eggs,” he added. “You need the protein. Don’t make me nag you.” He gave me a fond but sad smile.
My father, ever watchful, waited until I picked up my fork, though my stomach roiled at the thought of food, especially cold eggs tainted by the fear and momentary panic of this morning. I wasn’t sure how I’d ever eat again, never mind enjoying what had once been my favorite meal.
Guess I’d have to fake it. Just like everything else.
S O IT TURNS OUT that late-night flashes of brilliance often look a little less brilliant in the bright light of morning.
Ariane Tucker. I was supposed to ask Ariane Tucker to Bonfire Week today.
I squinted at the sunlight pouring into my bedroom and pulled the covers over my head.
Seriously not one of my better ideas. First, it involved Bonfire Week, which was always a pain. It was supposed to be about school spirit in general, but usually turned into a weeklong celebration of the only “worthy” sport: football. And frankly, I got enough of that crap at home. Second, Rachel no doubt had a larger game plan of humiliation in mind, even if I didn’t know what it was yet. And third, I barely knew this girl. Based on the hate-filled glares she’d sent at me yesterday during the whole Jenna debacle, I wasn’t entirely convinced of my ability to talk her into anything.
Maybe I should have just let Jonas do his best. Ariane probably wouldn’t have fallen for it anyway. And even if she had, why did it matter to me?
I had no idea. But I was stuck now.
I groaned and forced myself out of bed and into the shower, my head throbbing. It seems that drinking five beers shortly before bed also sucks first thing in the morning.
Fifteen minutes later I stumbled into our kitchen, my hair wet and my clothes sticking to my skin. I’d been doing pretty well to make it through the shower at all. The effort of drying off might have pushed me too close to the line, transforming the possibility of puking to reality.
“Late on your second day. That’s a good start,” my dad said from his position behind the island, where, coffee cup in hand, he was flipping through the newspaper. Probably looking for mentions of himself or his “team.” My dad was one of those people where nothing existed or counted as important unless someone else was talking about it.
I ignored him, making my way over to the bread box. But when I lifted up the lid, I found only the empty blueand-white plastic bag. I’d have to get to the store this week sometime.
Stomach churning, I dug to the bottom of the bag and found the dried-out heel. Gross. But I chucked it into the toaster anyway. I needed something in my gut, and after last night’s events, I was betting I wouldn’t be able to talk Trey into stopping for a greasy breakfast. In fact, I probably should have been worried about whether he’d show up to give me a ride at all, but that felt like too much work. If he didn’t show, I’d have to ask my dad for a ride, and that was not happening.
I braced my hands against the cabinet by my head and closed my eyes, resisting the urge to lay my face against the cool, smooth wood. The room spun if I moved too quickly.
My dad snorted. “If you’re going to run with the big dogs, Zane, you’ve got to be able to keep up.”
Like Quinn. He didn’t say it, but I knew that’s what he was thinking. My older brother’s high-ranking position among the Ashe High elite had been a foregone conclusion; that they’d accepted me as well (albeit with far less fanfare) had come as a genuine surprise to my dad. Consequently, he seemed to view it as a privilege that might be revoked at any time, if I proved myself less than worthy. And that would be a darker stain on the family name than if I’d never been “in” in the first place.
Quinn had never had to worry about any of this, of course. He was perfect at everything, just like my dad. He’d have partied last night, woken up for a five-mile jog at dawn, finished a report
My father, ever watchful, waited until I picked up my fork, though my stomach roiled at the thought of food, especially cold eggs tainted by the fear and momentary panic of this morning. I wasn’t sure how I’d ever eat again, never mind enjoying what had once been my favorite meal.
Guess I’d have to fake it. Just like everything else.
S O IT TURNS OUT that late-night flashes of brilliance often look a little less brilliant in the bright light of morning.
Ariane Tucker. I was supposed to ask Ariane Tucker to Bonfire Week today.
I squinted at the sunlight pouring into my bedroom and pulled the covers over my head.
Seriously not one of my better ideas. First, it involved Bonfire Week, which was always a pain. It was supposed to be about school spirit in general, but usually turned into a weeklong celebration of the only “worthy” sport: football. And frankly, I got enough of that crap at home. Second, Rachel no doubt had a larger game plan of humiliation in mind, even if I didn’t know what it was yet. And third, I barely knew this girl. Based on the hate-filled glares she’d sent at me yesterday during the whole Jenna debacle, I wasn’t entirely convinced of my ability to talk her into anything.
Maybe I should have just let Jonas do his best. Ariane probably wouldn’t have fallen for it anyway. And even if she had, why did it matter to me?
I had no idea. But I was stuck now.
I groaned and forced myself out of bed and into the shower, my head throbbing. It seems that drinking five beers shortly before bed also sucks first thing in the morning.
Fifteen minutes later I stumbled into our kitchen, my hair wet and my clothes sticking to my skin. I’d been doing pretty well to make it through the shower at all. The effort of drying off might have pushed me too close to the line, transforming the possibility of puking to reality.
“Late on your second day. That’s a good start,” my dad said from his position behind the island, where, coffee cup in hand, he was flipping through the newspaper. Probably looking for mentions of himself or his “team.” My dad was one of those people where nothing existed or counted as important unless someone else was talking about it.
I ignored him, making my way over to the bread box. But when I lifted up the lid, I found only the empty blueand-white plastic bag. I’d have to get to the store this week sometime.
Stomach churning, I dug to the bottom of the bag and found the dried-out heel. Gross. But I chucked it into the toaster anyway. I needed something in my gut, and after last night’s events, I was betting I wouldn’t be able to talk Trey into stopping for a greasy breakfast. In fact, I probably should have been worried about whether he’d show up to give me a ride at all, but that felt like too much work. If he didn’t show, I’d have to ask my dad for a ride, and that was not happening.
I braced my hands against the cabinet by my head and closed my eyes, resisting the urge to lay my face against the cool, smooth wood. The room spun if I moved too quickly.
My dad snorted. “If you’re going to run with the big dogs, Zane, you’ve got to be able to keep up.”
Like Quinn. He didn’t say it, but I knew that’s what he was thinking. My older brother’s high-ranking position among the Ashe High elite had been a foregone conclusion; that they’d accepted me as well (albeit with far less fanfare) had come as a genuine surprise to my dad. Consequently, he seemed to view it as a privilege that might be revoked at any time, if I proved myself less than worthy. And that would be a darker stain on the family name than if I’d never been “in” in the first place.
Quinn had never had to worry about any of this, of course. He was perfect at everything, just like my dad. He’d have partied last night, woken up for a five-mile jog at dawn, finished a report
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