Читать книгу: «Walk The Edge»

Breanna

I HAD BUTTERFLIES.

It was a combination of the nervous type and the exciting type and then they died with the utterance of one question. It’s difficult to maintain eye contact with Kyle Hewitt as he continues talking, explaining why he’s asked what he has of me. He stands a safe distance away—a little over one purple locker’s worth. “I need your help with this, Bre.”

He uses my nickname, the name reserved for my two best friends and family. I hug my folder to my chest, uncomfortable he feels like we are familiar with one another.

People pass us on their way to the gym for orientation, but he acts as if we’re alone as his just-above-a-whisper words cram together. “English is tough... Writing papers is tougher... Football practice this year has been harder than normal... My parents have expectations... In two weeks there will be college scouts... You’re smart...everyone knows this... You can make life easier on me and I can make life easier for you.”

Easy. Natural. Meant to be. The smartest girl in school assisting the athletic golden boy. Two of the town’s finest helping each other succeed, but he hasn’t really given a fine example of how this plan will benefit me.

“I’m not suggesting anything romantic.” He waves his hand in a downward motion that suggests he’d rather slit his wrist than become involved with me. This guy seriously needs to reevaluate his selling methods. Nothing good can happen from insulting the potential buyer.

Kyle grins. It’s all teeth, and until this moment, I used to adore his smile. He has black hair like me, but he’s much taller than I am and, thanks to his lifelong dedication to the game of football, he resembles a brick wall.

He’s handsome. Always has been, but he’s never been the kind who notices me. For a few seconds, I had delusions of grandeur that the reason he called my name was because he appreciated my change in appearance and, in theory, my change in attitude.

I have never been so wrong in my life.

“What do you say? Will you do it?” Kyle shoves his hands into the front pockets of his Dockers as if he’s the one who’s nervous.

Like my younger brother wore for his junior orientation yesterday, Kyle sports a white shirt, nice pants and a tie. The football coach required his entire team to dress up on the day of their orientation. I think it makes them stick out, but my younger brother claims it shows solidarity.

School starts in a few days and tonight is senior orientation. My parents are currently in a meeting with my guidance counselor while I’m being propositioned.

Propositioned. My lips tilt up sarcastically.

My goal for this evening was to be noticed. Guess I succeeded. I was noticed, but not for my new choices in clothing, hairstyle, or because I dumped my glasses for contacts. Nope, I was hunted for my brain. All exciting and swoon-worthy romance novels start off this way, right?

Kyle misreads my body language and his dark eyes brighten. “So you’ll write my English papers for the year?”

Fifty dollars per paper—that’s his offer. Standing in my sister’s second-generation hand-me-downs of a sleeveless blue blouse, shorter-than-I’ve-ever-worn jean skirt and platform sandals causes me to consider his proposal if only for the course of a heartbeat. I’m the middle of nine children and, I’ll admit, new and shiny gains my attention, but this...this is wrong.

“Do you know this is the first time you’ve spoken to me?” I say.

He laughs like I told a joke, but I’m not kidding. Snowflake, Kentucky, is a small town and everyone tends to know everyone else, but just because we breathe the same air doesn’t mean we communicate, or act like everyone else exists.

“That’s not true,” he retorts. “We sat at the same table in fourth grade.”

I incline my head to the side in a mock why-didn’t-I-remember-that-bonding-moment? “My, how time flies.”

He chuckles, then scratches the back of his head, causing his styled hair to curl out to the side. “You’re funny. I didn’t know that. Look, it’s not my fault you’re quiet.”

Kyle’s right. It isn’t his fault I became socially withdrawn. That blame falls solely on me. It’s a decision I made in seventh grade when I was publicly crucified.

Blending into paint for the past couple of years has kept me safe, but it creates the sensation of suffocation. Everyone says the same thing: Breanna’s smart, she’s quiet. On the inside, I’m not at all quiet. Most of the time, I’m screaming. “I’m not writing your papers.”

