“Playing with your old toys, I see?” She rubs at the spot where a tiny Pontiac Firebird nailed her about six inches below her knee.

  “I fucking hate this school!” I rip the intact tracks apart in my mini tantrum. I snap out of it quickly and am met by my mom’s disappointed stare. “Ducking, sorry,” I correct.

  Her straight-lined lips curl up on one side as her eyes squint in tepid forgiveness. Our swearing arrangement is we can auto-correct swear in front of each other. Ducking gets used a lot.

  “Coffee break?” She’s still giving me her sideways look as she sets a plastic bag on the counter and pulls out a roll of towels and a package of our favorite brew. It’s her silent acknowledgement of my bad mood met with her own warning that I’ve used my free pass. I breathe in and hold my chest full for a few seconds, then relax my shoulders with a heavy exhale.

  “Coffee break, yeah,” I relent. I got hooked on coffee after dad left. Mom sometimes got up really early in the morning for no reason, and I’d find her down here before the sun came up sipping on straight black coffee. I acquired the taste after six or seven cups, and now coffee breaks have become our thing.

  She fills the pot at the sink and holds up her fingers, switching between one and two.

  “Two,” I say, answering how many cups I want. “Always two.” A pathetic, tired laugh falls from my lips and I rest my head on my arms on our kitchen table. I roll one of the cars back and forth in front of my face while I consider finding this stupid experiment on YouTube so I can copy someone else’s results.

  Once the coffeemaker starts brewing, my mom leans against the counter with her hands gripping the edge on either side of her.

  “So, what is this mini Daytona thing all about?” she says, nodding at the few pieces of track that ended up on the floor. I bend down and pick them up, slapping them on the pile on the table.

  “Physics experiment on velocity,” I say.

  “Ah,” she says, the brewer gurgling behind her. She turns to watch it finish. We both like our coffee piping hot, even in the heat of summer. “Seems like a lot of moving parts to do on your own.”

  “Yeah, well my partner sucks,” I let out, not really thinking.

  “Already? On day one?” she asks.

  “Uh huh,” I mutter, hoping that now that she’s busy pulling the pot from the warmer and pouring our cups she’ll move on to something else. She slides my cup to me and leaves what’s left in the pot to keep it warm. When she joins me at the table, cradling her World’s Best Mom mug in both hands as she blows steam from the rim, I know she’s going to keep fishing.

  “Most people met right after school or during study hall, but my partner plays football.” I lift one brow and tilt my head to the left, toward the Fuller’s house. She studies me a for a few moments then slowly nods, a faint frown at her lips.

  “I see. Hence why you couldn’t meet up after school. Convenient you live right next door to each other though, so maybe . . .” She leans her head to the right and glances toward the Fuller house. It’s been a while since she suggested I do anything with Lucas. I guess after the dozens of excuses I gave her, she got the point.

  I laugh, probably harder than she expects. Instead of getting into it, I take a long sip of my dark night coffee. It’s acidic and delicious in a way that has the power to burn away a bad day. I will it to work on this one. My mom takes the same kind of sip, which softens me a little. I forget how hard all of this is on her. I know how tight our bills are. And I know how small the support checks are from my father. He’s a con-man. Not literally, but enough of one that he got the judge to believe his salary was a third of what it really is. I think if I weren’t so close to graduating, Mom would sell this house and move us into something cheaper. Maybe I should bring it up so we could move into a different school district.

  “You and I have never really talked about it, you know,” my mom says. I’m not sure which it she’s talking about. There are many—their marriage troubles, the miscarriage I know she had when I was eight, the new woman in Dad’s life.

  She means Lucas.

  “What’s to talk about?” I say, testing the temperature of the coffee against my lips. It’s no longer scalding so I take a bigger drink.

  “You guys were so close.” She’s inching into the topic so I start to rebuild the track for my project.

  “Yep.” I’m short. Probably overstepping my free pass to be a bitch but I really, truly, do not want to get into the saga of me and Lucas Fuller.

