Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 152045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 760(@200wpm)___ 608(@250wpm)___ 507(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 760(@200wpm)___ 608(@250wpm)___ 507(@300wpm)
But just then, a flicker ignites to my left. I look over as Hunter steps up, holding a lighter to the pole. My heart thumps in my chest as the flame catches, spreading like the wind up the steel beam, following the trail of lacquer thinner higher and higher. The corner of the flag ignites, and I watch the Pirate banner go up in flames as everyone erupts into cheers.
In a moment, it’s gone, Farrow and his friends laughing as Hunter lifts his eyes, looking at me.
Damn.
Motor oil isn’t flammable. Just combustible. I should’ve used motor oil.
Near the fence…
I pull the key out of my pocket, trailing down the edge of the parking lot. A whistle goes off, filling the air, and I hear shouts from the football field, catching glimpses through the slits in the bleachers. Players run back and forth, sweating under the warm fall sun, and I step up to the fence, watching the light breeze blow through Hunter’s hair.
Coach Dewitt stands over him, yelling as Hunter does push-ups with the sun beating down on his shoulders and back. I can’t see the sweat curling up the ends of his hair above his neck or around his temples, but I know what he looks like when he’s getting a workout.
At least they’re not making me do push-ups for the flag incident. I’m surprised he’s getting punished, though, but I guess starting a fire was going too far for the teachers.
It was so unlike Hunter. And yet, exactly like him to be so resourceful in a crunch. Still a straight-A student, I’ll bet.
The palms of his hands press into the burnt grass of the field, and I can hear the rickety bleachers whining against the wind. Car engines kick up behind me as people leave school, and I take out my phone, holding it up and snapping a picture of the team at work on the field.
No prey, no pay, I type out the caption.
#underablackflagwesail
I tuck my phone away, already feeling it vibrate with notifications. Over my shoulder, I spot the bike Farrow left me. Red and white, late model Ninja. I shoot my eyebrows up, impressed, but then I immediately adjust my surprise because it’s probably stolen.
I glance back once more at Hunter, seeing Farrow and the guys line up with him as he continues his push-ups.
One by one, they all drop to their hands and toes, taking his punishment alongside him, exercising in sync.
The Pirates never would’ve done that for him. For anyone.
Moving for the bike, I throw my leg over and stick in the key. I should inspect it—check the tires, look at the brakes, do a practice run around the lot to make sure they didn’t sabotage it—but I just want to get out of here.
Taking the helmet off the handlebar, I slide it on, fasten it, and grab the bars. I start the bike, giving it some gas and feeling the machine pull underneath me. Rocking my wrist back and forth, I feel the wheels spin, and I turn, racing off, propping my feet up on the footrests.
I race through the parking lot, zooming around a car and hearing it honk at me as I peel out onto the street ahead. The bike whirs under my thighs, pulsing through the handlebars and up my arms, into my chest, and in less than three seconds, everything relaxes. I lean down, at one with my line of sight, and I flex my jaw to keep the smile at bay.
The house isn’t far, and I want to do a spin to get a feel for the bike, just a basic lay of the land.
But I don’t have my license.
I need to get online, request a replacement, and see if I can print off a copy to carry with me until it comes.
I turn onto Knock Hill, fly down the street like a dart, and slide into a parking spot at the curb. Turning off the bike, I climb off and remove my helmet, noticing my bedroom on the second floor. The curtains billow in the wind pouring through the open window on the side of the house. The overhead light is on too.
Did I leave the light on?
I look both ways, seeing a barber across the street sweeping the floor of his converted-garage shop. Down the road, a woman sits at the top of her steps on a lawn chair.
The cars look the same as the ones this morning. I don’t recognize any of them.
Tightening my grip on my helmet, I stick my key between my fingers and head up the staircase to my front door. I twist the handle and push it open, angling my head to keep my ears peeled.
When I don’t hear anything, I slip inside and quietly shut the door.
I move toward the kitchen, but then, the floor above me creaks. I stop and stare at the ceiling.