Burned: A High School Bully Romance (Del Sol High Book 2)

by McKayla Box

  “Why would you tell them no, Nola?” my grandmother asks. “I think it's lovely that they are interested in writing about you.”

  “Well...I don't know,” I say, trying to find something that sounds right. “I guess maybe I haven't made up my mind yet. I don't know. It's kind of weird, and I don't really get why they want to talk to me.”

  “You were homecoming queen,” Reese says, still grinning. “And you're new to Del Sol. People want to...get to know you.”

  “That makes perfect sense,” my grandmother says.

  “I don't think Reese has ever been featured in the paper,” Ruth says.

  Reese's grin falters, and it's the only moment of pleasure I've experienced since I walked into the room.

  “Like I said,” I tell them. “I haven't really made up my mind.”

  “I thought you told them no?” Reese asks innocently. “I thought I heard you tell that boy that you weren't doing it? The reporter?” She looks at both of the older women. “He really wants to interview her pretty badly.”

  My grandmother smiles. “I'm sure he does. Nola is a very interesting young lady.”

  Reese turns back to me, smiling. But her teeth look like they belong to a wolf. “Isn't she, though?”

  At this moment, there is no one in the world that I hate more than Reese McClure.

  “We'll see,” I finally manage. “I just thought it was kind of...weird.”

  “I think it would be lovely,” Ruth McClure says with a reassuring smile. “You should do it.” She gets to her feet. “Reese and I really should be on our way. We've got several more quick stops to make before I drop Reese off at home.”

  My grandmother stands. “Of course. We can chat some more tomorrow.”

  They do that weird thing where they air kiss each other.

  “Reese, it was lovely to see you,” my grandmother says.

  “Same here, Mrs. Murphy,” Reese says. “I'm glad I came with Grandma.”

  I'll bet she is.

  “Well, I am, too,” my grandmother says. She sets her hands on her hips and looks at me. “Because I might never have known about this article and Nola.” She makes a little clicking sound with her tongue. “Thank goodness for Reese.”

  Reese turns and beams at me. “So good to see you, Nola. I'll see you tomorrow at school. And I really do hope you change your mind.”

  It takes a moment for me to unlock my jaw because I'm clenching it so tightly.

  “Yeah,” I finally says. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

  Chapter 16

  “Nola,” my grandmother says. “Sit for a second.”

  As soon as they are out the door, I know she's going to grill me.

  Fucking Reese.

  I reluctantly take a seat on the sofa where Reese and Ruth were.

  My grandmother sits down next to me and puts her hand on my knee. “What is going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She frowns. “What on earth could be so problematic about an interview in your school paper? I saw the look on your face, and it looked like someone was asking you to eat something awful.”

  I lean back in the sofa. “I don't know. I'm just not comfortable with attention, you know? It's not my thing. I don't need be at the center of anything.”

  “But you already were,” she says, smiling. “You were homecoming queen. And, like it or not, you are a new student at Del Sol. Certainly, you can see how some people might find that interesting.”

  “Maybe,” I say. “But newsworthy? It feels weird.”

  “It's a feature,” she says. “It's not news, per se. And it's a school newspaper. I'm sure it is challenging for them to be coming up with story ideas. This probably felt like a simple one for them.” She smiles at me. “I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but I wrote for the school newspaper back when I attended. In The Stone Age.”

  I laugh. “Grandma, you're not that old.”

  “Some days, it feels as if I am,” she says. “Thank you for saying that, though. But I do remember days where we had to figure out where our stories were going to come from. It makes perfect sense to me that they would think you might be a strong subject.”

  I fold my arms across my chest. “I mean, that's sort of what I don't want.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don't want to be a strong subject,” I say. “I don't want anyone to know more about me. Because I know where it will lead.”

  We let that sit between us for a few seconds.

  “You're worried that they'll ask about your mother,” she finally says.

  I nod. “Of course. Because they will. It will start with why did you move here from Florida and then it'll go down that road. Because it already has with my friends. And you saw what happened when people asked about my dad. I've avoided even going near anything about Mom because I know if people find out, it'll be...just like before. And, yes, I know. I've made it worse by not being honest with people about it. But I just can't. I'm trying to figure out how, but I'm not there yet.” I pause. “So if I start talking to some kid at the newspaper about this? If he's even the least bit curious, he's going to start asking more questions, and that's the last thing in the world I want right now.”

  She thinks about that for a moment and folds her arms across her chest. “I think you're reading too much into this.” She holds up a hand before I can reject that idea. “And I know, Nola. I know. I understand you're fearful and why you might think that way. I think it is the natural thing to think when you're...in these circumstances. So I can certainly understand why that's the conclusion you're coming to.” She smiles. “But it's a school newspaper article, Nola. It's not the New York Times or The Washington Post. They aren't looking to do some in-depth feature on you. They want to know how you're liking Del Sol and what it was like to be selected as homecoming queen. That's what they want.”

  I look down at my lap. I wish I was as sure as she is.

  “I doubt very much that this reporter at your school is looking to do anything other than what is required of him,” she says. “He wants to do his assignment. He's not looking for the next Watergate.”

