by Alex Light
Dedication
To my ten-year-old self,
whose dream was to publish a book.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Becca
Brett
Becca
Brett
Becca
Brett
Becca
Brett
Becca
Brett
Becca
Brett
Becca
Brett
Becca
Brett
Becca
Brett
Becca
Brett
Becca
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Alex Light
Back Ad
Copyright
About the Publisher
Becca
THERE WERE CERTAIN DAYS I could remember like they were yesterday. The summer morning when my mom finally learned how to bake, which, coincidentally, was also the day our apartment stopped smelling like a smokehouse. Or when I was ten and learned how to ride my bike without training wheels. But remembering wasn’t always a good thing. There were days I would give anything to forget. Like the day my dad left. Or the first time I flunked a math test.
Then there were the days that made up most of my life, the ones that were completely unnoteworthy, blending into one another. I had gotten into the habit of ending every day with the same question: Was it worth remembering or forgetting?
Today was on a one-way ticket to being forgotten. And first period hadn’t even begun yet.
I was sitting with my back against the last standing oak tree at Eastwood High, a book resting on my knees. It was my favorite reading spot on campus. Tucked away behind the football field, it was far enough away for privacy, but not totally isolated. I could still see morning practice and the members of the football team who were running around with their shirts off. That was enough to indicate that fall was nowhere to be found here in sunny Georgia. Although I’m certain they’d still be shirtless even if the weather dropped below zero. Apparently showing off one’s abs trumped potential frostbite.
Peering up from my book, I quickly snuck a glance at the team. It was nothing more than a little peek, but it was enough to notice the groups of students that were lined up on the sides of the field. They were mostly girls. I had to give it to them. Getting out of bed early just to watch football practice? It took dedication. Plus, it wasn’t any stranger than getting up early to read in peace.
I’d thought my love for romance novels would have died with my parents’ divorce. Instead, it made me crave them more. I was going through two books a week. I could not get enough. It was like, if love couldn’t exist in reality, at least it was alive in fiction. Between the pages it was safe. The heartbreak was contained. There was no aftermath, no shock waves. I mean, there’s a reason all books end right after the couple gets together. No one wants to keep reading long enough to see the happily ever after turn into an unhappily ever after. Right?
I jumped when the bell rang. The book fell off my leg and I picked it up quickly before the grass stained the pages green. I shoved my things into my school bag before trudging down the hill, across the field, and into the blue-lockered halls that were now alive with students rushing to make it to first period on time. It was kind of fun to watch. The freshmen ran like their lives literally depended on it. Meanwhile the seniors rested lazily against lockers, like the laws of time didn’t apply to them. I pushed past all of them, winding my way to English class. I didn’t like to be late. Not because I was a Goody Two-shoes or anything. I just despised the way people stared, like arriving after the bell rings makes it open season for dirty looks or something.
“Morning, Miss Copper,” I called when I got to class, throwing my teacher a friendly wave. She grunted, turning her eyes back to her computer screen. I smiled to myself. Some things never changed. I could always count on her early morning hostility.
When I was at my desk in the back row, I returned to my book. The characters were kissing now. Could love really make the world stop? Why did it make every female character feel alive? Wasn’t she alive before she met him? Or was she in some zombie-like, comatose state? How did love change that, and more importantly, why couldn’t I seem to get enough of this unrealistic crap?
My thoughts were interrupted when the two girls in front of me caught my attention. One was pointing to the door, the other was straightening the collar of her shirt while fluffing out her hair. That could only mean one thing . . .
Brett Wells walked into class the same way the sun pours in through a window, slow and captivating. Time seemed to stop as he smiled at the teacher and made his way to the desk in front of mine. I glanced at the clock to make sure it hadn’t. Just in case.
I had to give it to the guy. I think he may be the one person who could blur the lines between reality and fiction. With that head of hair that was a little more gold than brown, effortless smile, and altogether unwavering perfection, it was easy to lose yourself in his bright blue eyes. He could have walked out of the pages of a book and materialized in front of me. It was no wonder half the student body was in love with him. Even the teachers weren’t immune. I think Miss Copper was blushing. Yuck.
Adding to his mystique was the fact that his parents were considered some of the most generous in our entire school. Before junior year ended, rumors started circulating that his family was going to donate thousands of dollars to redo the football field. They were really well off. Why? I didn’t have a clue. But when the school term started a few weeks ago, the goalposts were sparkling, the paint on the field was still fresh, and the bleachers were no longer covered in rust and multicolored gum. The Wellses came through.
Now I was eyeing the navy-blue varsity jacket hanging off the back of his chair. It was like a flag, announcing who he was: Brett Wells, captain of the football team. Not that I knew anything about him other than the whispers I heard or the checks his parents liked to write. But part of me wondered if he was as nice as everyone said. Or if his relationship history really was nonexistent. I mean, with a face like that? Doubtful.
