Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 131789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
“You’ll do,” I announce.
Eliza tips her head to look at me, amused. “I’ll do how?”
“As a friend. We’re going to be friends.”
That gets me a wave of laughter. Shutting the door behind us, she leads me away from the old chapel, still giggling to herself.
“I’m honored,” she says, but I think it’s only half sarcasm. “Although I should warn you—I’m a very bad influence.”
“Bring it, you bad bitch.”
We start giggling again, and I realize I’m actually in a good mood. At school. At Catholic school. And just as the thought surfaces, I get a text from a number I don’t recognize.
UNKNOWN: Got your name. And your number. Fenn says hi. –RJ
I don’t know whether to laugh or curse. So I do both.
Eliza looks over curiously. “Boyfriend?” she asks.
“Cute stalker.”
“Yeah?” She glances at my screen. “How cute?”
“A lot more than he has any right being,” I grumble.
And his persistence makes him even more attractive. He definitely gets points for the effort to track me down, even if it’s slightly creepy. I need to have a talk with Fenn about handing my number out to random strangers.
ME: Tell Fenn to sleep with one eye open.
RJ: I tricked him out of it. His only sin is being simple.
ME: And yours is being a walking red flag.
“Is this a thing or…?” Eliza asks, reading over my shoulder.
“Haven’t decided yet.” I mean, I have. Of course I have. I already decided I’m not getting wrapped up in more bullshit boy drama this year.
But texting isn’t dating.
RJ: You could tell me to lose your number.
ME: You could prove your devotion and hold your breath till I call.
RJ: Our spot, tonight after dinner? I’ll bring dessert.
ME: You mean my spot.
RJ: I’ll hit any spot you like.
Eliza snorts. “He’s trying so hard. But I bet he does oral.”
“Yep, okay. We don’t even know the guy. Let’s pump those brakes.”
ME: Stay off my trail.
This guy thinks he’s clever. That he’ll wear me down with enough charm and flirting until I can’t remember why I left him holding his joint in the woods. And maybe the old me would’ve fallen for it.
But the new me refuses to fall for flirty banter and a pretty face.
Chapter 11
RJ
Tuesdays we engage in tedious physical activity. Today the PE teacher has us at the indoor pool doing laps. If it’s between an hour here versus two miles dripping sweat on the track outside like my skin’s going to melt off, I don’t mind it so much.
“Any of you not know how to swim?” the teacher asks, biting his whistle with the side of his mouth as we all stand in our shorts at the edge of the pool.
One pasty, freckled kid raises his hand. The teacher grabs a bulky neoprene vest off a shelf on the wall and tosses it at him.
“There. You can doggy paddle on the side.”
He tells us to call him Brek. I don’t know if that’s a first name, last, or more a state of mind. But he manages to look less interested in being here than the rest of us. I take a guess he’s a forty-something former Olympic whatever, who, after he washed out of a division one school and did a stint in rehab, called in a favor to get this job and now regrets whatever vices brought him here to babysit a bunch of rich malcontents.
“The rest of you’ll be doing a 200-meter freestyle relay followed by a fifty-meter sprint. Four to a lane. Line up.” His whistle screams in the hollow, cavernous building.
I have no concept of how far that is until the first swimmers are in the water, going back and forth. Four laps each. I get a little winded watching them and decide to put myself in the anchor position for my lane. I need to psyche myself up for this a little. Not like I don’t exercise—I run, lift weights—but swimming is a whole different thing when you have to time your breaths and propel your whole body through the water.
Brek blows his whistle to tell us to get up on the platforms. Then without really thinking about it I dive in the water once the guy before me touches the wall. My mind blanks and I go on instinct. I haven’t even been in the water in probably a year, but it comes back to me. I find my stroke and set my pace. The first turn is tricky because I only mimic what I’ve seen on TV of real swimmers. I botch it a little then figure it out on the next one. After the third turn I’m waiting to feel the pain in my muscles or the burn in my lungs. Before it comes, I drive my fingertips into the wall and realize it’s over.
Four laps done. Too easy.
After the relay and we’ve had a minute to catch our breath, we all line up for the sprint. Brek pulls out his little stopwatch then blows his whistle. I’m in the third heat, and something strange happens when I’m standing at the edge. My hands go a little numb. My pulse picks up. I find myself rocking back and forth. I realize when I explode off the platform that I want to kill this swim. There’s no prize or bonus points for coming in first, but for some reason I really give a shit about getting to the other end of this pool as fast as I can. I kick like hell. Feel the strain in my wrists from pushing the water behind me.