Page 6 of Ripple Effect: Ep. 1

“I’m well aware. This isn’t about the note.” He sniffs and twists to lift a paperweight from his desk, toying with it while he watches me over those spectacles. “I’ve put in a recommendation that you be added to the mathematics and engineering enrichment program offered by city college. It begins next semester.”

I swallow hard and clear my throat, damn near choking on my own spit. So wasn’t expecting that. Programs like that are reserved for the college groupies who flock to extra credits like flies on shit. “Me?” I shift in my seat. The only time I flock to anything is when the potheads and junkies gather at the fire station during lunch hour. “Because my record’s not the greatest—”

“I’m aware of your record. I’m also aware of the drugs. Regardless, you still manage to do fairly well academically. And I’m asking you to try a little harder. My ass is on the line with this one. LaValle had a spot that needed to be filled and I tossed your name out to him.”

I’ve never heard Prescott speak so candidly. Not that ass is the most impressive curse, but it’s kinda cool. Like finding out your priest wears Converse and listens to death metal outside of Sundays. “So … you know, I’m not … I mean, I don’t know if I’m going to college.”

I want to tell him I’m not worth the trouble or risk, that I’d probably mess up whatever rapport he has with whoever LaValle is, but I feel like I’m trapped inside a weird dream and part of me just wants to see how it’ll play out.

“Well, perhaps this will help you decide what you’d like to do. There’s no pressure to continue with the program. You don’t seem to be aware of your talent in mathematics, which is a shame. I just thought you could use some challenge.”

“How will this challenge me?”

“You’re going to be amongst the cream of the crop from each school. The idea is to find gifted young minds within the inner city schools. It’s a great opportunity for meandering souls, however brilliant, like yourself.”

“Can I think about it?”

“Absolutely. Though, in all honesty, I’m hoping you’ll consider it. You’re very bright, Ms. Westrick. It’s your attitude and lack of focus that hold you back.”

There it is again. Lack of focus.

I bite the inside of my lip, even with his buried compliment, clipping the snarky comeback.

“You’re dismissed.” His casual stance morphs back into the stiff suit from minutes before. As if he only reserves his laid back persona for the secret group of math nerds.

With a sharp nod, I rise up from my chair, capping a smile. It occurs to me that this is the first time in my life that anyone’s taken a chance on me. The first time anyone’s ever had any confidence in me. I may not give a shit about college, or even math, really, but I’m sure as hell going to give this some thought.

I’ve got nothing to lose.

* * *

It’s forty-some degrees outside with a drizzle of rain that coats my skin and hair—just enough to add a miserable cold bite, as it dampens my clothes. The bitter wind burns my lungs and I can hardly suck in enough air to walk the four blocks of endless sidewalks, but I take my time because I hate going home.

By the time I reach the apartment door, my hands are so numb and wet, I can hardly turn the knob. At least Randy won’t be home until late and Chanel will be passed out on the couch. That usually allows me time to parachute another pill and sleep before Randy’s buddies show up for poker, and I’m forced to keep myself locked in my room.

The sounds from inside steel my muscles and I immediately recognize the voice. Randy. Home from work?

What the hell?

Pushing through the door, I pad down the hallway to the kitchen where both Chanel and Randy sit at the kitchen table, across from Layla, each with a plate in front of them. A medium-sized chocolate cake with skinny, waxy candles sticking up from the top throws up a warning that something isn’t right. In all the time I’ve lived here, we’ve not celebrated a single birthday, which have become nothing but a tally mark for me.

Charlie jumps up from the corner of the room and trots toward me. I pet her coat, never once taking my eyes off Randy and Chanel. Satisfied with the attention, she returns to her place in the corner and rests her head on her paws.

I cautiously walk toward the trio, as if something might come out and smack me upside the head. It’s a trap, but I have no idea when or how I’ll end up stepping in it.

Layla’s eyes light up and she holds up a forkful of German chocolate cake. Red flag. Randy doesn’t give a shit about me—particularly my favorite flavor of cake.

“Dilly! Look what Uncle Randy bought you!” The drugs, coupled with her failure to acknowledge the bullshit scenario before her eyes, gives Chanel’s voice a mirthful trill that doesn’t belong here.

My heart thumps in my chest, and my gaze flits to Randy, where he sits licking his fork, a fake ass smile plastered to his face.

“What’s going on?” I ask, my muscles braced for some unpleasant surprise.

“We’re celebrating, silly.” Chanel’s lips are painted a ridiculous pink that matches her nails. She looks nothing like my mother with her blond hair and brown eyes. My mother had rich dark hair and striking blue eyes that could draw a man’s attention like a magnet through a junkyard. Before the drugs, anyway. There’s nothing striking about Chanel at all.

“Want some cake, Dylan?” Randy asks.

“What’s this about?” The jittery sensation crawling through my skin creeps its way into my voice. “Why are you doing this?”