“Yeah,” Retha says like she can’t believe it either. “He said I would overreact. But what the fuck? Obviously something shady went down. What if they’re hooking up?”
I’m in shock. Travis and Retha are special together. Sure, they fight a lot, but they love each other. No one’s allowed to ruin that.
“So what are you going to do?” I ask, my fingers trembling with adrenaline. I know what she wants and it will probably involve hair pulling. I’m sick of getting into fights with Retha, but at the same time, it’s the weekend. There’s always a fight somewhere.
“It’s Friday,” she says. “Everyone from Kennedy goes to the cornfield, right?”
“They sure do.”
“Good. So I think maybe we should stop by. Hang out a little.”
Her lips curve into a devilish smile. Retha doesn’t want to hang out with those pricks. I’m the one who used to hang out with them, back when I thought I could. Back when I was part of a family, dating the future homecoming king, thinking I was normal.
But what is normal anyway? Taking care of Evan is my normal. This is who I am.
“Hello?” Retha yells, tossing a lacy black thong from her drawer at me. It bounces off my chest and I sweep it away with a laugh. “Are you game or not?” she asks.
“Depends,” I tell her, trying to hide the sudden panic I feel at seeing my old classmates. “Do you think Patrick will be there?” I sound weak. I hate it.
Retha’s expression softens. She knows what happened with Patrick at the mall, but like Travis, she doesn’t bring it up. “If he’s there,” she says slowly, “I’ll knee him so hard in the balls, he’ll never have kids.”
“That would be a good thing.”
“Definitely.”
We stare at each other a moment, an acknowledgment of fear without the words. Then Retha rubs her lips together to smooth her lipstick and checks her reflection one last time. But my heart is still racing—I haven’t seen anyone from Kennedy since I was expelled. What will they say when they see me? What will they do?
I can’t be scared of them, though. I can’tletthem scare me. I begin to twist my hair around my finger, glancing out Retha’s bedroom window at the sky. This is a bad idea.
“You want to borrow something to wear?” Retha asks, startling me.
“No, thanks.” My clothes are faded, a little old and oversize. But I hate borrowing things.
“Come on, Savvy,” she says. “I’ll even let you wearThe Shirt.” She grins.
Damn.The Shirt. Retha has this one fitted shirt that whenever I wear it, no shit, I hook up. It hugs me just right and makes my boobs look fantastic, or maybe it’s just a random coincidence. Either way, whenever I wear it, I get lucky. Every time.
And I wouldn’t mind a kiss.
***
“This sucks so hard right now,” I mumble as we make our way through the crowds of freshmen in the darkened field. We’re not far outside the city, barely in the suburbs, but one farmer used to have functioning cornfields here. He retired, but the corn still grows on his land. Now the locals have carved out a path and use it to party.
“I swear we were never this desperate as underclassmen,” I say, looking sideways at Retha.
“Hell no,” she agrees. “They’re nasty.”
We’ve already been hit on three times and nearly groped by the “key master.” It takes Retha two tries to convince him there are no car keys in her pocket. The second try ended with a heel to his shin. He should have known better than to try exploring her jeans on his own.
I keep my head down, my hair falling forward to cover my face. I hope no one will recognize me—especially since the last image they have of me was when I was getting carried out of school, calling Patrick a son of a bitch with his blood on my shirt. This is a really bad place for me to be.
“Savannah Sutton?” someone calls. My heart nearly stops.
I look over slowly and find Spencer Harris. He’s a running back and a friend of Patrick’s. We’d gone to school together since kindergarten, but he looks at me now like I’m a piece of shit. I used to think he was a nice guy.
Retha stops, looking at him and then me. “You need help?” she asks quietly.
I shake my head no and wait as Spencer approaches. Retha takes a step back. I like that she doesn’t force the issue—she knows I can handle myself.
