by Sophia Duane
Contents Title Page
Copyright
About the Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
First published by The Writer’s Coffee Shop, 2012
Copyright © Sophia Duane, 2012
The right of Sophia Duane to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Writer’s Coffee Shop
(Australia) PO Box 2013 Hornsby Westfield NSW 1635
(USA) PO Box 2116 Waxahachie TX 75168
Paperback ISBN- 978-1-61213-095-8
E-book ISBN- 978-1-61213-096-5
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the US Congress Library.
Cover image by: © Bolotov
Cover design by: Jennifer McGuire
www.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/sduane
Sophia Duane is a thirty-something writer from the heartland of America. She grew up tel ing stories and creating characters to pass the time. She enjoys books, movies, music, and yoga. An avid lover of history, art, and people-watching, she is interested in the study of what makes people tick.
I cringed at the sound my locker made. I hadn’t meant to shut it that hard. About half the kids in the hal were looking at me now—the exact thing I didn’t want. The time I spent putting my books away in my locker was the most vulnerable time for guys like me. Usual y I was with my friends, so any attention directed my way would be spread out over three or more people.
Geeks tended to travel in packs since there was safety in numbers—just like gazel es. We were always the prey, and the predators were the cool kids. Not al of them, but most of them. Usual y, it wasn’t physical threats. Our school system had grown too hip to al ow hazing or outright bul ying, so it was mainly harsh words and cruel names.
Luckier than my friends, I had a brother who was popular. He was friends with just about everyone on the planet, so I slipped under the radar quite a bit. I stil had my share of run-ins with the cool kids who didn’t like, or were jealous of, my brother, Aaron.
My friend, Casey, made his way over to me and I instantly breathed a sigh of relief. Never liking to navigate the hal ways alone, I was thankful for the company.
“Oh my God, Adam, have you seen Hannah today? She’s wearing that purple shirt thing. I just . . .” Casey kept going, but I stopped listening.
He’s been in love with Hannah Newsome for five years.
The “purple shirt thing” he was talking about was this little wrap-around fabric that tied at the neck and lower back. I didn’t know how she got away with wearing it since it was total y outside of dress code for showing al of her back. When she wore it, there was no way of ignoring the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra.
I agreed with Casey—the girl was hot, but there was no reason to keep obsessing over every little thing she wore. Besides, Aaron had gone out with her last year. It wasn’t like we were tight or anything, but I’d spent enough time with her to know she was pretty vapid. Even my brother couldn’t stand talking to her much and he could usual y withstand an extreme amount of useless chatter when it came to girls.
“Are you even listening?” Casey asked.
Drawing my attention back to my friend, whose shaggy black hair covered half of one eye, I cocked my head to the side and asked, “Are you saying anything new or are you continuing the same verbal vomit over Hannah you normal y spew?” He sighed, narrowed his dark eyes at me and drew his already thin lips into an even thinner line. “Probably the normal spewage.”
“Then no, I’m not listening.”
“But—”
“Find a girl you could actual y get, and I’l listen to you wax poetic about the curve of her shoulders, but you have no chance with Hannah. It’s painful to listen to you talk about her.”
Casey rol ed his eyes then ran a hand through his hair, final y it away from his face. “You’re an ass.”
“No,” I countered. “I’m a realist.” I checked my watch. We only had a minute to get to our favorite class of the day—Physical Education. Actual y, it was my least-favorite class, but sarcasm helped me survive the hour.
Casey and I went to the locker room but it wasn’t until we’d changed into our black and gold gym clothes. “I hope Coach Martinez has us on the same field with the girls. Hannah always rol s her shorts down and knots her shirt in the back. You get to see her ab—” I placed my hand on his cheek and shoved him gently. It was just a little push to tel him I didn’t want to hear it. He laughed, and I shook my head. I bet when we leave for col ege he’l stil be talking about Hannah Newsome.
Dinner at home was the usual. My dad, John James, always tried so hard to make us good, nutritious food. His cooking skil s had developed over the years and I suspected he received the help of Rachael Ray on a daily basis. My dad worked nights now that Aaron and I were old enough. He left for work every night at eleven and got home in time to see us off to school. I didn’t know what he did during the day beyond sleep, but I was pretty sure it involved cleaning and various cooking shows.
I didn’t think he was a domestic by nature, he just had no choice.
Dad was very athletic—not only in his youth, but now as wel . He was on his factory’s softbal team, and he was always tossing some kind of bal around with Aaron. He went to every single one of Aaron’s games, even if he had to work that night. He knew everyone in town because his high school popularity had fol owed him into adulthood.
Basical y, my dad was an older version of my brother. Sometimes it was awkward for me to interact with him. I thought my dad tried hard enough, but somewhere in our relationship things just didn’t connect for us like they did with him and Aaron.
I wished things were different, but it was something I got used to. To his credit, my dad never stopped trying to understand and be interested in my activities.
