Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 180510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 903(@200wpm)___ 722(@250wpm)___ 602(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 180510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 903(@200wpm)___ 722(@250wpm)___ 602(@300wpm)
“Don’t talk about it with Colten either. Okay?” Mom stressed.
I nodded, giving her a stiff smile before shoving my feet into my sneakers, pulling on a hoodie, and running across the street.
“Hey, Josie.” Becca smiled, opening the front door. “Colten’s upstairs, practicing piano.”
I stepped inside, toeing off my shoes.
“How are you doing, hon?” she asked with an ugly, concerned look on her face.
“Fine. Why?”
“Have your parents talked with you about Columbine?”
“Uh-huh. They said not to discuss it with anyone … and I mean anyone.”
Her pink lips parted, and she gave me a single slow nod. “Of course.”
“I’m going to see if Colten’s about done.”
“O-okay.” She seemed a little off as I zipped past her, straight up the stairs.
My momentum came to a screeching halt when I reached Colten’s bedroom door. His fingers played the saddest song I had ever heard. I tiptoed a little closer. His body moved with the music like the metronome on Vera’s piano.
Colten was only one of three boys who I knew that played the piano. He was also the best. I wasn’t the best at anything. I wasn’t liked by everyone like Colten. My “uniqueness” never felt special, just different. Not Colten. He was special. He could do everything. And most days I felt certain the only reason he was my friend was because my dad was police chief. Sure, I was smart. Who really cared about that yet? No twelve-year-olds talked about honor roll or scholarships. They couldn’t pronounce valedictorian let alone care about it.
“Josie, you’re such a creeper,” Colten mumbled without stopping his fingers.
I sighed and sat next to him on the piano bench, facing away from the keys. “Why are you playing such a sad song?”
“Why is it sad?”
“Because it’s slow. It’s funeral music.”
“Have you been to a funeral?” He stopped playing and angled his body toward mine.
“No.” I frowned. “Not yet anyway. Nobody I know will die.”
His head jutted backward. “That’s mean. You sound like you want someone to die so you can go to their funeral.”
“I’m curious. That’s all. I don’t want someone to die. Not like those boys in Colorado, who killed the kids at their school.”
Oops … I may have broken my promise to my parents.
“My mom said they were sick. Not like a cold. Like something was wrong with their brains,” Colten said.
“Psychopaths. I stopped by the library and looked it up. Don’t worry. You’re not a psychopath.”
“I know I’m not. But … how would you know?”
“Because you say sorry a lot, and you mean it. I say sorry too, but I don’t always mean it. But if you died, I would be sad. So I know I’m not a psychopath either. But I’ve been thinking a lot about it. Do you think Richie Gregg is one? He’s mean to everyone. When he gets in trouble, he doesn’t care. And his dad smokes in the car when he picks Richie up from school. My dad said parents who smoke in the car with their kids don’t care about their health. So if Richie’s dad doesn’t care about his son, he probably doesn’t care about other people either, which means Richie might be like his dad.”
And just like that … I equated smoking to being a psychopath. Sure, some days I was too smart for my own good, but at twelve, I think I was, more times than not, too dumb for my own good.
“My grandpa smokes around Chad and me, but he’s never killed anyone,” Colten said.
“Not all psychopaths are killers. But my dad said secondhand smoke can kill you, so it’s possible your grandpa could kill you by accident. I don’t think they’d arrest him. My dad said a woman accidentally backed over her daughter while pulling out of the garage. The girl died, but the mom didn’t get arrested because it was an accident.”
“Did you finish your homework?”
I frown. “I don’t have homework.”
“What about your report on an American president?”
“I did it yesterday after school.”
“You finished it in one day?”
I nodded. “Are you done?”
“No. I have to finish it tonight.”
“I thought we’d go to the park.”
“Can’t. I have to finish my paper.”
“I’ll finish it. Who’s it on?”
Colten’s face soured. “You can’t write my paper for me.”
“Why not?”
“Because we could get in trouble.”
“Who’s going to know?”
Colten’s lips twisted. “It’s Taft.”
“Taft? Why did you choose Taft? Because he was the only president to serve both as President and as Chief Justice?”
Colten blinked several times. “No. Because I like his mustache.”
I snorted. “Are you serious?”
He shrugged.
“Fine. Show me your three sources. I’ll write it, and then we can go to the park.”
“I think this is wrong.”
“Wrong is what those boys in Colorado did. This is no big deal.”
“Why do you keep talking about those boys?” He opened his backpack and pulled out a black three-ring binder.
“Because it’s interesting.”
“It’s awful.”