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)
And then there’s Spruce High.
That monster of a construct is the most spread-out school I have ever seen. I guess out here in the countryside, everything has room to stretch its legs, because that place is massive considering the population of this remote place. It took me damned near twelve minutes to get from one end of the building to the other on my first day. How the hell is anyone expected to manage that?
And that’s not even mentioning the students occupying its lengthy, wormy halls. So many of them love to talk. And stare. And ogle. There is so much suspicion in their eyes, like they’re always digging for the next big story to pull them out of their boredom. What else do you do out here in the country except talk about everyone else who’s stuck out here in the country?
Then my thoughts are back on Toby.
I shouldn’t have stuck up for him. Sure, he’s cute. Sure, he had my attention locked since that first moment I saw him in the back of my chemistry class in his Tetris shirt. But he’s already gone and ruined my plan of laying low here. Now everyone knows me. Now I’ve got a spotlight and about ten targets on my leather-clad back. Am I just doomed to raise hell everywhere I go, or can I finally find a place to call my own where I can just fade away and be happy?
Thanks a lot, Toby.
My house is tucked away behind an overgrowth of trees at the end of a paved road. A spread of grass and a long walkway keeps its two stories and brick front some distance away from the street, making it look as reserved and cautious as its owners. We only seem to have one nearby neighbor on this street a little bit down in a similar two-story house, past which only farmlands and a lot of nothing seems to stretch on forever. Seems appropriate; my parents were never fond of playing friendly with neighbors.
When I pull my bike into the garage and let the garage door drop at my back, I breathe a sigh of relief as I escape the heat of the day, pushing my way into the house. The air inside is as cold as the stark white walls of the kitchen, its marble counters blinding from the sunlight. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this house and its open floor plan, which is a totally weird vibe compared to our skinny townhome in New York. It feels like I’m staying at someone else’s house here. There’s too much space. Everything is colorless. Even my bedroom feels loaned somehow.
Halfway to the stairs, prepared to disappear to said bedroom for the rest of the evening, I hear my mother call out for me at the breakfast table, nested in a bay window off the kitchen. I barely noticed her, covered in sunlight at that tiny table, her blonde hair, cream-colored blouse and pants, and peachy complexion fading into the brightness like a ghost.
I already know volumes from the sweet-yet-clipped tone of her voice. I stop at the foot of the stairs, stiffening up. “Yeah?”
“Please don’t ‘yeah’ me.” Her voice is soft and airy, despite the hint of disapproval in it. “Come here, please.”
The closer I come to the bay window table, the more I have to squint against the piercing sunlight. It’s blinding. I stop in front of her. “Mom,” I say for an acknowledgement.
She takes off her glasses, lightly setting them on the table next to her crisp white laptop, which sits opened before her with whatever she was working on. “I have given this a lot of thought today,” she starts, still speaking calm and quiet, cool as an icicle. “After our discussion with Jack, your principal, your father and I realized we need to make some changes around here.”
“Changes?”
“Please sit down.”
After a brief moment of biting my tongue, I pull out the chair across from her and sit down, still squinting against the sunlight. I can barely see her.
“Changes,” she confirms. My mom’s cool, clipped voice is soft, yet fills the whole kitchen with its assumed authority, echoing off the bare walls we still haven’t hung pictures or paintings on. “It was a much smaller town when I grew up here, but the feel is just the same. Small-town manners. Respect. After my mother passed and left us this house, I was certain it was a sign. Your father, he travels so much, and I have longed to return to my roots for years. This place instilled in me the solid foundation I’ve needed to lead a successful life. Perhaps that’s what you’ve lacked, Donovan.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen the foundations here,” I mumble. “They’re all old and crumbling.”
“When I took off to California after graduating and met your father,” she goes on, ignoring my remark, “I had in me a sense of worth, a sense of home, and a sense of adventure. Thanks to this lovely little town. And then you came into this world, and I knew I had done something right. When I looked on your precious face in that hospital …” I sigh. Is she really going to go through the whole story? “But our adventure has changed directions. And I can see now, clearer than ever, that I wasn’t … bequeathing you the gifts I had been given as a child.”