.” Her hand connects with mine, and I notice how small it is. Even sitting down, I can tell she’s a tiny thing.
“What’s with the camera?” I ask, noticing it’s sitting in her lap.
“I love documenting everything. Pictures, videos. It’s kind of my thing.” She shrugs. “As an ‘I’m sorry for moving you away from the only life you’ve ever known’ gift, my dad got me a new editing program, so I came out here to take some pictures.”
“And then you ended up sitting here crying?”
She snorts out a half-laugh, half-cry. “Yeah.” Her brown eyes lock with my green. “I’ve only been gone for a day, and I already miss my home.” She sighs, and a fresh set of tears well up in her eyes. “I don’t really feel like documenting anything right now.”
“What do you feel like doing?”
“Honestly, I just feel like wallowing,” she says with a watery laugh.
“Wallowing?” I repeat. I know the word, but you usually don’t hear teenagers saying it.
“It’s what my mom says I do when I’m upset.” She looks out at the road in front of us. “I just want to sit here and wallow.”
“Here.” I pull one earbud out and hand it to her. “I have the perfect wallowing music.”
I scroll through my selection of songs on my phone until I find one that she might be able to connect with and click play.
We sit together, listening to “Here Without You” by 3 Doors Down, while Layla cries. I’m not sure what to do, so I do the only thing I can think of and put my arm around her, pulling her closer to me so I can try to comfort this sad girl who’s now my next-door neighbor. I’m shocked when she not only comes willingly but lays her head on my shoulder.
When the song ends, I find another one—“Home” by Machine Gun Kelly—and after that, in hope of lightening the mood, I click on “I Can See Clearly Now” by Johnny Nash. When the lyrics start, I feel Layla’s shoulders shake with laughter. She glances up at me and grants me a full ear-to-ear smile. And holy shit, she is pretty. She’s got two dimples, one on each cheek, and when she isn’t crying, her brown eyes brighten up to the color of caramel. Lyrics flood my head, and I have to shake them out to focus on what she’s saying.
“You have quite the playlist,” she points out, her smile remaining.
“I love music.” I shrug. “All of it.”
“Even country?”
“Country, pop, rap, rock… If the lyrics say something worth hearing, I’ll listen.”
“Camden,” a voice calls out. I look over and find my mom standing on the doorstep. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” I stand, and Layla joins me. When I look at her, my earlier suspicions are confirmed. I’m five-ten, and she only comes up to the top of my chest, putting her a good half a foot shorter than me. “This is Layla, our new neighbor.”
Mom meets us halfway. “Nice to meet you. I’m Sophia Blackwood.”