Chapters (39)
- Cover
- Dedication
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- What’s next onyour reading list?
As we let our hands slide along each other, my breath catches in my throat. I want to speak, but I don’t know what to say or how to say it. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to speak again. All I can focus on is the feel of his skin on mine and the roaring rush of blood in my ears as the world fades away to just soft, moving hands.
The little bell jingles at the front of the store and I jump, the bright light of the break room crashing back into focus. I blink at the screen as a woman in a nun’s habit runs screaming through a dark forest, the exaggerated image so out of place with my mood. Dean pulls back his hand and picks up the remote, pausing the movie.
“Duty calls.”
“Right.”
He stands up and walks toward the door. “I can get it if you want to keep watching. There’s a really good part coming up.”
“You don’t think it’s Mr. Roth?” I feel disoriented, like I’ve woken up from a nap.
“Nope, older lady. She’s seriously eyeing your tower of pastries.”
“Don’t let her eat my mountain!”
“I’m on it. Keep watching. There’s a scene coming up where a zombie gets his head cut off by a shovel. Sorry. Spoiler alert.”
“Sounds lovely.”
He moves to walk back into the store, but then pauses and turns back to me. “I’m glad you’re into this kind of stuff.” He motions toward the TV. “Sarah, who used to work here, only wanted to watch, like, really basic movies. I could never get her to watch anything weird. You’re pretty cool.”
He grins and then leaves me alone in the break room. His words flow through me like warm light.
TEN
DANIELLE OLIVER SUCKS IN BED ;)
DANIELLE FOUND THE note taped to her locker Friday morning, right after first period. Now it’s laid out in front of us on her bedroom rug and we’re gathered around it, sprawled out on the floor. It’s early on a Saturday night and we’re planning on sleeping over, already in our sweats and surrounded by boxes of Chinese takeout (a risky order from Chinese Food Restaurant).
“It’s actually kind of pathetic,” Danielle says. “Like, if someone has a problem with me, they should say it to my face.” She picks up the note and rips it cleanly in two, throwing the severed pieces into the trash. “Whoever wrote this is a fucking coward.” She scoops up a piece of broccoli with her chopsticks.