Here With You (A Laurel Heights Novel) - By Kate Perry Page 0,7

work, but she comes back late tonight. I told her you're couch surfing for a few days, but if she can't take it, you're out."

"Got it." He took the keys.

"You can walk there. It's close." She bit her lip. "I have to work late, and then I have dinner with a friend, so you're on your own."

"Okay."

She looked like she was going to say something else, but then she just smiled gently. "We'll reawaken your passion for music, Grif. Trust me."

Oddly, he did. He already felt better than he had in months, maybe years.

Chapter Three

Rachel sat at the back of her English class for two reasons. One: it was easier to zone out on the teacher. Two: back here no one could stare at her.

She was sick of being stared at.

In New York, no one had ever stared at her. She'd been the same as all the other students. They'd all worn uniforms, so she hadn't had to worry about figuring out what to wear, and she'd never stood out.

She'd done nothing but stand out since her dad had made her to come to San Francisco—and not in a good way.

She just wanted to go home. She wanted to go back to the apartment on the Upper East Side where she'd lived all her life. To the bedroom she hated because it was still decorated in princess pink from when she was a kid. She'd never complain about the pink ever again if her dad would just move them back.

But the apartment was gone. Sold. Her mom—also gone. Forever, because of a truck driver who hadn't had enough sleep.

Her nose prickled with tears. She rubbed the tip hard. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. As if they needed more reason to stare at her, especially Madison and Addison. They took great pleasure in making her feel as uncomfortable as possible.

It was her fault she was here, too. Part of her couldn't blame her dad for making them move. Getting drunk at that party had been dumb. Rachel hadn't even wanted to go, but she couldn't stand being at home alone, and she'd met that girl who'd seemed cool...

She wasn't sure how she'd ended up home. The last thing she remembered was this mod boy with severe acne pawing her until she finally locked herself in someone's bedroom. When she woke up, she was on the porch with her dad leaning over her.

And then she'd puked. A lot.

Her stomach revolted just thinking about it all. She was never touching alcohol ever again. Back in Manhattan, she knew kids who got trashed every weekend. Why would anyone do that to herself? She didn't get it.

Her dad had, of course, freaked out. According to her grief counselor, at sixteen getting drunk wasn't an "appropriate expression of her loneliness and sorrow."

The teacher paused in his lecture and glanced her way. Rachel sank in her seat and ducked her head. Hopefully he wouldn't call on her—she had no idea what he was talking about.

When she was sure the coast was clear, she pulled out her journal. It was reddish orange and gold, with a magnetic flap that closed to keep the pages from getting mangled.

As she opened it, a piece of paper slipped out and onto her desk. She didn't need to unfold the paper to know what it was: the poem she'd written for her mom right after her funeral.

Every line of it was written on her heart.

She hadn't written anything since.

After tucking the poem into her bag, she flipped to the very beginning of the journal, uncapped her favorite writing pen, and stared at the blank page.

She wasn't sure how long she sat there before she realized the other kids were shifting. Then the bell rang to signal the end of class.

The end of one torture, the start of another. She grimaced, thinking about going back to the huge house her dad had rented for them. It was ten times bigger than their apartment in Manhattan, and they were one person less. How did that make sense?

She packed slowly, waiting to leave after most of the class had filtered out. Slinging her bag across her body, she stood up and hurried to the door.

"Rachel. Can I see you a second?"

Sighing heavily, she turned around and walked back to her teacher. "Yes, Mr. Baker?"

"You can call me Michael, you know."

"Yes, Mr. Baker." In San Francisco, apparently the teachers liked to pretend they were your friends. And they dressed casually. If one of her teachers