  After a few breaths of quiet, my mom snaps together pieces of track with me, putting them in pairs and passing them my way until I again have one long, twelve-foot strip. We admire our work, finishing our coffee in silence. My mom twirls the worksheet around on the table so she can read the instructions, and I gauge her reaction in her eyes. She’s exaggerating a little, grimacing at the calculations and the number of trials I’m supposed to conduct to find averages and means. I know better than to ask her for help. She long ago made the point that she would never enable me from having to face challenges, especially when the adversity was something as solvable as being strong enough to stand up for myself.

  It’s weird how effective her silence is. The shadows cast across our ceiling are familiar, the same ones I’ve memorized during football season for the last two years. Lucas’s practice is over, the glare of his headlights through our windows lining up right where it should when he parks. The brightness dims, followed by the heavy clunk of a truck door. I glance from the window to my mom, and find her eyes waiting on me. She doesn’t say a word, instead reaches for my empty cup, her tight smile holding so much inside.

  It’s hard not to imagine how different things could be. Like right now, my mom’s back turned to me as she rinses out our coffee mugs. In some other dimension, maybe I’m not sitting at this table alone. Maybe my father kept his promise to stay through thick and thin. Or maybe . . . maybe the one soul I trusted all of my secrets with didn’t pull away. I half imagine Lucas knocking at our side door and turn my head, wishing to see his shadow at the window.

  “So, I have some bad news.” My least favorite sentence pulls me back to reality. Just hearing it makes me want to rip my track apart again.

  “Hit me with it.” I sit back in my chair and brace myself for something heavy. She does the same against the counter. Her eyes are tired, the dark circles a shade of purple now that they’re not hidden by makeup. She cut her hair super short a few weeks ago, buzzing the back and sides. She said she wanted something easy to do, but I think she liked the idea of something inexpensive. It looks nice on her, though she keeps mentioning how much she hates how it brings out her grays. I’ll be gray too one day, just like her. Our natural hair color is exactly the same.

  “It’s more of a good news, bad news thing,” she begins, and I relax a little. The last bad news thing was when she lost her job. “You know how I said I booked two shoots?”

  I nod, my mind racing with possibilities. Is it someone famous? It’s for a magazine! Maybe a royal wedding?

  “It’s in Dayton. The wedding?” I blink a few times, slowly, mentally working through what she’s saying.

  “We’re going to Dayton?” The divot between my brows is so deep I can actually feel it on my face without using my hands.

  My mom laughs lightly.

  “I’m going to Dayton. I have to leave tomorrow, which I know . . . You don’t love staying alone. But the family hired me when their original photographer backed out and they want to capture the rehearsal dinner along with a few other things, and the amount they are paying is . . .” She trails off, holding her palms out in front of her to indicate a massive amount.

  I smile and reassuringly tilt my head to the side.

  “I don’t mind staying here alone. I’m really proud of you,” I say. Her eyes twitch and gloss quickly, which naturally forces my tough-as-nails mom to busy herself by running a paper towel around the counter to distract me from the emotion creeping up on her face.

  “Just four days, four and a half max.” Her voice wavers, but she coughs the clue away.

  “Piece of cake,” I say, stealing a glance out the window to the dark house just two driveways away.

  “And I’ll still leave you the van for the game Friday,” she says. I was hoping she would forget that I asked to use it. My mom and Abby must be in cahoots to force me into some semblance of a normal senior year.

  “Well, I need to get everything ready. I’m going to run out to Clicks and see if I can rent an extra light kit for the weekend.” Our eyes meet briefly and a silent thank-you passes between us.

  I stare out the window while my mom gathers her things and heads out the side door to her van. I stand while she backs out so I can watch her go, and let my gaze get lost on the space she leaves behind. I’m not sure how much time passes, but it’s enough that I’m lulled into a deep trance that only the thumping beat of the Fuller’s backyard audio system can snap me from. Always with the Kanye. Lucas Fuller listens to Kanye more than Kanye listens to Kanye.