“Becca Hart?” Miss Copper asked, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Care to answer my question once you’re done with your daydream?”
I felt my neck warm first, then my cheeks. A second later it reached my toes. “What was the question?” I managed to choke out.
“I asked you to define the concept of star-crossed lovers.”
I flipped through the pages of my notebook to yesterday’s lesson. “Star-crossed lovers are two people whose love is doomed,” I read aloud. “There are so many forces working against them that not even the stars can keep them together.”
Satisfied, Miss Copper wrote my answer on the blackboard, the scratchy noise of chalk filling the silence that settled over the classroom. When she finally turned back around, my heart rate had returned to normal. Until she said, “And do you think it was worth it? For Romeo and Juliet to fight for each other knowing their love was doomed?”
I usually preferred not to speak out in class. But when the topic was about love in literature, I had a bad habit of going off on cynical mini rants.
I shook my head. “No, it wasn’t worth it. Falling in love destroyed both of their lives. What is the point of loving someone when you’re certain you can’t be together?” I tapped my pencil against my desk, ignoring the students who turned to stare at me. I knew the expressions on their faces all too well. I was used to it by now. They were the same raised eyebrows my mom and best friend gave me. Only I didn’t want their pity or reassurance because my mind was made up. No room for negotiation here! Love was dest
ructive, dangerous. It was safer on pages, and these books were enough of an experience for me. I mean, look at Romeo and Juliet. Was the play tragic? Sure. But did I have to worry about a century-long feud coming between me and the nonexistent man I loved? Definitely not.
When Brett turned to glance at me over his shoulder, those thick eyebrows drawn together, I looked down at my notebook. Numbers filled the back cover, scrawled down in yellow highlighter, blue pen, pencil—whatever I had on hand. It was a countdown until graduation, when I could leave this school and its thousands of unfamiliar faces behind.
One more year, I told myself as another hand shot into the air.
“I disagree with that,” Jenny McHenry said. The color of her cheerleading uniform matched Brett’s varsity jacket. “Love’s still worth the risk, even if it can lead to heartbreak.” Students were nodding. Miss Copper was too.
“It wasn’t just heartbreak,” I added. “Romeo and Juliet died.”
“They died for each other,” another student chimed in.
“And if they didn’t, the book still would have ended before showing them grow apart. Love is temporary. It’s not some magical cure. That’s what Shakespeare was trying to show. That’s why they died, because they were naïve enough to think their love could end a war.”
“It’s easy for you to say that,” Jenny said.
The class fell silent.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Love. It’s easy to ridicule it when you’ve never felt it.”
Her words kind of hit me like a punch to the throat. I knew she probably didn’t mean anything by them. But the thing was, Jenny and I used to be best friends back in freshman year, when we were both inexperienced fourteen-year-old girls going through the motions. Until summer flew by, sophomore year started, and Jenny got her braces off, grew a few inches (so did other parts of her body), and had no interest in being friends. All of a sudden she was popular. She joined the cheerleading squad and racked up a trail of heartbreaks.
After that she started acting all self-righteous, giving out love advice and acting completely condescending that I was single. Like we hadn’t been in the same boat a few months ago. Like having a boyfriend made her an expert in all things romance. Puh-lease.
It was bearable at first but now, two years later? It was annoying.
Beyond annoying.
Anyway, Jenny didn’t know the details of my parents’ divorce. She knew my dad wasn’t around—that much was easy to figure out after spending time at my house. But I never talked to her about it. And she never asked. So her words weren’t some well-planned insult that knew exactly how low to strike. They were a coincidence. A coincidence that still hurt.
I raised my hand again. “You don’t have to be in love to understand it.”
“I think you do.” Jenny glanced over her shoulder, pointing at the book on my desk. “Books are one thing. But real feelings are different. It’s not the same.”
I covered the book quickly with my notepad.
Miss Copper cleared her throat, said, “That’s enough, Jennifer,” and passed around a handout, announcing that the rest of the period would be for silent work. She shot me a look when she said “silent” that had me sinking down in my chair.
For the rest of the class, I scribbled down halfhearted answers, all the while replaying what Jenny said in my mind. She was wrong. I knew a lot about love. I knew there were two kinds: 1) real love and 2) fictional love. The real kind was what I thought my parents had, pre-divorce. The fictional kind was what I’d preferred since.
I shook my head, imagining the negative thoughts tumbling out of my ears, and focused on the worksheet. I glanced up once before the period ended and found Brett looking at me. He had this look on his face like he could read my mind. Or worse, my heart. There was something about it that had me breathing a sigh of relief when the bell rang.
Like I said, this day was heading down a one-way street to being forgotten . . .
Until it wasn’t.
It happened when I was standing at my locker, grabbing my biology textbook. That was when a shadow loomed over me.
“Two years later and you’re still obsessed with these books.” Jenny grabbed If I’m Yours from my arms. She looked at the cover and snorted. “Why is he shirtless? And why are her boobs bigger than her head?”
