Dare You To (Pushing the Limits #2)(35)

Sweat forms along the hairline on my neck as the world sways. It’s been too much: the changes. Losing Mom. Losing Isaiah. Losing my home. I’ve tried. Really I have. I’ve roamed the halls as the reclusive freak show.

This answer will change everything again.

“Yes.”

Whispers and comments rush through the class like wind from an oncoming thunderstorm. Our teacher becomes uncharacteristically cheery. “I’m sure Beth would love to answer your questions about her uncle outside of class. Now, Ms. Risk, would you please come and write out your solution to today’s equation?”

“No,” I say without thinking. No to both of her statements. I’m not answering anyone’s questions and I’m not writing out a solution.

My reply silences the class.

“Excuse me?” she asks.

I look at my blank sheet again. There is no way in hell I’m going to that dry-erase board and have the entire school witness the niece of the great Scott Risk fail because I’m an idiot. “I’m not writing out my solution.”

The bell rings and my teacher’s expression gives new meaning to the term wrathful. A couple more pounds of chains settle in my stomach. I’ve gone and done it—I’ve broken Scott’s rules in a very public fashion. How could I do this to Mom?

“Ms. Risk,” she calls from her desk as the rest of the class files out. I go, knowing the level of shit I’m in is too deep for her to allow an audience. “Let’s discuss a few rules.”

She “discusses” for a long time, and when she finally lets me go, I race down the stairs.

Scott made it perfectly clear I was never to miss my bus. The idling buses greet me through the window when I reach the bottom floor. I have seconds before they leave.

A high-pitched whistle catches my attention.

Ryan leans against the last locker with a shit-eating smirk on his face. He lifts his right hand and shows me his palm. Written there is the word that makes me want to vomit: can.

The buses roll out of the lot. Ryan withdraws his hand, and strides out the door.

Ryan

DEEP, THROATY LAUGHTER fills the school’s weight room when Chris rips off the Kick Me sign Logan planted on his back. The laughter grows when Chris wads the paper up, throws it at Logan, and flips him off.

“All right, girls.” Coach bangs his hand against one of the lockers to gain our attention.

“I’ve got this week’s study hall list.”

The laughter switches to groaning. Coach is serious about our grades. Each week he pesters our teachers for a progress report and if he sees our grades slightly teeter, we end up in after-school tutoring. I wipe my hands on a towel and prepare to lie back to finish my reps. I’m no Logan, but I keep my grades at a decent level.

“Allen, Niles, and Jones.”

Chris tilts his head back and moans. “Damn science.”

I snap the towel at him. “Have fun.” Nothing can lower this mood. I finally got the better of Beth. And it’s about damn time. No one has bested me this long.

“Screw you, Ryan.” Without another glance, Chris leaves the room.

“Stone!” calls Coach.

“Yeah?”

Coach stares at me oddly and hitches a thumb in the direction Chris just went. “Study hall.”

“For what?” My grades are fine.

He shrugs. “Your English teacher requested you.”

Back talk will get me push-ups or laps, so I suck up any commentary and head out of the room and down the empty hallways. When I finally reach study hall, I’m immediately greeted by Chris’s chuckles. He leans back in his chair, ignoring the science book in front of him. “My life just got better.”

If it weren’t for the tutors and teachers in the room, I’d tell him where to shove it.

“Over here, Ryan.” Mrs. Rowe waves at me as if I’m across a stadium. Her hair has a green tint today. I acknowledge her with a movement of my chin and walk over to her desk.

I slide into the chair next to her. “I passed the quiz and I’ve turned in my papers.”

Her hand flutters in the air. “Oh, you’re not here because of your grades.”

My eyes narrow as my muscles tighten.

“Then why am I here?”

She shuffles through a stack of papers, searching for something. Possibly her mind. “Your coach said we could request you for any academic reason. It doesn’t have to be a bad reason. Stop being so pessimistic.”

Pessimistic? “I’m missing weight training.”

“So you are,” she says as she pulls my

George the zombie tale out of the stack. “You haven’t turned in your paperwork for the writing competition. What you should be worried about is missing your opportunity at a college scholarship. If you win this competition, you’ll receive money toward any Kentucky school of your choice. It’s not a full scholarship, but it’s something.”

“I’m not going to college,” I say plainly.

She freezes and stares at me as if I’d announced her impending death. “Why not?”

I gesture at my shirt. Is this lady for real?

“I’m a ballplayer. I’m going to play ball.”

“You can play ball at college. Ryan.…” She falters, then places my story in front of me.