“So, Adam, tel me about your classes.”
I looked up at my dad from my plate of meatloaf. He’d just been engaged in a conversation about footbal practice with my brother. I hadn’t been listening, so the switch in conversation took me by surprise. I nodded in response, even though he wasn’t asking me a yes or no question. “They’re okay.”
“ ‘Okay?’ You’ve been excited about the Advanced Placement classes since freshman year, and now you’re tel ing me that they’re just ‘okay?’” It was only the first week of school, so it was hard to tel which classes I’d real y like, but it was obvious my dad wanted more detail, so I shrugged and said, “I real y like history. We’re not studying events chronological y.”
“But, it’s history,” Aaron said. “Isn’t the point to look at it chronological y?”
“Not in this class. We’re looking at it in terms of significance to the modern world. Right now, because of the war and stuff, we’re studying U.S.
military history.”
“Yeah, it’s good,” I answered for lack of better words.
“And what else?” Dad took a bite of potato. “You in biology again this year?”
“Yes. Col ege level. It’s al right. We have to dissect a fetal pig and a cat.”
“Awesome!”
I looked over at my brother and rol ed my eyes. He could say it was awesome al he wanted, but the smel would be enough to make him puke.
When we had Biology together our sophomore year, he’d nearly chucked when we dissected the earthworm. “I like A.P. Physics better.”
“Why?” my dad asked.
“More math, less latex gloves.” I focused down at my plate and pushed the peas around until it looked like I’d eaten more than I had. “May I be excused? I have a lot of homework.”
“Oh! Me, too?” Aaron said, his excitement apparent. My attention was drawn to him. “I wanna go hang with Kel y.”
“Kel y Volk?” my dad asked, as if he didn’t know that Kel y from down the street was Aaron’s new interest. Aaron nodded. “What’s her dad up to? Haven’t seen much of him since he got laid off.”
Aaron shrugged. “I don’t know. I think she said he got a part-time job at the McDonald’s. She’s total y mortified he works there.”
“A job’s a job, Aaron.”
Whatever was my brother’s response to my father’s admonishment.
“Dad?” I said, hoping to remind him that I’d asked to be excused.
“Right. Clean up, and you’re free to go. Don’t you have practice?” he said, referring to marching band. I was in the drumline.
“Not tonight,” I responded as I stood up and gathered my dishes and I quickly rinsed them then placed them in the dishwasher before heading upstairs to my room.
My room was my sanctuary. It was simplistic with a few posters covering the cream-colored wal s, most of them of Sci-Fi related, but there were some of comic book characters, too. My twin bed was covered in a plain black comforter. The Little Boy Blue lamp I’d had since I was a baby sat on top of my nightstand.
The sun was slowly setting, reminding me that summer was truly over and fal was here. I was happy to be back in school, working toward academic excel ence once again. I’d be busy with marching band until mid-October or so. After that I’d keep busy messing around with my friends.
Mainly we watched sci-fi shows, played World of Warcraft, and dicked around in Casey’s garage, pretending we were in a rock band.
I sighed as I looked down at my open text book feeling like I couldn’t get into the assignment tonight. I was always into homework, it was my thing, the thing I was good at. I lacked focus for no real reason. School had been fine—not the greatest, but when had it ever been a good time?
Besides the academics, there wasn’t much about attending I liked. It was stil early enough in the school year that the jocks and other popular kids weren’t bored enough to ful y pick on the rest of us.
As I paced my room, I looked out of my window for just a second and I saw her, across the street in the second story middle window. My feet stopped. My whole body stopped. As if I was transfixed, I watched her as she danced. Her hips moved back and forth and her arms were above her head as dark hair swirled around her face like a ragged stage curtain. Through the gaps, I could see that her eyes were closed and she was smiling. She had on a tight, blue T-shirt and a pair of shorts, both of which left most of her skin exposed.
She looked so . . . so . . . so what? Beautiful? Yes, absolutely. Sexy? Without a doubt. But there was something else, something more important than al of that.
She looked free.
I wondered what she was listening to. I wondered if she did this al the time. I wondered if she knew she was being watched whether she’d dance differently or at al .
I didn’t have to wait to find out because she must have caught a glimpse of me and she stopped, cocked her head, and narrowed her eyes a bit.
I was frozen. I should’ve backed away immediately. I should’ve dropped the blinds before she’d even had the chance to real y process that I’d been staring at her.
But I didn’t. I just stood there watching her as she looked back at me. Our eyes connected and then the softest grin played on her lips as she started to dance again.
I stood there for a moment longer just watching her be free, dancing as if I wasn’t over here studying her every move.