  I shrug. “I guess.”

  “And don't you worry that by putting him off, that might be the thing that would cause people to ask questions?” she says.

  “It already has,” I say. “That's why Reese brought it up.” I look at her. “By the way, I know that you and Mrs. McClure are friends, but Reese...is absolutely not my friend.”

  She purses her lips. “I know she neglected to pick you up that first day of school and I've certainly picked up on the fact that you aren't best friends. But maybe you're being too harsh?”

  I shake my head. “Grandma, I know it's probably weird to hear, but trust me. She is not my friend. She came with her grandmother to purposely tell you about the newspaper article. I promise you.”

  She frowns and I can tell she doesn't believe me. It's not her fault. I've already learned how conniving and two-faced Reese is. She probably fools most people.

  But not me.

  “My inclination is to tell you you're wrong,” she says. “But that would mean that I don't believe you, and it would be silly for me to think that I might know Reese better than you do. So I will trust your opinion. I'm sorry that things are difficult with her. I was hoping the two of you would be friends, but it doesn't sound like that is happening.”

  I shake my head. “It's not. And I'm sorry. I know Mrs. McClure is your friend and all, but Reese has pretty much tried to make my life miserable since the day I got here.”

  She gives me a stern look. “Do you want me to say something to Ruth? I would be happy to do that because that's inexcusable if she's been bullying you or doing anything hurtful to you.”

  I shake my head one more time. “No, you don't have to do that. I can handle her. I have been handling her,” I amend. “And I don't want to create problems for you and her grandmother. Just because we aren't friends doesn't mean it should affect you two.�
��

  “That's kind of you to say, Nola,” she says. “But you are my granddaughter. We are family and that comes first.”

  I don't ever recall hearing anyone defend me that way and it stops me for a moment. I have probably underestimated my grandmother and how she feels about me, and that's entirely my fault. I've tried to deflect things at times because I've been afraid she and my grandfather would turn out to be like my parents.

  But at this moment, she is the complete opposite.

  “Thank you,” I finally say. “Seriously. But I can handle her. I really can. We don't get along. It happens.”

  She watches me for a moment, then nods. “Alright, then. But know that if you need me to do something, I will. And goodness knows that if we tell your grandfather, he'll march right to their front door.”

  “Then we don't need to tell him.”

  “Agreed,” she says, laughing. “The man is a kind soul, but he does have a temper.” She pauses, then puts her hand back on my knee. “But I really would encourage you to think about the newspaper. I think you might be overreacting to it, even if Reese is helping to spur those feelings. I think it might do you some good to see some nice things written about you.”

  I start to tell her that I would be okay with nothing being written about me when my phone vibrates next to me on the sofa.

  I look at the screen.

  My stomach drops.

  It’s my mother calling.

  Chapter 17

  When the phone rings, I show the screen to my grandmother, and she tells me to answer it. I stand up, hug my towel around me, and walk to my room. I close the door and tap the screen. “Hello?”

  I get the person on the other line who tells me that Victoria Murphy is calling me collect and asking if I will accept the charges. I tell them yes and wait for her to come on the line.

  “Hello?” she finally says. “Nola?”

  “I'm here,” I say.

  “We ended on a bad note last time,” my mother says. “I didn't want to leave it there for long.”

  “I know. Okay.”

  She takes a deep breath, exhales through the line. “I'm sorry about our conversation last time. You had me worried. I do not want you taking the same path I did.”

  “I'm not,” I tell her. “I'm not an alcoholic.”

  The line clicks. “But it's in your genetics. You need to be very careful with that, Nola. Very careful. You may not like it, but it's the truth.”

  I sit down on the edge of the bed. “I'm fine.”

  “So were you out drinking?”

  “I'm not going to do this again, Mom,” I say. “I am fine.”

  The line clicks again. “Okay. How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  “How is school?”

  “Fine.”

  “Nola, come on,” she says. “I called to talk to you, not get one-word answers.”

  I don't want to be difficult, but I'm also not sure what we are supposed to talk about. And, as always, I am wary of her. “Okay. How are you?”

  “I'm okay,” she says. “Thank you for asking. It's about...the same, I guess. Not the best place to be in the world, but not the worst, either.”

  And just like that, I feel a sense of guilt because I'm able to forget about her so easily.

  And, some days, to just not care, either.

  “But I am sober,” she says. “And that is a good thing. And I'll be sober tomorrow. And that will be a good thing.”

  I clear my throat. “That's great. I'm glad for you.”

  “It is great,” she says. “I just have to remind myself of that when I'm feeling low or looking backwards.” She pauses. “I know that I hurt a lot of people.”

  Understatement.

  But I don't think it's my place to tell her that.

  “Just keeping moving forward,” I say. “Small steps, right?”

  “Yes, small steps,” she says. “Thank you for saying that.”

  “You're welcome.”

  “I just feel like if I can keep making progress, then that's good,” she says. “And maybe I'll be released early and then I can figure out what is best for us.”

