Page 2 of Sticks and Stones (Shadow Valley U)

I reach for my books, but Evan holds them up above his head so I can’t grab them.

I exhale, blowing my brown hair out of my face, and cross my arms. “He started it.”

Evan laughs. “See? Toddlers.”

Stone continues down the hallway, putting his arm around Cassandra, the junior who has likely slept with the entire senior class. Maybe even with Evan, too, which makes me want to throw up.

Evan is like a brother to me. It irks me to no end when girls try to be my friend just so they can get closer to him, and it irks me even more when they openly admit the things they want to do behind closed doors.

Evan slowly lowers my books and pushes them back into my hands. “You’ve got dark circles under your eyes, you’re falling asleep in Chemistry, and your jeans are looser than normal.”

Embarrassment floods me, and if it were anyone else, I’d fool them into thinking I was fine, but Evan knows me too well.

“Wren, what’s going on?”

I look away and watch my peers pile into the lunchroom. “Same ol’,” I admit before shrugging. “It’s fine, Evander. It’s not too much longer until August. I’ve been living in this hellhole since I was born.”

Evan lowers his voice when he bends his head down to the crook of my neck. “But you shouldn’thaveto live like that. Just come stay with us. Mom has been worried sick.”

And have my dad show up like a fucking lunatic? No, thank you.

“I’ll stop by later and say hi.”

Evan grits his teeth and starts walking backward into the lunchroom. “Well, put some makeup on those bags, girl. Or else she might lock you in your room and not let you leave.”

My room.

There’s a dip in my chest that I ignore to save myself the trouble. There’s no room for guilt or heartache in a life like mine.

Evan throws his keys from across the hall. I catch them and send him a thankful smile as I turn and walk out the doors.

He knows when I’m struggling. Naps in his car during lunch used to be a thing of the past, but now that I’m back with my dad, they’re starting up again.

Except, the moment I step into the school parking lot, my entire body freezes at the sight of the police car off to the side with a meaty-looking German Shepherd sniffing his drug-smelling nose all around the parked cars like he’s ready to tear someone to pieces.

Oh, fuck.

I whip my attention to Evan’s car—the same car that holds my purse. The same purse that has a secret package inside from my father who pleaded with me to take and deliver. “Just this once, Pumpkin.”

Without even looking inside the package, I knew it was drugs.

My father continues to pretend I’m still that seven-year-old girl he left at a bus stop to go get high one evening. I climbed on a big, black, smelly bus and rode on it until morning—where CPS was waiting for me to place me into foster care.

But I’m seventeen, nearly eighteen. I know what drugs are, and I know what the law does to people who are in possession of them.

I wait until Principal Howie and the three loitering police officers have their backs turned, then I duck down below the bushes and crawl my way over to the third line of cars. My heart flies, bumping harshly against my ribs just as the branches of the bush scrape against my back.

With each army crawl against the ground, my heart beats a little faster. Not only would I get in trouble if the drug dog sniffs out the package in my purse, but Evander would get called out of school, along with his parents.

They are the very last people on this planet that I want to disappoint, and although they know my life isn’t easy, and know I don’t do drugs, they will be hurt that I didn’t turn to them the moment my father started his bullshit.

My fingers go underneath the passenger door of Evan’s car as I continue to kneel against the parking lot pavement. A piece of gravel has definitely dug into my knee if the piercing pain has anything to say about it. I stay crouched down and feel for my purse until the thin strap touches my finger. I quickly pull it out of the passenger door and dig for the tiny package that fits in the center of my palm.

It’s wrapped in a dark cloth, but I know if I lift the fabric, it’ll reveal tiny rocks in a clear plastic bag.

I hate my life.

Stuck doesn’t begin to describe how I feel, kneeling in the school parking lot with a package of drugs in my hand as the police and their dogs slowly approach all the cars.