  The house is dark, which means he’s probably just sitting in his back yard drinking one of his father’s beers and watching dumb fucking Tik Tok videos while I do our assignment by myself. All because of some childish caste system that we fell into in high school.

  By the time I realize I’ve got a chokehold on the section of track in my palm, the plastic siding cuts into my hand. I relax my hold to assess the damage, a deep red line broken through the skin right along my life line. So appropriate.

  Without pulling my focus from the glowing haze of lights in Lucas’s back yard, I yank the track into a few manageable pieces, gather the cars and worksheet, and stuff it all into the bag it came home in. I pull the Notre Dame sweatshirt I found at Goodwill over my head and down over my hips, and stuff my feet in a pair of Vans. I leave the same way my mom did, my long strides carrying me across my driveway, the strip of grass between our homes, and up the side of Lucas’s house. The music is so loud the bass vibrates in my chest, which only fuels my courage. What a fucking asshole!

  With one deep breath to ensure I get the words all out in one go, I round the corner of his home and step onto the brick walkway that leads to the patio. The pool light is on, casting an aqua glow around the yard, but the lounge chairs and hammock I expect to see him in are all empty. My steps slow, a twitch of caution flicking against the side of my neck. The large window that looks out from the Fuller kitchen is just to my left, but the only light glowing inside is the small panel light that illuminates the floor near the pantry. Not that I’d be able to hear anything other than the music, but there is a stillness that eats up my surroundings; it feels as though I’m here all alone.

  I hug the project bag to my chest and scan every possible nook as I inch deeper into the covered patio and up the steps to the deck. The fire pit Lucas and I used to roast marshmallows sits in the center, and it looks unused since the last time he and I made treats in the flames. The chairs around the deck are covered. The Fullers don’t have big parties like they used to. I run my finger along one of the tarps, drawing a line in the dust, then stop to lean against the railing and blow the particles away in the breeze.

  That’s when I spot him, and he isn’t alone.

  Lucas and Ava are lying in the center of the trampoline, barely visible if it weren’t for the pool light. My throat burns with fire from my stomach, and the fuming rage that carried me to this house has shifted into dread and panic over being caught. My hands shake and my legs have very little feeling. Despite the near stroke I might be having, I can’t look away. Her body is arched, her flannel shirt open to expose her white lacey bra that Lucas is slowly peeling away with his teeth as he holds himself over her from the side. His left hand is sunk inside her unbuttoned jeans, and Ava is writhing with his touch. He’s wearing his gray football T-shirt and black joggers that are low on his hips, and is probably seconds from losing his shirt and letting her touch him just as intimately. He moves like a predator, slow and stealthy, and where his shirt rises up, the side of a cut V that traces hard-earned abs dives lower. The scene is so erotic and private yet I’m glued to it, trembling with the threat of tears. I’m so fucking jealous, and I hate that I am because this is not my Lucas anymore. This feels like a betrayal, though I know it’s not. That should be me lying there. It was supposed to be me.

  In a different life.

  The music fades between songs and a deep, masculine moan cuts through the quiet. I swallow hard at the familiar voice making that sound, lock my jaw and hold my breath. I slowly back away, just as Ava’s hips rise and her hands help Lucas slide down her jeans. I turn quickly when I’m sure I’m out of view, but in my rush, I kick one of the chairs, the metal leg screeching against the wood deck so loudly it’s impossible it wasn’t heard.

  “Shit,” I breathe out silently, breaking into a run that turns into a full sprint across our driveways and back to my house. I slam the side door closed behind me, lock it, and fly up the stairs two at a time until I’m in the safety of my room. I close my door behind me and toss the bag to the corner, burying myself under my comforter without bothering to turn on the lights.

  A million futures play out in my mind, and none of them are easy. They all come with pain.

  I hate this fucking school.

  And I hate my fucking neighbor.

  I hate that I loved him so much even more.