  The word ‘us’ throws me. I don't think of her and me as an us anymore. There is no us.

  But I'm surprised that she thinks in those terms.

  And I'm suddenly seized by this panic of the idea that she'll get released and I'll have to move back to Florida and be with her. I know that's nearly impossible, given what she did, but in the moment, it seems like it might happen.

  “What's best for me is being here,” I say, before I can stop myself. “I'm going to school. I have friends. I've applied to colleges for next year. I live here now.”

  The line buzzes for a moment.

  “I'm aware of all of that, Nola,” she says. “I think about it every single day. I just mean that I want you and I want to be able to build a relationship. A new one. Not hang onto the old one. So whether I'm here or if I move there—”

  “You would move here?” I say, shocked by the idea. “To Del Sol?”

  “Well, I don't know,” she says. “I'm not really sure if—”

  “What about probation?” I ask. “What about having to pay money to that guy's family? What about all of that kind of stuff? You can't just leave Florida, can you?”

  The line buzzes again.

  “I don't know,” she finally says, her voice quieter. “I was just thinking out loud. That's all. I know that I can't project too far into the future. I have to focus on the here and now. One day at a time. I was...just thinking out loud. That's all.” She pauses. “You don't have to worry about me showing up next week and ruining your life.”

  “That's not what I meant,” I say.

  “It's exactly what you meant,” she says sharply. “Don't worry. I won't be there to pick you up.”

  “Mom, come on.”

  “No, you come on.” Her voice is tight with anger. “I am doing my very best to get my shit together in here. My very best. And that's different every day. And do you know why? For you. So what I don't need is for you to remind me of how badly I have screwed up everything in both of our lives. Because I am reminded of it every single day. I am aware. I call you to see how you are and because I miss you. Maybe you don't believe that, but I do. But I don't need for you to make me feel any smaller than I already do.”

  Tears sting my eyes. “I'm sorry. I didn't meant to.”

  “Yes, you did,” she snaps.

  All of this takes me back to Florida. Her mood swings. Her anger. The tone of her voice. It's like she's standing over me, screaming at me, blaming things on me when I've done nothing wrong.

  And I can't help but feel guilty.

  “Watch your drinking, Nola,” she says. “Or your worst fear will come true.”

  She pauses.

  “You'll end up just like your dear old mom.”

  Chapter 18

  “That little bitch was in your living room?” Dylan asks, then shakes her head. “You shoulda kicked her in the head. Just right there, in front of your grandma and hers.” She does a karate kick-like thing from where she's sitting. “Just like that.”

  It's the next day and it's lunchtime. We've stayed on campus because Brooke brought two enormous pizzas to school that her dad had left over from some meeting the night before and insisted she take with her or he was going to throw them out. So we are sitting in the courtyard, eating cold pizza, and watching some sort of snowman-making contest up on the stage in honor of the upcoming winter ball. Kids are up there using beach balls and tape, trying to make snow people, and there is lots of music and cheering as they fail time after time.

  “I talked to my grandmother afterward,” I tell them. “Just about what a bitch Reese is and has been to me. I think she believed me.”

  Mercy frowns. “I mean, how fucking petty is she to just show up like that and try to make you squirm? Who does that?”

  Brooke pulls a piece of pineapple and bacon from the box. “Re
ese fucking McClure, that's who.”

  “And I was in a good mood, too,” I say. “Archer had just dropped me off. And he asked if I'd go to the dance with him.”

  All three of them look at me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Archer Hays asked you to go to the dance?” Dylan says.

  “Uh, yeah. Don't remember if I told you guys this or not, but we're sort of going out? Remember?”

  “Uh, yeah, we remember,” Mercy says. “But Archer asked you to go to a...dance?”

  I look at each of them. “What am I missing here?”

  Brooke points her half-eaten slice at me. “What you're missing is Archer Hays has not ever...ever...asked a girl to a dance in our lifetimes. Not...ever.”

  I look down, a little embarrassed. “He said something like that last night when he asked. I thought he was sort of exaggerating.”

  “He was most definitely not,” Mercy says. “Do you know how many girls have tried to get him to go to a dance?”

  “Probably one million,” Dylan says. “Maybe a million and a half.”

  I laugh. “Stop.”

  “Totally serious,” Mercy says. “Archer doesn't take girls to dances. It's a known fact. That boy must be stone cold in love with you.”

  “And you must be incredible in bed,” Dylan says.

  We all laugh and I shake my head, embarrassed.

  “Don't be embarrassed,” Dylan says. “You should be proud of that. We're always taught as girls that we should be submissive and pretend like sex doesn't matter. Fuck that. I'm amazing in bed and I'm proud of that, and you should be, too.” She looks around the courtyard. “Any dude here would be lucky to get fucked by me.”

  I double over, I'm laughing so hard. I know she's right, but it is funny to hear it all said out loud, so plainly.

  Mercy throws her arm around my shoulders. “Whatever the reason, I am super glad he asked you and super glad that you're going. Jake Kellogg asked me this morning.”

  Dylan's eyes go wide. “Damn, that's a nice pickup.”