Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(9)
“Fuck, Will, so do I! Half this school has some sort of something on their record. We drive too fast, we get caught at parties with beer, we steal shit from the convenience store. It’s what we do because there’s shit-squat to do out here,” Ryan says, standing and kissing Elise on the head. “I’m just saying maybe we’re all a little f*cked up, and the only difference is the world knows Owen’s story, because it happened out in the open. The rest of us…we all just keep our shit private.”
Elise doesn’t add anything to Ryan’s speech, but she looks at her boyfriend with a sort of reverence when he speaks. With trays in their hands, they slide from the table together, leaving just Willow and me now to finish the story.
“I guess Ryan’s sort of right,” she says, slipping her backpack over her shoulders and nudging me to do the same so we’re not late for class. “But…I don’t know, Kens. That guy? He has some extra crap going on. He lives on the edge, like he doesn’t have fear or something. I’ve heard he’s played that game, Russian roulette…you know, where people take turns holding a gun up to their heads with only one bullet inside? He does that at parties. I don’t think that’s normal, do you?”
I shake my head no when she asks. No, that’s not normal. And I think I knew the first time I looked into his eyes that there was nothing normal about Owen Harper. But what scares me is I had this flash of an idea—a fleeting thought—that there was something special about him, too.
When I dump my trash and stack my tray, I hold the door for Willow to walk through. I sneak one final look to the courtyard outside. Owen’s hand has finally dropped from the girl’s arm, and he and a group of five other guys and girls are walking away—away from the school completely.
He’s wearing gray jeans, black Doc Martens, and a tight black, long-sleeved shirt that fits his frame perfectly. From a distance, he’s a shadow. I don’t know about the wild theory. But Owen Harper is definitely dark.
And he sleeps thirty feet away from me.
Chapter 3
Why did he bother to show up at all? Why did he leave after lunch? Why did he miss his classes on the first day of school?
Who did that?
I can’t quit thinking about what Willow said. Ditching classes, three at least as far as I could tell from his absence during roll call in science, and flaunting his make-out sessions aren’t exactly things I would consider wild. But that last thing she said—about playing roulette with a loaded gun—I couldn’t seem to wrap my mind around that. It frightened me, and it made me dread going home, being near someone who could do that.
Mom was working the late shift at the hospital, and Dad wouldn’t be home until late in the evening, so I was going to experience my first ride on the country-bumpkin bus. It’s really more suburban than that, but compared to the city, where transportation options are waiting around every corner, this feels like I’m waiting for the tractor pull to swing by to give me a lift.
Willow’s car slows at the curb next to me, and her honk makes me jump. “Hey, what are you doing?”
She asks a lot of obvious questions.
“Well, maybe my powers of deductive reasoning are flawed, but I was assuming that this was the place where one waited to take the bus home. You see, there’s this sign here,” I say, tapping my fingertips on the metal sign that reads BUS STOP. “Then, there was this gathering of students all in some sort of line-type formation. So I thought…”
“Wow, you’re a smart-ass,” she says, reaching up on her visor and pulling a pair of sunglasses down to push them on her face. “Good thing I like smart-asses. Wanna ride?”
I wasn’t really looking forward to what was shaping up to be a pretty packed bus, so I shrug on the outside and open the passenger door. Inside, I do a dorky happy dance over the fact that I have a friend…with a car…who is willing to take me home. Now, just to convince her to pick me up in the mornings.
“So, where do you live?” she asks, and my mind jumps forward to thoughts of my neighbor.
“About six blocks that way, right off of Eighty-seventh and Canterbury,” I say, waiting for her to realize where I live—who I live by—but she doesn’t seem to put it together. She turns her radio up and starts singing along with one of the hit songs on the pop station. That seems to be the most popular station around here. Not a lot of alt-rock listeners, it seems. That’s okay, though—I’m sort of good with all music. Habit of my passion, I suppose.
“So, how do you like Woodstock, so far?” Willow asks. I look around at the brick and stone houses, the rows of trees and colorful leaves dusting the streets. Honestly, it’s beautiful here. But it’s still not the city, and I don’t know how to explain that to someone.
“It’s nice here,” I say, inciting a quick laugh from my new friend. “What? I mean it. It’s nice.”
“Right—nice,” she says. “You mean…boring.”
“Oh, no. I mean, well…yeah. Maybe a little boring. But that’s okay. I’m not really into crazy parties and nightlife. It’s just, in the city there’s always something going on, all the time. I guess I got kind of used to the noise. At night, it just gets so quiet here. That’s…that’s a little strange,” I explain, pointing to the street to make sure Willow makes the turn.