My Junior Year of Loathing (School Dayz #2)

by Jennifer DiGiovanni

  We duck into a dark storage area and my beer-fueled desire for normalcy returns. Ty pulls me closer. We kiss, we touch, we tug at each other’s clothing. Just about anything we can do without winding up sprawled on the cement floor. On the other side of the door, the music kicks back on, breaking through the haze of our heavy breathing.

  “We should go before anyone starts to look for us,” I say, not that anyone really cares. Back in the party area, lights flash. People dance. Clothes are shed as the compressed bodies in a small basement cause the temperature to skyrocket.

  Someone finds an eighties version of Trivial Pursuit and starts firing off questions to Becca, still famous around school for her PSAT prowess. In the middle of her slurring out intelligent-sounding but totally incorrect answers someone tapes a sign on her back indicating that yes, she is in fact a “Genius.” The girls from our basketball team cheer her on until a ringing phone breaks the action. Will climbs on top of a chair, holds up a hand, and silence rolls through the crowd. The dance mix blasting from the speakers cuts off with a rip.

  “Party over. My parents are on the way home!” Will yells.

  A mass exodus ensues. We file out the door, leaving Will to clean up broken glass and sticky, beer-coated basement floors.

  Ty finds me in the middle of a mad rush of people and drags me out the door. We make it through three backyards before one of my wedge sandals flies off.

  “Wait, Ty.” I drop to my knees and sweep my hands through the wet grass. An overhead spotlight flicks on in a neighbor’s yard. Crap. “Forget it. Let’s go.”

  By the time we make it back to the Jeep, we’re both heaving giant breaths. He pulls out his keys and holds them up in front of his face. “I can’t drive.”

  Neither can I.

  Thankfully, I’m a resourceful girl. I hop on my one sandal back out to the street and call Becca to pick us up. She can’t drive, either, but promises to find help. Five minutes later Becca’s neighbor Travis shows up in an old pickup truck, with Becca in the passenger seat.

  “I thought you were away at college,” I say to him as Ty and I hop in the back.

  Travis acknowledges me with a curt nod. “Lucky for you, I’m home this weekend visiting a friend.”

  “He’s already chauffeured half of our wasted junior class home from Will’s party,” Becca slurs with a laugh.

  “Thanks for picking us up,” I say to him.

  Travis smiles. “No problem. Drunk Becca is entertaining. She’s worth the trouble of driving you around town.”

  “Did you hear about the PSAT thing?” I ask him, noticing she’s no longer wearing the sign on her back. Beside me, Ty closes his eyes and starts to snore.

  “Shut up, Mel. And turn up the radio,” Becca says. I can see her blush, even in the dark. But Travis obeys her command, flipping on a country station.

  I groan. “My head hurts just listening to that guy’s depression.”

  “It’s not so bad,” Becca says, as she hums along. “Kind of chill, actually.”

  The rest of the ride is silent. Travis’s eyes travel in Becca’s direction between songs. By the time he drops Ty off and then takes me home, I suspect the backseat riders are an afterthought.

  I drag myself up to bed and literally pass out, as if the instant my body hits the mattress, all the energy is sucked out of my body. Dreams chase through my brain, most involving a hot guy with a perfect nose who travels through inanimate objects and controls the weather.

  ***

  I wake with a splitting headache, bathed in a cold sweat, but determined—I need to find out the truth about Connor. On the off chance he really is a ghost, he’s been a pretty harmless one. So far, that is.

  I roll out of bed, still dressed in my party clothes and smelling like a beer-scented bath bomb. A hot shower shoves me into a state of alertness. Before leaving the house, I change into riding clothes, secure my damp hair in a ponytail, and throw on a baseball cap.

  The dewy grass surrenders to the heels of my boots as I march toward the woods. I scour the tree line for Connor, but he’s nowhere in sight. The trees blur together, and the sun’s too bright for my achy eyes. With each step forward, my body reminds me that I’m recovering from the beer I drank last night.

