Most Likely (Most Likely #1) - Sarah Watson Page 0,48

time.”

This was back before Ava had a diagnosis, before she had a name for what was going on with her. She just knew that it was getting harder and harder to get out of bed. Some days it was so hard that she couldn’t go to school, and most days it was impossible to go to the fancy tutors who made sure that she excelled in her classes. She wasn’t the least bit surprised when the letter came to her house saying that she would be dropped down. She didn’t care. But her mom cared. Oh my god, did she care. It was like if Ava wasn’t in advanced English and history, then what was the point of living? So her mom went to the principal and shifted into scary lawyer mode and demanded that they keep her daughter in the advanced track even though she didn’t deserve it.

“I’m not like you,” Ava said. “I don’t have your genes. So let’s just be honest for once. I’m dumb, Mom. I’m dumb.”

“Ava—”

“You know it. Deep down we both know it.”

“Ava. Stop saying that.”

“I’m dumb!”

“Ava…”

Her mom looked at her. With her eyes off the road, Ava saw what her mom did not. The car in front of them had stopped.

“Mom!”

Her mom screamed as she slammed on the brakes. Ava put her hands up and braced for impact. They stopped inches before they made contact. The sensor system in their Mercedes beeped rapidly, telling them just how close they’d come. The shock was too much, and her mom did something that Ava had never seen her do before. She cried.

“Mom?”

The tears tumbled out hard and jarring. Even when the cars behind her honked and someone yelled at her from their car window, she kept crying.

“Mom?”

“I’m doing my best, Ava. All I’ve ever done is my best, and I’m still failing you.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CJ COULDN’T sleep. She felt vaguely unsettled. Like she’d forgotten to turn the iron off or something. CJ had never actually ironed anything in her life. It was just that kind of feeling. She didn’t know what it could be, though. School was fine. Everything with the park was basically on hold. Her friends were good.

CJ grabbed her phone to numb out with Instagram. She wanted to lose herself in the little pictures that always helped put her to sleep. As she scrolled, her eyes started to get heavy. She was half asleep when she saw the video. Her eyes snapped wide open and she sat up. The caption read: The results are in. #SATday #1490 #Yasssss. A junior girl who CJ knew from cross-country was dancing and celebrating to Kool & the Gang while pointing to the enviable SAT score she’d just looked up online.

That’s what CJ had forgotten. Her SAT results. They’d posted today. CJ darted out of bed. How could she possibly have forgotten? She didn’t even bother to put it in her calendar because she’d figured there was no way she could ever forget. And yet she had.

She smacked the space bar until her computer woke and then went to the SAT portal. She typed out each letter, number, and numeric symbol of her password carefully. Her score popped up and CJ stared at it. She felt nothing. Literally nothing. She sat there for a minute or two, and then she did something that she hadn’t done since quitting cross-country. She put on her running shoes.

CJ crept out the back door, the one that didn’t squeak, and quietly slipped outside. She got into her car and turned the ignition. It was almost midnight, so it took her only a few minutes to drive to school. She felt calmer once she was standing on the track. The night air was refreshing and not nearly as cold as it should have been this time of year. CJ knew that it was probably because of global warming and that she should really be angry about it, but in that moment, all she wanted to do was drink it in.

She started out slowly, letting her legs get used to the motion. Soon she fell into the steady rhythm that always felt like a form of hypnosis. She waited for her mind to click off like it usually did. She even mentally called out the footsteps to help it along. Right, left, right, left.

She was trying to forget what had just happened. Right, left, right, left. The way her fingers had clicked against the keyboard as she entered her log-in information. Right, left,