pauses by the car, swinging her keys on one finger. “I hope she’s OK. Where do you think she went?”
I sigh. “How would I know? Back home, I hope, or —” I stop, suddenly realizing something.
“What?”
“The golf course. It backs up to her dad’s house, remember?” I gulp, remembering just what kind of crappy mood she was in. “Oh, crap.”
Meg’s eyes widen. “Will she do something, do you think?”
“This is Jolene,” I say shortly. “Of course she’s going to do something. And in the state she’s in right now, it’s probably going to be a felony.”
God, how stupid can that girl be? I yank the car door open, frustrated. I was this close to getting to Brianna’s — back to normalcy and party fun. But no, Jolene has to go back for round two. . . .
“Come on,” Meg says, deciding for me. “We’d better go stop her. Like you said, it’s a team thing.”
I stuff the heels in my backpack and walk barefoot over the golf course lawn, Dante’s words stuck in a terrible feedback loop in my mind. For months now, I’ve managed to forget him, and now his voice is the only thing I can hear — telling me, over and over, all the ways I’m ruining my life. But he’s wrong. I’m not the one who wrecked my only shot to get out of this town. I’m not the one breaking promises and being so cavalier with somebody else’s future. I didn’t choose this. I don’t want any part of it. But with each new step, I still hear that note in his voice. Disappointed. Giving up on me, like everyone else.
Screw him.
I stomp onward. It’s pitch-black and silent out here, but I’ve never been scared of the dark. Leave that to girls with faint hearts and weak wills. I know there’s nothing out there in the shadows to hurt me. No — the things that cause real pain come with smiles and affection, lulling you into thinking they actually give a damn before they turn so easily and leave.
Screw them all.
I grip the roll of canvas tighter. I’m digging finger-marks into the fabric, but I don’t care. He will, though. He cared enough to mount it in that heavy frame, put it in a place of pride behind his desk. I cut it out with my army knife. Not perfect, but good enough. The jagged edges will be waiting come Monday morning, along with that shower of broken glass and the contents of his in-box I couldn’t help sweeping to the floor. The plan was invisibility, but plans change. All that sneaking was the wrong idea; I see it now. Why should I be the one to creep around, keeping to my part of town, folding myself into tiny pieces to keep my life away from his? Why should he get to ignore me so easily — just carry on with his perfect job and perfect new family without any inconvenient reminders of everything he’s left behind?
He’ll have to see me now.
I reach the other side of the fairway too soon, skirting those white picket fences and peaceful backyards until I reach the end of that familiar cul-de-sac and veer off into the road. Lights from every house are bright here, spilling out onto the tree-lined street. So warm and safe, so far away from the rest of my life.
I reach his front yard — neat, flower-trimmed — and stop. My feet won’t carry me a single step farther. The hollow ache in my chest is suddenly unbearable.
I breathe in, quick, but it doesn’t ease. The rage that’s carried me through tonight, through the last few weeks, is twisting back into that same wordless grief that always wells around him when it matters. Ever since I was a kid, he’s been my weak spot, and as much as I hate myself for being so pathetic, that bone-deep instinct is betraying me all over again. Sure, I can tell the entirety of East Midlands High exactly what I think of them, but when it comes to my own father? The right words won’t make it through my lips. All the reason and logic and heartfelt pleas in the world stay lodged in my throat. Instead, I’m stuck with nothing but the same old screaming and sharp curse-words that let him retreat back into that shell of denial and self-righteousness, as if I’m the one at fault.
I sit down cross-legged on the edge of the damp lawn,