“Aw, come on.” She laughs. “It’s okay to like him. How many guys would buy a girl a lollipop for no reason? Not many. He’s a sweetheart.”
“I’d buy you one,” Travis says, sounding hurt.
Retha reaches over to play with his hair. “I know, baby,” she says. “But we’re past that stage of our relationship. Now I want things that are shiny.”
They kiss, and I relax back into the seat, twirling the sucker between my fingers. Strawberry isn’t my favorite flavor, but it still makes me smile. No one has ever given me a Blow Pop before.
Later, when Travis finally pulls up to my house at three a.m., I still have the sucker in my hand even though the stick has started to shred. Retha is passed out in the front seat, and Travis’s eyelids are heavy. He raises his hand to me in a wave when I get out.
I wait at the curb as the taillights of his car disappear around the corner. Dread creeps in the minute I turn to look at my house. It’s small with peeling white paint and a flat roof. The wide front stairs lost their finish a long time ago and are crumbling at the edges. No one will take care of it anytime soon. The house is pathetic. Like my life.
I sit on the top stair in the dark, facing the street. Over in the corner of the lawn (if you can call dirt a lawn) is a bumpy patch where there used to be a garden. It hurts to look at it, hurts to remember why it’s there.
My family was almost normal before Evan. My mother even tried to plant a garden while she was pregnant with my brother. But after Evan was born, after she knew he wasn’t going to be “right,” she let the flowers die. Our family died with them.
I wipe hard at my face, pushing away the thoughts. The anger. In my other hand I clutch the Blow Pop. I bring it in front of me, staring at the white-and-pink wrapper. It’s such a simple thing.
I think about Cameron, his face when I called him desperate. I should apologize to him, but I probably won’t. I won’t know how.
But Iamgrateful. And to prove it, I unwrap the lollipop and bring it to my lips.
CHAPTER THREE
I’m already so tired,but I’ll have Evan after school today. My mornings are like this—filled with exhaustion, anxiety, maybe guilt. It hasn’t always been this way. I used to be able to catch the bus with my friends. I used to have a life. I used to have a mother.
My alarm clock buzzes on the side table next to me and I slap it off. I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling.
Gross. School.
Travis and Retha meet me out front with a cup of coffee and a Ho Ho. They are the best friends ever. They are also so hungover that they’re moaning. It’s a good thing I don’t like alcohol. Spending half of my day nauseous sounds awful.
“You look terrible,” I say to Travis when I catch his red-rimmed eyes in the mirror. “Should really stop drinking.” I bite into my Ho Ho.
“Thanks, Mom,” he answers, and turns up the radio. He always gets cranky when I bring up his drinking.
I’ve been with Travis and Retha for close to a year now. Retha is like me—anger management issues. Only my weapon of choice was a number two pencil and hers was her fist. Travis has different problems altogether. Problems that keep him in and out of rehab.
“By the way,” Retha says, turning to glance back at me, “I heard Lucinda Wilson is going to be starting at Brooks today. Keep that bitch away from me, all right?”
“I don’t even know who she is.”
“One of my ex-girlfriends,” Travis says quietly. But Retha still turns to glare at him.
“Yeah,” she adds, snaking her head. “And she’d better keep her nasty hands to herself or I’ll break them off.”
Travis sighs like he’s tired of the conversation, and knowing Retha, this probably isn’t the first time they’ve had it. Retha resorts to fighting before talking. She’s all fists like that.
“I’ll keep my eye out for a handsy ex,” I say, sticking the last piece of Ho Ho in my mouth. “Just don’t get me in a fight. Again.”
Before I came to Brooks Academy I had only been in one fight—the one that sent me here. Even though, technically, it was “assault” and not a real fight. Now it seems like every weekend I’m running either to or from an ass kicking.
Retha smiles at me. “I’ll try my best.” As we walk into the classroom, Mr. Jimenez looks especially exhausted and clings to his podium, rustling through papers. The place is pretty much empty. But I do notice the shiny new blonde in the front row. Hello, Lucinda.
Travis makes a spectacle of wrapping his arms around Retha as he walks her to her seat. She and Lucinda exchange the required “bitch-ho” comments, and all is right with the world.
But when I sit down, I feel a little stab of disappointment. No Cameron. I’d been nervous to talk to him after the Blow Pop incident, but I was still looking forward to seeing him. I glance toward Retha just as she lies across her desk with a loud sigh. Travis retreats to his corner for a nap, and Gris is in his desk with his baseball cap pulled down to cover his black eye.
Mr. Jimenez straightens up at the podium. “Ah . . .” he says, looking over the class. “Fifty percent attendance rate. That’s a new classroom high.”