  In my current foggy state, I can’t confront Connor without an advantage. I turn in the direction of the stables, saddle up Truffle, and head out on horseback. Halfway through my first loop on the trail, Connor appears.

  “Taking Truff out for a spin?” The bite in his voice aggravates my hungover sense of hearing.

  “Actually, I’m looking for you.” I lift one hand from the reins and apply pressure above my eyebrows, where my head continues to throb.

  “And here I am.” He leans against a tree, his dark eyes studying me. “Need help pulling weeds?”

  “Not today.” To steady myself, I inhale the rich scent of autumn air filled with the spice of the apple orchard just beyond the stables. I need to throw Connor off, and I think I know the best way to accomplish my mission. “Isn’t it a beautiful morning for riding?”

  His brow furrows. “Riding what?”

  “A horse, silly. You promised.”

  He flinches. A real, visible flinch. “We may have had a general discussion, but we never officially came to an agreement on that.”

  I urge my horse forward. “Do I need Truffle to convince you?”

  Connor looks mighty worried. “Uh … No.”

  “Good. You’re in, then?”

  “Not really. But what do you have in mind?”

  I swing off the saddle, down to the soft earth, and trap Connor’s hand in mine. “Walk back to the arena with me.”

  “Arena? I thought you said something about horse shows on the weekends.”

  “Lucky for you, this weekend’s Tri-State Fall Expo is in New Jersey.”

  His eyes narrow. “Then why aren’t you off jumping barrels?”

  “I haven’t competed in years.” After Dad died, even if I’d wanted to continue show jumping, Mom never had enough money for me to ride full-time. Trainers, entrance fees, top-of-the-line equipment all come with a cost. I tug Connor’s hand, pulling him forward. “The stables are empty, and the arena is closed. No lessons scheduled today. Except for yours.”

  Truff trots ahead of us, annoyed by our slower pace.

  “He looks like he knows where he’s going,” Connor says, still dragging his feet behind me.

  “Of course he knows.”

  “So tell me about more about this horse jumping thing.”

  “Show jumping. It’s called show jumping. There’s also dressage, which is a style of obedience training on flat ground. But I find the jumps are much more fun.”

  “For both you and Truff, right?”

  “Definitely. We started together, jumping over logs and small barrels. Then we worked up to higher gates. But you won’t be jumping anything today. You’ll be sitting on Truffle, walking slowly around the indoor arena.”

  The equestrian trail ends at the stables, a two-story, wood-sided building painted sage-green. Inside, Truffle’s hooves knock on the cement floor as we travel down a row of stalls. I show Truffle’s home to Connor. “He’s got plenty of room to move around and the security cameras keep an eye on him. It’s one of the reasons I wanted to keep him here. That, and the professional staff taking care of him. Even though we’re not competing anymore.”

  Connor tugs on the sleeve of my riding jacket. “Do you miss it? The thrill of victory?”

  I run my hand over Truffle’s neck. “I was never Olympic material. Truffle’s older now, too. So I guess we mutually agreed to retire.”

  After I give Connor a tour of the stables, we head to the indoor arena. Coarse, dark sand covers the floor to cushion the impact on the horses’ legs as they run and jump. Truffle raises his head higher and whinnies. I whisper to him, explaining that we’re here to teach Connor how to ride. Truffle seems to understand. At least, I hope he does.

  “This must b
e the horse version of an indoor playground, huh?” Connor asks.

  “Sure is. Grab the footstool and climb aboard.”

  Connor cuts his eyes to Truffle. The horse stares right back, not looking especially friendly.

  “Are you sure he can hold me?”

  “He’ll be fine,” I insist, hoping it’s the truth.

  Connor steps onto the stool and swings one leg over the saddle. Truff shifts sideways, letting out an impatient huff at his rider’s rough technique.

  “Hold the reins,” I say, handing them to Connor. “Dig your legs in, but gently. That tells him you’re ready to go. Then tug the reins in the direction you want him to go, and he’ll follow. Walk, Truffle.” The horse takes off at a turtle’s pace, casually strolling around the arena.

  “Faster, Truffle. Sit up, Connor. Tall in the saddle. Now, relax. Stabilize your core.”