I grabbed the book and tucked it back under my arm protectively.
“Don’t you find these romance books unrealistic?” she continued.
I pretended to be looking for something in my locker. “It’s part of what makes them enjoyable.”
“No wonder you were being so pessimistic back in class. If this is what you read, you’re setting yourself up for disappointment.”
A few boyfriends later and she thought she was a love guru, bestowing her knowledge on inexperienced mortals such as me. How gracious.
I wondered if she’d still be saying this if she knew about the divorce. If she knew I had a reason for being a pessimistic downer. If she knew what it felt like to love someone and have them walk out on you.
“I have to get to class, Jen. Can you save the unwanted therapy session for tomorrow?”
Jenny, not listening, tucked her curls behind her ears and said, “Don’t your parents ever ask you about it?”
I froze. It was that word. Parents. The plural. The assumption that there were two of them.
“Ask me about what?”
“Relationships. I remember your mom used to always talk to us about love back in freshman year. Remember? She always had hearts in her eyes, waiting for one of us to have a crush or something. I wish she could see me now. Huh?”
And, oh my gosh, it was just so annoying. Like what was wrong with being single? What was wrong with not having someone’s hand to hold and whatever else couples do? Why couldn’t a seventeen-year-old just be on her own and everyone be okay with that? Without expecting her to fall in love at any given moment?
I don’t know what had these next words spilling from my lips so effortlessly. Maybe it was the hurt I still felt over Jenny choosing popularity over me. Maybe it was the years of her snarky comments relating to my lack of relationships. Or maybe it was to protect these books I clung to like a lifeline, the only reminder that some sort of love could exist.
Whichever it was, I found myself saying, “My mom doesn’t have to pester me about being in a relationship because I’m in one.”
I waited for the ground to begin to shake. For the walls to cave and the ceiling to follow until we were standing in a pile of rubble and LIAR was burned into my forehead. I waited for my former best friend to point out that I was lying. Instead her mouth fell open a little, and I realized how different she looked from the fifteen-year-old girl I used to know.
“Who is it?” she asked, seeming genuinely interested.
My brain scrambled for something to say. A name. A person. Anything. My palms were sweating and every fictional character I’d read about seemed to vanish from my thoughts.
Right when I was about to give up, I felt an arm wrap around my waist. Felt fingers loop through mine.
I looked up to find Brett’s eyes. He was smiling.
“Hey, you,” he said, staring right at me.
I felt like I had just woken up from a nap and missed the past few minutes of my life.
“Hi,” I said slowly, staring at his hand in mine. How did that get there?
Brett was giving me this look, like c’mon, Becca, get with it.
Jenny was glancing between the two of us, looking as confused as I felt. Her eyes zeroed in on Brett’s arm on my waist and she said, “You guys are dating?”
Right when I was about to say no, we were not, because that would be completely ridiculous, Brett said, and quite effortlessly, may I add, “Just for a few months now. Since summer break. Right?” He looked down at me, waiting.
At this point I was yelling at my brain to send those signals to my mouth that made me, you know, speak.
I managed a weak nod.
“We wanted to keep it private,” Brett continued, smiling like he was auditioning for a role in a Hollywood film.
Jenny stared. My hands shook. And Brett just stood there, looking as calm as water while my insides were a complete tsunami.
“There’s no way you two are dating.”
The way she said it was so confident, so cruel. And that hurt the most. Because why was that unbelievable? Then all I could remember was how it felt the first day of sophomore year when I saw Jenny in the halls. When I walked to her locker, excited to tell her about summer break, and she looked at me and laughed. “Do I know you?” she had said before turning back to her new friends. Was that what it was? The difference in social groups? Brett couldn’t be interested in a girl who sits against trees and reads. No. He had to date someone of equal social status. Right? Someone popular. Someone like Jenny.
Brett shrugged, seeming unfazed by the entire situation, as if this was a part of his regular daily routine. Like if you snuck a glance at his agenda it’d say “pretend to date Becca Hart at ten before heading over to second period.” Easy-peasy.
“Is this, like, some act for drama class?” Jenny continued.
“It’s not an act,” I said, holding his hand tighter because, why not? Which may have backfired a little because Jenny said, “Prove it.”
Then Brett stepped in front of me. His back was to Jenny and his hands were on my cheeks. “Kiss me back,” he whispered when his face was an inch from mine.
And then it felt like my heart was tumbling down, down, down. All the way until it hit the center of the earth. And, wow, maybe those books were kind of onto something about this whole kissing-making-time-stop thing because with Brett’s lips on mine, it kind of felt that way.
Brett
MY FIRST THOUGHT WAS THAT I probably shouldn’t have done that.
Becca’s arms were still around my neck, and she was staring up at me with these wide, alert eyes. From this close, I could see the freckles on her nose, and her hair looked like a massive blur, pushed behind her ears like tangles of sunshine.