Total pages in book: 165
Estimated words: 159976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Something flies past us, splashing against the mirrors behind Megan, and water flies everywhere. I wince, drops hitting my hair, and I turn my face away, releasing the bar back to the power rack. Megan gasps. What the hell?
A water bottle falls into the tin garbage can, and I look down, seeing cool water droplets on my arm.
My heart leaps into my throat, and I turn my head, seeing Clay Collins approach.
She glares at Megan. “You’re not our age,” Clay corrects her. Then she picks up Megan’s clipboard and tosses it at her. “We’ll let you know when it’s time to carry our shit onto the field this afternoon.”
I stay lying on the bench, not budging from my back as I watch her work, almost amused as I take in her little power play.
Megan was a senior when we were juniors. An upperclassman. She’s also one of our coaches. Does Clay take any of this into account before attacking? Not even a little.
Megan hesitates for a moment, probably gauging whether or not it’s worth it to even try to report Clay’s behavior. But in the end, she realizes, like we all do, that Clay might be a spoiled brat, but she’s good at the long game. It’s better to just hope this tantrum is the end of it, instead of enticing further retaliation.
Megan leaves, her wet ponytail dangling behind her, but she spares a glance back at me, a small, soft smile on her lips before she disappears through the doors.
Then I turn my gaze to Clay.
“What the fuck are you smiling at?” she asks me. “Your team spots you. Is that clear?”
I scoff as I sit up, grab my towel, and rise, meeting her eyes two inches from my face. “I wouldn’t let you spot me a quarter for charity.”
She may be my team captain, but the bitch has never had my back.
Becks lets a laugh escape from behind Clay, Clay’s scowl hardening like she just made a promise in her head.
But I don’t even blink as I slip around her and leave.
I know I should just lie low. Only four months left and all.
But as the home stretch shortens more every day, I care less and less.
Maybe I want to see if she has anything left up her sleeves.
I dare her.
I really do dare her.
• • •
I hurry down the aisle of the school’s theater and push through the door. I dump my backpack against the wall, my blue-and-black plaid skirt brushing against my thighs as I break into a jog.
Jeremy Boxer and Adam Sorretti carry armfuls of wood and fabric, and a couple gallons of paint dangle from their fingers as I push past them and make for the cast list that I already see hanging on the bulletin board.
My heart races. Come on. The last eight hours of school, practice, and waiting were torture, but I’ll be high as a kite for the rest of my life if one thing goes my way in the next two seconds.
I press my palm to the board to stop myself as I move my index finger down the list, not looking for my name first.
I stop, seeing Mercutio, and slide right, hoping but already knowing before I even see it.
Callum Ames.
I drop my arm, fighting the urge to cry as I stare at the roster and exhale hard. I trace the line from Mercutio to Callum three more times with just my eyes to make sure before it even occurs to me to scan the sheet for my name to see if I was cast in anything at all, despite losing the role I wanted.
And there I am. Nurse……………….Olivia Jaeger.
I shake my head and turn away, holding back only a moment. Fuck you. I shoot off, my disappointment morphing into anger that I know won’t do me any good, but I’m not letting her off the hook this time. I throw open Ms. Lambert’s office door, finding it empty, and then stalk farther down the hall, stepping backstage and see her leaning over a drafting table, sifting through designs.
I move around the table, standing opposite her. “Four years,” I bite out, picking up at exactly where we left off the last time the theater director and I had this conversation.
She looks up at me, her short brown hair tucked behind her ears.
I continue. “Nearly four years of set designs and sewing costumes and completing whatever other menial task you asked of me,” I tell her. “I’ve spent more time here than I have with my family.”
“You got a part.”
“The nurse?” I practically spit out.
“You didn’t want Juliet.”
“Romeo wouldn’t have wanted Juliet if he’d spent more than one dance with her before marrying her!”
I’m yelling at a teacher, but I’m around her more than anyone, so I know she’ll let me off the hook like a mom who still loves you even when you fuck up.