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)
“Is it?” Macon asks when I don’t answer.
I shake my head, smashing the beans as I mix up the chili and crackers. “Don’t.”
“Livvy…”
“Just let me be!” I shout, glaring up at them. Jesus! This doesn’t have to be a family-fucking-meeting, Macon. I shoot daggers at him, tired of everyone on my back. Even at home, I’m not safe.
They have no idea what it’s been like for me. What every day is like for me in this town. I made a decision. Just support me. Please!
Macon blinks, hesitating. The last time I’d yelled at him I was ten, in tears, and thrashing. He’d hugged me until I couldn’t hurt myself anymore.
When he speaks, his tone is gentler. “You are the only one ever getting out of here,” he tells me. “Don’t you think I’ve always known that? You have three months left. If you let them win now, it will follow you forever.”
I scoop up more chili. “Clay Collins won’t feel like she’s won anything six months from now.”
“Clay Collins,” he says. “That’s who did this.”
He holds up his phone, smart enough to know someone had to take the video of the assistant coach and me.
I ignore the question. “I’m a fighter,” I inform him. “But that is something you never understood. Not everything is worth a fight. What do I care what they think about me in twenty years? I won’t be thinking about them at all.”
“Well, that’s just great,” he says, tossing his phone back down. “Because as usual, everything is all about you.”
“On the contrary, finally something is.” I stare hard at him. “I don’t have to stay in a community that hates me. I don’t have to put up with anything.”
“Then bite back!”
I shake my head. I bit back in that shower with her, and I loved seeing how much she wanted it. I loved it too much. That was the problem.
Biting back could hurt me more than her. I can’t.
So, fuck it. I’m out. I’m eighteen. I got into Dartmouth. All I have to do now is graduate high school, and it really doesn’t matter how or from where. If Marymount decided to send me packing when I withdrew this week, I could go to the public high school to finish my credits, and I’d still be going to Dartmouth in the fall. Living my life. Free. Happy. I win.
The doorbell rings, and I see Trace head for it as Macon and my gazes stay locked on each other. I eat another bite, finally looking away, rather than play his infantile game of “Who’s Going to Blink First?”
I know what he’s saying. And part of me agrees. Part of me is consumed by pride, and I hate that Clay Collins and her friends will get even a moment’s satisfaction by running me off, but it’s not my responsibility to educate them. It’s not my lot in life to survive them. Fuck them.
“What the hell?” I hear Trace gripe.
We all turn our heads as he opens the door wide, and I watch as Krisjen steps into the house, her lacrosse uniform on and her hair in French braids.
My brothers stare at her, knowing exactly who she is. Her grandfather is the judge Iron always gets every time he’s in trouble, and the judge who would just love to be there when my brother gets his third strike.
“Really brave or really stupid,” Trace says, sounding amused. He turns his head to me. “Any idea, Liv?”
“She’s not brave,” I tell him, scooping up more food and pinning Krisjen with a stare. “Or smart.”
Just stupid.
“You have twenty seconds,” I tell her.
She casts a nervous glance around the room, looking apprehensive to say whatever she has to say in front of my whole family, but whatever.
“The game is today,” she says.
“And?”
“The car is running.” She tips her chin up, bracing herself. “I have your uniform. Please.”
I laugh under my breath. “Get out.”
I take a bite, everyone else remaining silent.
But Krisjen doesn’t back down. “Gibbon’s Cross, Jaeger! I can’t beat them.”
“I’m no longer on the team.”
“You’re still a student,” she retorts. “You could be back on the team with the snap of a finger.”
I shake my head. “I said get out.”
“Just this game.” She moves in, hovering over me. “This is your team, too. You worked for months for this.”
And for what? I stir the food, refusing to look up. Gibbon’s Cross is the team to beat, and I wanted to be there, because winning would feel great, but I could only hold on for so long. Joining that team was never about lacrosse. It was me stupidly thinking that people would like me when they got to know me. I’d bond with the girls on the team. I’d be respected by classmates, being part of their world. The administration would value me and treat me as worthy of what I deserved if I was a team player in that one aspect.