The Problem with Forever(35)

“Do you?” I whispered, unable to look at him.

“Sometimes.” There was a pause as he slid his hands along his jeans. “Sometimes I think about other nights, you know, when that * would get drunk and his friends would be over.”

Every part of my body tensed, and I didn’t dare make a sound then, because I knew what other nights he was referencing.

“And sometimes I hope that every one of them, including Henry, is dead.” He laughed without humor. “That makes me a horrible person, doesn’t it?”

“No,” I said immediately. “That doesn’t make you a horrible person.” My mouth dried as my thoughts raced back to those nights when Henry’s friends would be in the house. Some would look at me in ways no man should look at a little girl. Then there were some who looked at Rider in the same way—some that had gone for him. The others would’ve gotten me if it hadn’t been for Rider. “Did they ever...?”

Rider shook his head. “No. I was always too fast and they were always too drunk. I was lucky.”

I wasn’t sure that made him lucky.

“We should head back,” he said, pushing to his feet as another drop of rain fell to the cracked asphalt. “It’s about to start pouring.”

Standing, I followed him to the Honda. My movements were stiff. As Rider got into the car and closed the door, I turned and stared at the painted brick wall. The graffiti might just have been letters, a bright flower, a woman’s face or a little boy staring up at the sky with no hope of a different tomorrow, but each piece of art had a story to tell. Each of them spoke without words. And while I’d tried for years to do the same, I wasn’t a painting on a wall.

“My name is Mallory...Dodge.” I drew in a deep breath, speaking to no one. “And I like...I like reading. And I don’t like...I don’t like who I am.”





Chapter 11

We didn’t make it to the Harbor to meet Ainsley until noon on Saturday since Carl wanted to make breakfast and do the whole caring-is-sharing routine, which was a Saturday staple unless he or Rosa got called into work.

Carl had made his famous waffles—famous in his own head—but they were special to me. Special because I’d never had this before them. Waffles with blueberries and strawberries every Saturday morning. Special because I knew there were too many kids to count that weren’t experiencing this and never had.

Halfway through breakfast, the idle chatter between them turned serious and it was directed at me. It was Rosa who spoke first, after her second full cup of coffee. “So, the school called us yesterday.”

With a forkful of waffle and strawberry halfway to my gaping mouth, I froze. So much for my promise to Rider about not getting in trouble.

She placed her fork on her plate, next to the waffle crumbs. Her plate was otherwise clear. Mine looked like a syrup lake. “Actually, a Mr. Santos contacted us.”

I closed my eyes.

“We both spoke to him,” Carl added, and the waffle I’d so recently shoved down my throat turned sour. “He explained you had an issue yesterday in class during an exercise in public speaking.”

Opening my eyes, I lowered my fork. I was so no longer hungry. And I was so... I shifted in my chair, uncomfortable.

“He said that another classmate spoke up for you, said you were feeling ill and that’s why you left,” Carl continued. “Now, he also told us it was Rider who covered for you.”

Oh, God.

I wanted to crawl under the table.

“We’ll talk about that in a moment.” Rosa held up a hand, silencing Carl. “You weren’t feeling ill yesterday, were you?”

Lying would probably be better than throwing my failure onto the table in front of us, but I shook my head. Silence stretched out, and I pressed my lips together as I shifted my gaze to my plate. They had to be so disappointed. One week into school and they’d already gotten a call concerning me.

“It’s okay.” Rosa reached over, placing her hand on my arm. I looked up. “Carl and I expected there were going to be some bumps in the road. We knew speech class wasn’t going to be easy. You knew that, too.”

She was right. That didn’t make admitting my failure any easier.

“The school knows,” Carl said, drawing my attention.

“Knows...knows what?”

Folding his arms on the table, he leaned forward. “We spoke to the administration back when you were registered, letting them know you might have some difficulties.”

My jaw nearly hit the table. “You...did what?”

“We didn’t go into detail, Mallory, and we only met with your teachers, the principal and Mrs. Dehaven, one of the counselors,” Rosa explained. “It’s just so they could keep an eye on you, just in case anything happened that we needed to know about.”

Only everyone! Oh my God. Skin tingling and itchy, I sat back in the chair. I stared at them without really seeing them. All I could see was all these people knowing about my difficulties the whole week when this was supposed to be a fresh start.

“They needed to know,” Carl said.

That was stated like it was a fact, and I begged to differ. My tongue untangled.

“We worked out a deal with Mr. Santos during yesterday’s call,” he continued, and my tongue went right back to the roof of my mouth. “He completely understands, Mallory. I want you to know that. He understands how difficult it will be for you to get in front of that class and speak.”