Total pages in book: 148
Estimated words: 137572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 688(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 459(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 688(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 459(@300wpm)
“That I see Toby too much?” I huff at that. “He’s my boyfriend. Of course I see him a lot.”
“And I’m not opposed to you seeing him. At all. I like this …” Her spoon scrapes the inside of her mug over and over with every stir as she considers her words. “… this new energy in you. You are happy, and I know that. But Toby’s got a job. He works. And what do you do?” She keeps stirring, stirring, stirring. “You doodle.”
It’s a hot-button word. She knows what it does to me when all of my sketches, illustrations, and artwork are reduced to such a condescending word as a “doodle”.
“My point,” she goes on, coming around the kitchen counter to return to the breakfast table where her laptop sits, “is that your play is over with. You didn’t audition for the winter play. You’re not involved in a sport. What’s taking up your time? What positive and productive project have you committed yourself to? You have time now to devote to something meaningful.” She gestures at me. “And I’m offering it to you.”
“I’m not helping you with that campaign.”
“It doesn’t have to be the campaign. You can get a job.”
“No one’s hiring,” I throw right back. “It isn’t the summer.”
“So what’s your answer then? Continue waiting around every weekend for your boyfriend to finish at work so you two can …?” She sighs, pinches her forehead, then sits at the table. “I can’t. I’ve said it a hundred different ways. Too much freedom and you’re just going to descend right back into your old ways.”
I ignore that last part and head for the stairs. My mom says something else at my back about wanting an answer soon, but I ignore that too as I make it to my room, sit at my desk, and stare at the next blank sheet in my sketchpad. No inspiration comes. Toby is working a long Saturday afternoon shift today and won’t be off until eight or nine, after which we might hit up the arcade before heading back here. But until then … nothing.
I stare at the blank page, bored. Maybe my mom is right.
I’m still dwelling on it the next week at school. As I sit next to Toby in third period chemistry, trying and failing to pay attention to Mr. Schubert’s lecture, I can’t stop wondering why the idea of having a job out here in this town is so objectionable. Does a part of me subconsciously believe that we’re just biding our time until my dad has some new business venture that will relocate us all yet again? Am I afraid to get too attached to Toby or this place?
Is there something wrong with me I can’t even admit to myself …?
“Do we have any plans for Halloween?” asks Toby as we meet by my bike at the end of another school day, ready to head off.
I shrug. “Buy a ton of candy, then eat it all instead of handing it out to the kids? What do you do out here for Halloween?”
“Oh. Pretty much that.” He chuckles. “And I know it’s not for a little while, but I heard that the Strongs are hosting a crazy-big Halloween bash at their ranch, and there’s not any other cool stuff happening in town, except for some lame haunted house thing, and a horror flick special at the movies. But the films they plan to play are kind of old, and …” He stops fastening his helmet on and gives me a look. “Are you okay?”
I turn to him, distracted. “Yeah. Why?”
“You seem checked out. Is something on your mind?”
“Nah. Not at all.” I mount my bike, then nod at him. “So … you getting on or what?”
Toby bites his lip in thought. Suddenly, he takes off his helmet and tucks it under an arm. “Is this about Hoyt?”
Just the dude’s name makes my teeth gnash together. “Huh?”
“Your weirdness lately? Are you mad at me because I told you not to confront him anymore? Or because of … that weird thing that happened in the restroom …?” he asks, lowering his voice, and very deliberately not mentioning the act by name.
And it wouldn’t matter if he did. It wasn’t a real kiss. I know Hoyt did that to Toby just to play games with his head. That’s all that jock has been doing since I stepped foot in this town: playing games, strutting around, and doing whatever he wants. No one has ever held that guy accountable for anything—until me.
“This has nothing to do with … him,” I nearly growl. “It’s a lot of things. Stuff on my mind. My mom’s nagging me, but she might have a point. She wants me to get a job, but—”
“Oh, I can put in a word for you at Biggies,” Toby says at once. “I mean, you kinda already proved your worth Homecoming night. I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Tucker would be happy to—”