say.
“That’d be good, Mack. Thanks.” He gives me the faintest hint of a wink, or maybe I imagined that. Either way, I don’t know what I just got myself into, but I’m not as scared of him as I should be.
CHAPTER V
When Molly drops me off at home after school, the driveway is empty and so is the garage. I feel guilty for having a silent minicelebration, but my alone time is rare, even though it’s just Mom and me in the house. She works as a legal assistant right in Vienna, and her boss is usually pretty cool about letting her leave around four, so I don’t often get to enjoy being a latchkey kid.
Before Dad moved out last year, she’d sometimes coerce him into coming home from work early if she had to work late. The thought of their separation weighs on me as I yank open the mailbox at the end of the driveway. Dad still spends an awful lot of time here, fixing things and even sleeping on the couch if it gets too late. They don’t really want to be apart, but any love they had somehow got swallowed up in grief after Conner died. Dad wants to leave this house and the memories—he has to, I think. But Mom feels that’s being disloyal to the son she raised here.
I just want to be a family again.
Of course, that can never happen. Our family will always have a hole in it. If only Conner hadn’t died. If only he hadn’t gone into that Pharm-Aid basement storeroom. If only he hadn’t reached into that crevice for my necklace. If only I hadn’t dropped it. If only he hadn’t been such a damn good brother who cared because I was crying. If only. If only. If freaking only!
My throat closes as I yank the bills and brochures from the box, barely looking at what I’m holding. I hate when I fall into the “if only” spiral. Pulling myself out, I round the house to unlock the side door.
I toss the mail onto the kitchen table and dip down so my overloaded backpack thumps on the top of it all, practically knocking the spice rack over in the process. Of course, I’m carrying a library’s worth of textbooks. Bet none of the other list girls lugged home Calc, Latin, and AP US History books.
Before I take another step, I turn around and lock the door so as not to experience the wrath of Mom when she comes home. An unlocked door is somewhere between undercooked burgers and a slippery bathtub on the “tempting fate” scale that directs my mother’s every move and thought.
I snag a can of Pringles from the pantry and a Coke from the fridge and head up the narrow stairs to my room, already considering how I can convince Mom to let me go to the football game. I’m pretty sure “the cutest guy in school asked me” isn’t going to fly. In a few minutes, I’ve got Pandora playing some Mumford tunes and I log on to Facebook.
Holy cow. One hundred and four new friend requests.
I zip through the list of people who couldn’t have cared less about following my woefully infrequent posts yesterday. I accept them all. Just like I replied to the texts from people I didn’t ever consider friends but who now want to hang out sometime. Why not? They’ll forget about me when this list business dies down.
I also check Instagram, where I see hashtags like #hottielist and #topten and, oh my God, #kenziesummerallfifth have been created and used by many of the Vienna High students who thought it was perfectly okay to take random pictures of ten girls at school today.
I blink at the shot of me talking to Josh Collier in the parking lot. Someone took my picture? I don’t have any recollection of that, no awareness at all that my picture was being taken. If I had, maybe I would have at least tried to wipe the wondrous look of teenage rapture off my face as I stare up at him like he’s Zeus dropped down to Vienna High to break some hearts.
Which he kind of is. And he’s never so much as thrown me a wayward smile, yet today I got sidelined in the parking lot, touched on the shoulder, and asked on a date.
That right there is the power of the list. It just gets attention, and some of it I don’t want.
Like Levi Sterling.