Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
It’s not like I’m going to hide in the bushes and crouch under the window while I spy using my binoculars. I don’t even have binoculars. And there’s no crouching and spying involved. There may be some hiding involved though, I can’t be sure.
“Echo?”
My frantic thoughts break when I hear my name.
For a second, I can’t quite figure out where the voice is coming from.
Because there’s no one here.
I’m alone. And I’m sitting. On something.
Blinking, I look around, trying to gauge where exactly I am; how did I get here and all that.
“Echo,” the voice says again, this time accompanied by a couple of loud, banging sounds. “Open the door.”
The door.
Right.
The voice is coming through the door.
Of the bathroom where I’m currently sitting on a closed toilet seat, my hands fisted in my lap and my eyes pinned to the tiled floor. And that voice belongs to my friend, Jupiter.
Straightening up, I take a deep breath and reply, “I’m busy.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“What?”
“Fine. Busy with what exactly?”
Honestly, I should’ve known.
It’s Jupiter.
She’s feisty and fiery and a little too nosy.
All qualities I usually appreciate.
Because if it wasn’t for her, we never would’ve been friends in the first place. We never would’ve gotten to know each other and discover that we’re not just friends but the best of friends.
Not because I have bad social skills. I actually have very good social skills and I have always been able to make friends easily. But as it turns out, St. Mary’s School for Troubled Teenagers has a way of squelching the best in you. My friend on the other side of the door though, was granted this one good quality. The ability to break down barriers.
And so here we are.
Best of friends ever since we both arrived at St. Mary’s two years ago.
“It’s a bathroom, Jupiter,” I tell her, eyeing the white door. “What do you think people are busy with? In a bathroom.”
I can see Jupiter roll her eyes at my reply. “As if you’re using the bathroom for any of its intended purposes.”
I draw back and repeat, “What?”
“I can always tell when the bathroom is not being used for its intended purposes.”
“That’s...” I shake my head. “The most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Or,” she goes, “is it the most awesome thing you’ve ever heard? That I’m so in tune with human emotion that I can sense someone’s distress from a mile away.”
“No,” I say, decidedly. “It’s definitely the most ridiculous thing. And I’m not in distress. All I need is a little privacy, thank you.”
“Right,” she scoffs, “to do what, overthink?”
“I’m —”
“Because I know that’s exactly what you’re doing in there. And I have two very good reasons to believe that.” Then, “No, wait. Three. Three very good reasons to believe that.” Before I can say anything, she begins listing them, “A: You’ve been in there for like, thirty minutes even though you know that we need to get going soon and you hate being late to anything because you’re such a good girl. Annoyingly good. B: You left in the middle of a conversation when we both know that you’re too polite to ever do that. Like, you’d stand there with your ears bleeding if you had to but you won’t leave. Again because you’re so annoyingly good. And the third reason why I think you’re overthinking is because that’s exactly what you’ve been doing for the past two weeks. Ever since you came up with the plan.”
I have to admit — as much as it pains me — that she’s right. On all three points.
I hate being late to places, and from the looks of it we’re going to be at least fifteen minutes late to our destination. I hate interrupting someone or cutting someone short when they’re talking. And that’s exactly what I did before I fled to the bathroom.
To be alone. To, yes, overthink.
Because of the plan.
The stupid stupid plan.
That I came up with, by the way.
All alone. Single-handedly.
“It’s wrong,” I say after several seconds of silence. “What I’m about to do.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It’s stalking, Jupiter.”
“It’s almost stalking.”
I narrow my eyes at the door. “I don’t think that that’s going to matter. That it’s almost stalking.”
“To whom exactly?”
“To the cops, for one.”
I hear a long sigh. “No one’s going to call the cops on you.”
“Oh, they’re not?”
“Well,” she admits. “Not again.”
Yeah, not again.
Because they have before, haven’t they?
Yes, I’m one of the many, many unlucky people who have had the misfortune of cops being called on them. In fact that’s the very reason I’m at a reform school.
Because two years ago, I did something stupid and illegal.
Which means cops had to get involved.
Look, I’m not saying that I didn’t deserve it.
I absolutely deserved it.
I absolutely deserved being arrested and interrogated. In fact, I think I got off easy. I could’ve spent months in a juvenile detention center for the horrible thing that I did. Instead, I was let out free. On the condition that I attend a reform school.