When she turned around, her hips stil moving, her arms stil in the air, I forced myself to lower the blinds. I went over to my desk, but as I sat there with an open history textbook, tapping my pen against it, I kept thinking about the girl in the window. When did she get there? Why was she dancing? How did she know the Cartwrights? Was she staying long? Why didn’t she seem embarrassed that she’d been caught dancing in front of an open window? What was that little grin about? Why was I thinking about her and not World War I ?
Aaron and I shared the first class of the morning: Current Events. Wel , it was technical y Homeroom, which turned into our first class of the day. I took it because given my love of history, I could discuss the events unfolding now that would later be viewed in a historical context. It would give me a much better perspective on world news, and also forced me to sit down with my dad and actual y watch the news every day.
Aaron took the class because he’d heard Mr. Bel man al owed people to talk whenever they wanted to. That and Maya Conway was taking the class, too. Aaron was mistaken because Mr. Bel man only al owed people to talk when cal ed upon. When he pointed to students to talk, he expected them to share an important current event or make a justified, wel -thought-out comment in regards to an issue previously brought up.
Mr. Bel man was late starting today, and everyone took the opportunity to chat with their neighbor. I had no one to talk to. Casey and my other friends weren’t in this class. My brother sat on the opposite side of the classroom—maybe in an attempt to distance himself from me. Perhaps he didn’t want anyone to mistake him for me, not that it was something that happened. We were identical twins, but we were far from identical.
Aaron was tal and muscular. I wasn’t short, but he had at least two inches on me. I was scrawny. I had some muscles, considering I spent time in marching band, but they were nothing like his. He was a jock. He worked out al the time.
He was a talented athlete, and I was just a guy on the drumline.
My brother was smart, and he could’ve gotten better grades, but instead he chose to focus on the social aspects of high school. While I got As in every class, he got low Bs for failing to complete homework. He rarely studied for quizzes and tests, but when we took our SATs and our ACTs, he hunkered down and ended up scoring nearly as high as I did.
Aaron already knew that he was going to Duke to study Political Science. The only thing I knew was that I didn’t hate history, so I’d probably study that. I had no idea what I’d do with a history degree after graduating from my as yet unnamed col ege.
Our differences weren’t just in regards to physical appearance and talent. Aaron was not only social, he was good at being social. Girls adored him. He always knew what to say, and he could do this thing with his eyes that they loved. It looked like he was just narrowing them a bit. I didn’t get the fascination with it, but I wanted to do it nonetheless. One would think I could do it, too, but after countless hours looking at my contorting face in the mirror, I realized that I couldn’t.
Aaron had lost his virginity to a sophomore girl his freshman year. It had been his only goal when he got into ninth grade. He’d probably had more sex since than the average col ege guy.
Meanwhile, I was stil a virgin. Clare Matthews had let me touch her boob last year, but it was only over her shirt. I doubted that Clare would ever let someone see her without a shirt. She was pretty shy about her weight. Clare wasn’t big or anything. Actual y, she was under weight, and her breasts were smal . Some of Aaron’s friends made fun of her for it. It was bad eno
ugh she was picked on because she played flute, but they also targeted her because she wore the hand-me-down clothes of her older sister, who was tal er and curvier than Clare. It seemed supremely wrong that they would pick on her breast size to boot. She couldn’t do anything about that, or the fact that her parents didn’t make much money.
Aaron laughed loudly as he sat askew in his chair, his arm draped over the back with his hand resting on Maya’s desk. Everyone around him was leaning in to hear what he had to say. Mr. Bel man cal ed the class to order, but before we got to talk about the happenings of the world, she walked in. It was the girl from across the street, the one dancing in the Cartwrights usual y dark, upstairs room.
Her hair was pul ed up into a simple ponytail, revealing five silver hoops in each ear. She had on low-slung jeans and one of those baby T-shirts.
It was green and said “Jamaican Me Crazy” on the front. As she neared Mr. Bel man, an office slip in hand, I saw that the shirt had ridden up just slightly on her back because of the bag slung over her shoulder. That patch of revealed skin was mesmerizing.
“Class, this is Olivia Cartwright. It’s her first day, so please, make her feel welcome.” He pointed to a seat in the middle of the room and she seemed so confident as she took her seat. Class resumed after that, but the rest of the period was a blur. Al I did was look at her, and it was obvious that I wasn’t the only one. Aaron was quick to rush over to her when the class was over. She beamed at him as he offered to help her find her next room. For some reason, my heart sank as they left together.
She was al I could think about during band practice. She was al I could think about during work after that. Luckily, the Barnes & Noble bookstore I worked for wasn’t busy tonight and I spent most of the night stocking the shelves. It al owed my mind to unnecessarily obsess about Olivia Cartwright.
At home, Aaron was beside himself thinking of someone he hadn’t conquered yet.
“She’s total y hot, don’t you think?” he asked me as I made some peanut butter toast. At home was when Aaron spoke to me the most. He’d probably gotten home after footbal practice and spent the whole night talking on the phone with his friends about her.