  Chapter Seven

  I wake up early to see my mom off and to bullshit my way through the project I never finished last night. I went the YouTube video route, changing all of the numbers by the same percentage so the results weren’t an exact copy.

  All of the extra things added to my morning leave no time for a shower though, so I braid my hair into one long weave that runs from one side to the other. I have to lay down to finish because my arms are getting tired. I wrap a band around the end of my braid then let my arms flop to my sides. Staring at my ceiling, I replay what I saw last night in my head, dragging my own hand slowly up my side and over my shirt to my right breast. I look nothing like Ava, all flat in the places where she is round. I touch the soft peak of my breast and run my thumb over my own nipple until it hardens under my long-sleeved T-shirt and cotton bra. I let my hand fall away, trailing it down the length of my body, stopping just above my waistband, too embarrassed to touch myself anywhere else.

  I’m a girl playing woman.

  It’s tempting to call myself out sick today. My voice and my mother’s sound eerily similar, and nobody would think I was ditching. Running away isn’t supposed to be my thing now, though. Senior year—parties, freedom, courage and kissing. I laugh out once for nobody to hear.

  “What a load of crap,” I say.

  I sit up and drag my backpack toward me, zipping it up after I make sure my fake project worksheet is inside. I tuck my phone in my back pocket and double knot the laces on my boots, then grab a flannel from the hook behind my door before heading downstairs. While the days still feel very much like summer, the mornings and late afternoons are fall and I hate being cold. I poke my arms through the unbuttoned shirt and pause as I look down at the plaid pattern. It’s too much like Ava’s. Newly committed to being chilly instead, I pull my arms free again and roll the shirt up, tossing it into a deep corner in the laundry-slash-mud room. I really want to throw it away but mom only bought it for me last month.

  With my backpack slung over one shoulder, I snag a granola bar from the cabinet and a strawberry milk from the fridge, holding the bar in my teeth while I lock the side door behind me. I’m almost looking forward to my lazy drive to school with my favorite breakfast. I know Mom picked up the strawberry milks so I won’t miss her so much. I smile as I twist the cap loose.

  As I approach my car, I notice something resting on the windshield. It’s mostly white, and almost looks like a scrunchie wrapped around my wiper blade. I unlock my door and toss my bag across to the passenger seat, then reach for the twisted piece of cloth. I realize what it is right before my hand makes contact and I pause, breathing out hard, short puffs through my nose to the familiar beat of the last Kanye song I heard. I pull my keys from my pocket and poke the long one meant for my ignition through the lacey item that’s barely within my reach. I drag the material toward me and pinch it to hold up for inspection.

  The panties are mostly white with little black hearts sewn everywhere, and the coverage they would provide is minimal. It’s the bottom part that matches the bra I got a glimpse of; at least, I’m pretty sure it is. Last night’s hurt and fury stirs in my belly. I twist to take in the still house behind me, the garage closed and the downstairs as quiet as it was last night. Lucas’s truck is gone, which probably means I am not being watched. I carry the thong—held by my thumb and middle finger—into my car and unzip my backpack to tuck it inside. I back down the driveway, squealing my tires a little when I hit the road.

  I buckle up while moving, then reach to zip my bag closed again. There’s a chance I missed one of the four-way stops leaving my neighborhood, and I’m not sure how I got to where I am, a block from school. All I can think about are the underwear; it’s basically tunnel vision for my thoughts.

  Ava’s panties are in my backpack. What the ever-loving fuck?

  Abby is waiting for me in her car, her music loud enough that I can hear it through both of our closed windows and with my engine on. She’s happy. That’s her personality. Very little to find fault with in the world according to my best friend, even though she’s getting hauled into court again next week as part of her parents’ constant and bitter custody battle. Her dad, who has seen her maybe twice since she and I have been best friends, lives in Miami now. He wants custody because he wants the money she earns modeling, and she’s not eighteen for six more months. Her mom recently put it all into an S-Corp, Abigail Cortez LLC. My friend is an LLC. Her father wants it dissolved. It’s a Netflix documentary-worthy mess.