Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 164459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 822(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 548(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 822(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 548(@300wpm)
I glared at Mom as she stood behind him with a smirk on full display, her arms folded tightly across her chest.
I hated her. I really did.
I stormed out of the kitchen, rushing up the stairs and into my bedroom. I heard them start up an argument before I could even slam my door. Mom’s voice was loud, but Dad’s was louder.
“I don’t care if he is Hitler’s son, Wanda! No one needs to know that boy was in my house and with our daughter. Do you know how much that will ruin the company’s reputation in Fox River? Everything will go downhill if they think we are connected to what that boy’s father does in the slightest. Listen, we will talk to her in the morning when everything has cooled down. We’ll tell her she shouldn’t see him anymore. She’ll understand. We just have to talk to her like an adult.”
Mom mumbled something, but I didn’t care to listen to what she had to say. My door was already slammed, my face buried into my pillow as soon as I launched myself on top of the mattress.
I screamed to the top of my lungs, but I’m sure it couldn’t have been heard by anyone but myself.
I hated it there.
What kind of family was this? I knew I would get in trouble if I got caught sneaking a boy in my room—that was normal—but wanting to call the police, to get Drake in trouble, and spread it all over town? What kind of a Mom does that? All Dad really cared about was Roscoe Waffle’s reputation.
Picking up my head, I reached for my cellphone on the nightstand and called Drake. He didn’t answer.
I tried again.
Nothing.
I growled as I tossed my phone towards the bottom of the bed, roughly raking my fingers through my hair as I paced my bedroom. I heard my parents walk past my door and enter their bedroom moments later.
They were still bickering about me.
It was the perfect opportunity to get out of the house. They were going to be too disappointed in me to even come to my room. I wasn’t going to hear from them again until the morning.
Grabbing a light jacket, pulling on a pair of sweatpants, and then sliding into my tennis shoes, I opened my window carefully, peering over the balcony railing. It was a high jump.
I couldn’t make it, especially with the rose bushes down there.
I glanced back, hesitant. The only room that had an easy way out was Mitchell’s. There was a trellis wall beside his window, attached to the house, covered in thick, luscious vines. He used to sneak out a lot, back when he was around.
Dad would be worried sick about him, and Mom would never do anything about it. It’s like she knew he’d always come back…until he didn’t.
I opened my door as quietly as possible and tiptoed down the hallway. When I reached his room, I walked in. The door creaked a bit, but I don’t think they could hear it.
They were too busy arguing.
I shut Mitchell’s door quietly and then hurried for his window. After unlocking it, I stepped out, and closed it behind me. The trellis was easy to reach.
Swinging a leg over the thick rail, I balanced my foot on one of the steps and then scurried down.
I didn’t have my car keys. I usually left them in the kitchen on the key holder and I was sure Dad had them in his clutches by now, so I ran away from the house.
I ran through the back gates and then I kept going until my lungs felt like they were about to burst.
I knew where Drake lived, so I jogged a little more until I met at a bus stop. The ride was quick, but I was way too antsy.
I finally came upon the dark neighborhood on the outskirts of town.
This was it.
Drake didn’t like bringing me here because he always said his neighborhood was full of bad people and stray dogs. He only brought me by three times, when he forgot something.
Whenever we happened to stop by, his Grandma would be gone or sleeping, so I could never meet her when the time seemed right.
It was different being in this neighborhood without him, I can admit that.
Things moved in all the dark places, tins banged, and drunken men cackled and roared. I gripped the collar of my jacket, rushing down the street, swallowing air as I got closer and closer to his house.
I knocked heavily, waiting for a response.
There was no answer, so I knocked again.
And again.
His truck was parked in the yard, but the house was vacant. I hopped off the stoop, checking inside of the truck. He wasn’t there.
I sighed walking back to the stoop and sitting on the step, looking around the dark, cluttered street. It was littered with old cars, cigarette butts, empty beer bottles, and cigarillo wrappers.