  “Stabilize what?” Connor’s voice pitches higher.

  The horse picks up speed. Connor starts to bounce. I bite my lip to hold back laughter.

  “What the eff? My butt’s killing me,” Connor gripes.

  “Lift your upper body, or you won’t be able to sit for a week.”

  “I’m gonna kill you, Melinda,” is his response. After a few laps, Truffle drops back to a slower speed. Connor relaxes and begins to adjust to the rhythm of the horse’s gait.

  “Loosen up, dude,” I say, biting back laughter. “Even if you fell, would you really hurt yourself? Truffle’s going about two miles per hour.”

  Connor grumbles a few curse words under his breath. He leans forward slightly, and Truffle speeds up to maybe three miles per hour. After one more lap, I whistle, and Truffle turns toward me. I grab the reins and hold Truffle steady while Connor swings his body down.

  “Happy now?” he asks, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans.

  “Oh, yes. Ecstatic.”

  “Good.” He steps closer and slides his arms around my waist. I detect a heartbeat under his grungy black hoodie. He’s definitely warm-blooded. Not the Westerly ghost. I lift my eyes to his as he pulls me closer. He dips his head to kiss me, and I press up on the toes of my riding boots, meeting him half-way. His mouth coaxes mine with gentle pressure. I loop my arms around his neck and deepen the kiss. He smells faintly of horse, more of earth and grass, plus a touch of salt from the sweat dampening his forehead.

  We hold on to each other until Truffle decides to get in on the action by nudging my lower back with his nose.

  “Easy fella. You’re cramping my style.” Connor lifts his head a fraction to address my horse. Cool air brushes my warm cheeks when I realize my hands have somehow found their way under Connor’s T-shirt.

  I disentangle myself from Connor’s clothing and step back. “So, um, I’m glad we did this today.”

  He breaks into a smug smile. “Which part? The riding lesson or the after-the-riding activity?”

  “Interestingly, both were fun.” I hold up one finger, trying to compose myself. “But I had a different purpose in mind when I hunted you down earlier.

  His expression flattens out. “Did you want to tell me you’ve fallen hopelessly in love with the guy from the Martins’ party?”

  Damn. How did he see me with Ty? It was dark. We were in the tent most of the night.

  “If that was the case, I wouldn’t have kissed you.” And now I feel horrible. Connor thinks about Ty more than I do. I give Truffle a verbal cue to let him know we’re leaving before I lead him out of the arena. “Actually, I wanted to ask you about the Westerly Estate. You know, that decrepit-looking manor house and barn behind the big brick wall.”

  Connor steps to the side to make room for Truffle. “I’m from Chicago. Why would I know about that?”

  “Because you’re living there?” I guess.

  His dark eyes return to me. “That’s random. I’m not living there.”

  “Are you temporarily staying there? Visiting? Hiding out, whatever you want to call it.”

  He pauses a beat too long. “What makes you think that?”

  “I’ve noticed a shadow behind the window. More than once. I’m guessing it was either you or a ghost. And I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “Maybe you should believe in ghosts,” he says. We exit the arena and he turns away from Truffle’s stall. “I’ve gotta run. But thanks”—he raises his arm and pats my horse once more—“for this.”

  Before I can ask another question, he’s gone.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “There you are, Mel,” Mom says, catching me in the kitchen as I down half a pitcher of water and two aspirin. Her nose wrinkles. “You smell like wet horse.”

  I sniff my sleeve, unable to detect anything different. After years of subjecting myself to eau de horse, the scent is pretty much ingrained in my riding clothes. “I took Truffle for a walk and got caught in the rain.” After Connor left so abruptly, exercising my horse seemed like the best way to work through my frustration.

  Mom checks the time on the activity tracker strapped to her wrist. “A little early for a ride, don’t you think?”

  “I wanted to squeeze the time in.” I set down my glass. “Now I need to find out the best way to assemble a homecoming float.”

