Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 90564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“We’re going over the female reproductive system. And I don’t wanna hear none of y’all giggling about vulvas and vaginas. Don’t be calling it va-jay-jays or a bajingo or a penis fly trap. Whatever slang words your dirty minds use these days. Keep them to yourself.”
Good for Smith. I was too high to screw with her today.
Halfway through class, she pointed her laser beam at a diagram of a vagina, circling the red dot over the clitoris. “You know what…” She moved to her desk, scribbled out a pass, then marched down the aisle and slapped it on my desk. “Mr. Hunt Number Two. Get your muscley behind on down to the nurse’s office.”
“What the hell did I do?”
“Nothing.” She dug a fist into her hip. “And that’s the problem. I’ve gone over testicles and vaginas, and you mean to tell me your dirty self hasn’t wanted to make one comment about cats or roosters? Nah-uh. Something’s wrong with you, Mr. Nasty, and I don’t want your cooties all up in my classroom.”
Swiping the pass to the nurse’s office, I pushed out of my seat and grabbed my books.
Something was wrong with me. And it came in the shape of a blonde, five-foot-two Medusa.
Chapter 25
LOLA
The red neon light of the liquor store reflected off the laminate of the crappy fake ID in my hand. I didn’t really have the money to waste on cheap booze, but I couldn’t handle another sleepless nightmare fest on Kyle’s couch. I was ready to spend the weekend knee-deep in vodka.
The word “whore” had played on a loop through my head last night, opening up a can of flesh-eating worms that preyed on every horrible memory I’d tried to bury.
Johan had called me a whore. My mom was a whore. Hendrix’s mom… He could have called me anything else, but he’d said that to hurt me as much as possible. The way I’d hurt him. So, I wasn’t surprised when he’d turned up to school this morning with a huge bruise on his face.
Hendrix didn’t get hit. Unless he wanted it. Like when his mom had died and he had wanted the physical pain to override the emotional.
I just wanted to stop thinking about it all, to feel nothing.
A tap sounded on the window of the pawn shop next door, catching my attention. The worker adjusted the acoustic guitar that had half fallen forward. I shifted away from the liquor store. Haphazard carvings covered the wooden body. I couldn’t see them clearly, but I didn’t need to. I knew the album names and artists, the song lyrics scratched into it because I’d watched Hendrix carve most of them. I guessed, at some point in the last two years, he’d had to pawn one of the few things he valued.
The hurt side of me said, good, and I started to walk off, but then the memories of him playing it surfaced. The way his eyes lit up when he showed it to me after he’d gotten it. How proud he was when he realized he could actually play it.
I took a few steps back, staring at “Lola Cola,” scratched into the wood between two hearts.
He had hurt me the other day. But God, if the situation were reversed, I’d hurt me, too. He didn’t know the truth. He couldn’t know the truth. Neither of us deserved the hurt we’d endured…
I glanced down at the twenty bucks clasped in my fist that I’d fully intended to spend on a bottle of vodka. It probably wouldn’t be enough, but I couldn’t walk away without at least trying. People in Dayton didn’t have much, but the things we did have, we treasured. And that guitar meant everything to Hendrix. It once had meant everything to me. I had to at least try…
My weekend drinking plans had gone to shit.
Chad had invited Kyle and me to the lake house today, and that was probably a good thing. I needed the distraction. Plus, I loved spending any time with Gracie.
The morning sun blinded me when Kyle pulled into Hendrix’s drive.
For a moment, I stared at the front of the house, steeling myself to actually go inside and grab some clothes. I’d come early because I didn’t want him to confront me again, and maybe that was selfish. As long as we didn’t speak about it, I could almost pretend the last two years had never happened. That Hendrix and I weren’t completely broken, that we could be friends, even if we could never again be more.
I glanced into the back seat at the beaten-up guitar. I’d gotten it because I couldn’t not. Me being there last night felt an awful lot like fate, and I hoped it would serve as a peace offering.
“Be right back, Kyle,” I said, leaning over and grabbing the instrument before I got out.