Last Chance Summer - Shannon Klare Page 0,1

sports team,” she added.

My phone lit again; another text from my only ghost of boyfriends past. Mitch was my own personal Jeff Probst, eagerly waiting to snuff out my torch. One inch and he’d kill the light. Not today, Satan. Not today.

“So, back to the actual topic,” she said. “I’m starting a petition for your freedom. You need your life back and I need you. Your parents can either jump on the fun train or get run over by it.”

“I wish it was that easy.”

Nikki continued along the interstate, entering and exiting parishes until Crighton’s massive metal sign welcomed us home. The town, consisting of no more than 2,500 people, died with the loss of steam engines. Its former glory boiled down to one severely dwindled ghost town and one mediocre McDonald’s.

She pulled off the interstate and onto Crighton’s cobblestoned main street. Cracked brick buildings held 75 percent of the town’s businesses. My mom’s salon sat at end of the street, her Equinox gleaming pewter beneath the sun.

“What if you told them you were sleeping over at my house?” Nikki said, eyeing the SUV. “We could sneak out after my grandma goes to bed, drive to the party, and no one has to know. As long as we’re in before the sun comes up, it will be like it never happened.”

“I’m not scamming your grandma,” I said, sighing. “She’s literally the nicest old lady in town. I would feel morally wrong.”

“It’s not like she would know. She goes to bed at a quarter after six and rarely wakes up before sunrise. We’ll be back before she knows we’re gone.”

“I’ve messed up more than enough to know no plan is foolproof,” I said, shaking my head.

“Okay, but at the risk of sounding judgmental, where was that moral guide when Mitch was the one asking you to go have some fun?”

I paused, my jaw slightly ajar. “That’s not fair,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” Nikki said. “I’m not trying to be harsh. I’m just trying to save you from senior year hell. You do remember what it was like to be socially isolated, right? We were miserable. I can’t do that again.”

I gnawed on my lip, the truth a cruel reminder of what was at stake. Of course I remembered. Being the sheriff’s daughter branded me with a stigma from the start. I was too wholesome. Too dangerous to include. No one wanted to risk getting caught at a party. No one wanted to risk me ratting them out.

Until Mitch.

A few minutes later, Nikki stopped at the curb outside my house. The brick-and-limestone exterior contrasted dark wood accents, dark shutters, and espresso-colored porch rails. The manicured lawns, freshly mowed by my dad, left it a picture of perfection. From the outside, my family seemed like a put-together piece of art. In reality, our relationships were as raw as the exposed drywall and paint swatches left from remodeling.

I unbuckled my seat belt and retrieved my shopping bags. “Can I call you later?” I said, opening the door.

“Yeah,” she said. “Just make sure you start the call with I’m spending the night at your house.”

“You really should take up debate,” I said, stepping onto the curb. “You could channel your persuasive powers for good, not evil.”

“Why would I do that?” she said. “Villains have all the fun.”

I grinned and closed the door, hauling shopping bags across the concrete path. The wooden porch creaked the minute I stepped onto it; the large front door squealed on its hinges. Inside the foyer, paint fumes hung thick in the air. I held my breath, heading for the stairs.

My room was first on the right, a collection of everything a “popular kid” should have. A lighted vanity with too much makeup? Check. One massive closet with too many clothes? Check. Mounted TV with speaker system? Check.

The room was full of things I’d asked for, but none of it made a difference in gaining me credit. One night of rebellion did more for my reputation than anything expensive ever could.

I dropped the shopping bags inside my door, glancing at an easel near the window. The sunset backdrop I’d worked on for two days was almost complete. Painting was the best distraction from my grounding, but you could only paint the same scene once or twice before it got old.

I turned, sighing as I pulled my phone from my purse and synced it with a Bluetooth speaker across the room. Texts from Mitch continued to flash across the screen, each apology a