  I escape to my room and fire up my laptop. So far my parade plan is as follows:

  Step 1: Send out an email begging for someone’s truck to use as a float base. A hay wagon is even better.

  Step 2: Construct a Doodle poll to choose a theme. Hope that someone besides me participates.

  Step 3: Check the balance in the student council fundraising account and set a budget.

  Step 4: Plan a meeting. Pray someone shows up.

  After making progress on my float ideas, I shut down my phone and power through homework until dinner, keeping an eye out for Jack. The rain only grows heavier, though, so our landscaper never shows.

  ***

  Kissing Connor did nothing to help me forget about my obsession with him. After school on Monday, the woods calls to me. Mud cakes the soles of my boots by the time I reach the stream. Leaves rustle above my head as squirrels play in the treetops. Not one sign of Connor. I’m about to turn toward home when a shrill whistle pierces the air. Ten feet to my left, heavy footsteps crunch over brittle twigs.

  I tighten my grip on the strap of my backpack. “Is that you?”

  “Good guess,” he answers.

  I snap my head around, unable to pinpoint his exact location. “Do you really need to whistle?”

  “Didn’t want you to leave before I got here. Are you alone?”

  I glance around the clearing to make sure. “As far as I know. Did you think I’d bring law enforcement?”

  Connor pokes his head out from behind a wild holly. “I don’t know what you’re thinking.”

  His grungy sweatshirt and jeans are the same as usual, but they seem to hang off his lean frame, like he bought them two sizes too big. Possibly he’s shrinking? He’s thin for a guy, but his height gives him a larger appearance. Looking at him now, I realize he’s too thin. And his skin is paler than the floor-to-ceiling white marble columns in Brian’s foyer.

  “Since you’re here, I have more questions for you,” I say, dropping my sweatshirt on the fallen log and taking a seat near the running water.

  He kicks a loose rock, sending it flying over the wet dirt, into a tree. “Forget your questions, Mel. I won’t answer them.”

  “Come on. We’re friends, right?”

  His eyes sweep around the clearing. “I don’t have friends.”

  “Whatever we are, we help each other.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Every time, you mean. Have I ever walked away when you needed me?”

  He hesitates. “No. But you ask too many questions.”

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  He flashes me a quick grin. “I rode a horse for you, didn’t I?”

  Rain begins to fall again, hitting the canopy of leaves above us. I reach for his hand and wind our finger
s together. His skin feels cool—too cool.

  “Are you cold?” I ask.

  “Whatever.” He sighs. “Rain sucks.”

  “Do you have something against outerwear?”

  He lowers himself down, sitting next to me on the log. “Guys don’t wear raincoats.”

  I reach my arms around him and lean my head on his shoulder. Even through the extra layer of clothing, I feel his bony ribs. “Can you please talk to me?”

  He tugs on a stray lock of my hair, giving me a half smile. “You refuse to take no for an answer. What do you want to know?”

  Still holding him, I glance up at his face, concentrating on his expression. I need to pick up on any lies he tries to slide by me. But right now, he just looks tired. “First of all, are you a ghost?”

  I feel his body tense. “A what?”

  “A ghost. Are you the ghost of the Westerly Estate?”

  “That’s an easy question. No.”

  “But you hang out in the woods, you disappear a lot, and you’re always … cold.”

  “Being cold makes me a ghost?” He laughs.

  “Something’s not right with you, Connor. And you did admit that you’re not normal.”

  He squeezes my hand. “I may not be normal, but I’m human.”

  “Okay, fine. I just needed to know for sure.”

  Now that he’s filled his head with ghost nonsense, I switch to a lightning round, hoping to blast through his invisible shield. “How old are you?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Favorite color?”

  “Green? Who knows?”

  “Favorite sports team.”

  “The Bears. Chicago, remember?”

  “Favorite food?”

  “Dinosaur gummy snacks and pretzels.”

  “Ha, ha. Windows or Mac?”

  “Whatever works. Can we stop now?”

  “Just one more. When’s your birthday?”

  “January 25.” His eyebrows draw together. “Why are you so fascinated by the Westerly Estate? Is it really haunted?”