Dare You To (Pushing the Limits #2)(36)

“This is the most magnificent piece of writing I’ve seen from a high school student. Ever.

Have you considered that you’re more than a ballplayer?”

My mouth opens to respond, but absolutely nothing comes out and that shocks me into closing it. My mind’s blank. I’m a ballplayer. A damn good one. Isn’t that enough?

“Did you even read the information I gave you about the state competition? For three years I’ve watched you obsess over winning. Aren’t you interested in winning this too?”

I say nothing as my face reddens. Mrs. Rowe just called me out and she has a right to.

I didn’t read the paperwork. I haven’t even considered the competition since the other night when she first told me I finaled.

“I have a feeling you enjoyed writing this. It’s too good for you not to have.”

She’s right again. I did enjoy it. Finding  those words, being in George’s head…I stare down at the printed-out pages…it felt freeing. Just like when I step on the pitcher’s mound before the game and the pressure begins. The moment when it’s just me, a ball, and a mitt to throw into.

And he wondered what happened to the world around him. Did it also collapse into chaos? Had everything ceased to exist as it was, just like how his life spiraled into nothingness? Or had the rest of the world continued on like normal, because in the end his position within it never really mattered?

The words I wrote glare at me in accusation.

A nagging ache pulls at my insides. I’m proud of those words and denying the competition is like denying part of me. In front of my computer, there were no secrets, no complications—just a world that I could control.

“In order to be considered for the award,”

Mrs. Rowe continues, “you need to complete a short story and turn it in a week prior to the event. Your attendance is still required that day, however, as that’s when you’ll get critiques of your work and meet with faculty members from universities across the state. It’s one day. Just one Saturday.”

I hear my dad in my head. “I have games Saturdays.” And I glance over at Chris, who’s eyeing me warily. How much of this conversation can he hear? “My team’s depending on me.”

She pats the pages resting in front of me.

“Let’s start off small, okay? Turn this four-page beginning into a true short story. I can yank you out of every weight training, or you can promise me that you’ll write it in your free time at home. The choice is yours.”

And it’s a no-brainer. “I’ll do it in my free time.”

“Good.” Her eyes light up. “But I’m still keeping you for the next hour. I want you to get started now.”

Beth

ALLISON OWNS A MERCEDES. Leather interior.

Jet-black on the outside. Isaiah would get all hot and bothered about the junk under the hood. She drives fast on the backcountry roads and a couple of times my stomach drops like we’re on a roller coaster.

“You smell like smoke.” Allison wears a red business suit and black stilettos. She’s slicked her blond hair into a painfully tight bun.

Maybe that’s why she’s uptight.

While waiting for Allison to drag herself away from the Ladies’ Planning Committee, I smoked one of the cigarettes I bummed from a stoner boy before the incident in Calculus. I hoped it would help me get over the fight I had with Ryan. I don’t know why, but yelling at him made me feel like crap. Kind of like I do after I fight with Isaiah. “Must be in your head.”

“You smell like smoke when you come home from school. Scott may choose to ignore it, but he’s not ignoring your little stunt in class.” Allison pulls into the massive driveway surrounded by woods and notices when I glance at her. “That’s right. Your teacher called.”

Crap. I don’t have any idea how to get myself out of this.

Scott and Allison live in a two-story white house with a wraparound porch. It resembles something you’d see in a Civil War movie full of rich plantation owners. Part of the house is surrounded by woods. The other part faces an open pasture with a barn.

Allison parks the car outside the four-car garage and grabs my wrist before I have a chance to bolt. “Do you have any idea how embarrassed I was to leave the meeting because you called? This is a small town. Your teachers belong to our church. How long do you think it will be before everyone knows what a menace you are? I won’t permit you to ruin our life.”

“Get your hands off of me.” My eyes flicker from her fingers on my wrist to her eyes.

No one touches me.

She drops my wrist like she was handling fire. “Why don’t you leave? Even Scott knows you’re miserable.”

I bet Scott knows she’s miserable too. I’d never have imagined him with someone like her. Manicured. Polished. Heartless. “Were you surprised he wasn’t hard to trap?”

“What?”

“When you—” I do the mock quotation marks in the air “—‘told’ him you were pregnant, were you surprised how quickly he proposed? Scott always had a soft spot for babies. Why else would he marry you?”

Blood flushes her collarbone and her hands flutter up to her neck. “I don’t know what you’re even asking me.” She clears her throat, obviously flustered. “Scott doesn’t have a soft spot for babies.”