Page 63 of Lucky Shot

“No need. Pep talks are free just like they always have been.”

“Is it bad if I just say I want this whole thing to be over? It’s like the man has come here and done a world of good for the facility while upending my life in the process.”

“Upending your life? I think you’re being a bit dramatic. You wrote all those letters and look what came of it? Donations are coming in. Media attention is helping bring new students in. And then there’s Hardy.”

“What about him?”

“Are you still in the nothing to see here phase?”

“Yes. Because there is nothing to see here.”

“Yet.”

“Yet? I think you fell and hit your head.” What I won’t admit to her is that I feel like I did just that—fell and hit my head—every time I talk to Hardy. There’s so much about him that I like. And there are about equal parts that I don’t. “You do know that this call is supposed to be moral support for the fact that my story has been blasted all over the freaking internet when I don’t want it to be, right?”

“I’m sorry. You’re one hundred percent right. Forgive me for wondering how you’re resisting that fuck-hot piece of a man every second of every day.”

“It’s not easy,” I mutter. “But nothing is happening. He doesn’t look at me like that.” Yes, he does. “Nor does anything flutter or tingle or ache when the man is around, so no, nothing is happening.”

Lies. All lies.

And I appreciate the fact that she knows me well enough to know I’m lying, but she doesn’t call me out on it. Instead, I get a noncommittal sound from her that could mean a myriad of things.

“Yet,” she repeats.

“Oh, whatever. It’s nothing. There’s nothing. He’s simply here because he has to be.”

“Fine. Sure. Whatever you say.” Her voice is the tone of innocence. “It’s going to be okay, Whitney.”

“What is?”

“The stories will fade from the internet. The ones that linger will only net more sincerity to your plight for the academy. And who knows what might come of it? I know that’s not what you want to hear, that your story is being used to sell the academy, but aren’t you the perfect representative of it?”

“It still makes me feel . . . exposed,” I say as the driver takes a right down a street I don’t know.

“Understandably, but that’s who you were. This is who you are. Be proud of it.”

“I am. It’s just . . .”

“It’s just go and enjoy whatever surprise the Mayhem have in store for you tonight.”

“I was told a movie. Not that I understand why they want me to go to one, but—”

“But you’re going to go and enjoy your night out regardless, without questioning why.”

“Yes. True.” A free night out of the house for an extravagance such as a movie in the theater with a small splurge of hot buttered popcorn or nachos? What broke girl is going to say no to that? Not this one.

“We’re almost there, Miss Barnes,” the driver says. Why have we pulled in behind a row of what seems to be airplane hangars?

“Um . . . I think we’re in the wrong—Suri, I have to go.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yes. Good. Just a little mix-up. I’ll call you later.”

“Take pictures. Lots of pictures.”

“Sir?” I ask my driver when I end the call. “I think we’re in the wrong place. I was supposed to be going to—”