Kyle’s smile that had suggested he had a done deal morphs into a frown and acid sloshes in my stomach. Denying Kyle isn’t what bothers me as much as it worries me what he’ll mention to his friends. They’re the reason why I went voluntarily mute in seventh grade.

Heat races up my neck as the repercussions of refusing sets in, but I don’t even consider agreeing. Cheating is not my style.

Kyle surveys the hallway, and if it’s privacy he’s searching for, he’ll be sorely disappointed. He slides closer and a strange edginess causes me to step back, but Kyle follows. “Fine. One hundred dollars per paper.”

“No.”

“You don’t understand. My grades have to improve.” Easygoing Kyle disappears and desperation is hardly attractive.

I steal a peek into the school’s main office, hoping my guidance counselor will beckon me in. Half of me hopes she’ll have life-altering news for me, the other half hopes to end this insane conversation. “What you’re asking for is crazy.”

“No, it’s not.”

In an answer to the one million prayers being chanted in my head, my guidance counselor opens her door. “Breanna.”

Kyle leans into me. “This conversation isn’t over.”

“Yes, it is.” But he ignores my reply as he jogs up the nearest stairwell. Great. So far my senior year is starting out as the antithesis of my wishes—back at this tiny, strangling school with a group of people who think I’m beneficial for only one thing: as a homework hotline.

My attention returns to the main office and my guidance counselor has already settled behind her desk. Mom and Dad sit in two worn particleboard chairs across from her and neither of them acknowledge me as I enter and take a seat.

Dad stares at his loafers and Mom has become fascinated with something beyond the windows as she fiddles with the office ID badge for the hospital where she works. Only my guidance counselor, Mrs. Reed, meets my gaze, and when she subtly shakes her head, my heart sinks.

I bite my lower lip to prevent it from trembling. This was a long shot. I knew it when I pleaded with my counselor to discuss this opportunity with my parents, but I was stupid enough to have a shred of hope.

No point in acting as if I’m not aware of the resolution of their conversation. “High Grove offered me a partial scholarship. It pays for seventy-five percent of the tuition and I called around. I can make money in their work-study program and then I found this coffee shop that said they would hire me and would be flexible with my schedule and I could even study while things were slow and—”

“And you’ll be over two hours away from us,” Mom cuts me off, then smooths her short black hair in a way that shows she’s upset. “This is your senior year. Your last year home with us. I’m not okay sending you to a private school. It’s not right.”

“But did Mrs. Reed explain my schedule for this year?”

I’ve already mastered every class Snowflake, Kentucky’s lone high school has to offer. Because of how my brain is wired differently, there won’t be a challenge, and if I intend to preserve my sanity, I require a challenge.

I briefly shut my eyes and attempt to control the chaos in my mind. My brain...it never rests. It’s always searching for a puzzle to solve, for a code to crack, for a test to grapple with, and not having one, it’s like someone is chiseling at my bones from below my skin.

“Yes,” Mom answers. “But Mrs. Reed also assured us they’ll give you extra work and you’ll participate in some independent studies. Some of them for college credit.”

My foot taps the floor as hot anger leaks into my veins. What Mom’s suggesting, it’s everything that makes me stick out, everything that makes me the school freak again. “I need this. I need something more. I need a challenge.”

“And I need you home.” Mom’s voice cracks and she grimaces as if she’s on the verge of tears. My eyes fill along with hers. We’ve had this argument, this discussion, this tearfest several times as I was applying.

“You’re my baby,” Mom whispers. “I already have four of you out of the house and next year you’ll be gone.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. Next year, I plan to be hundreds and hundreds of miles north of here. Hopefully at an Ivy League school.

“Don’t cost me my last year with you.” The hurt in her voice cuts me deep.

“I’ll come home on the weekends.” I risk glancing at her. “I’ll call daily. I’ll still be around, just not as much.”

“But we need you here.” Mom scoots to the edge of her seat as if being nearer to me will alter my view, but what she doesn’t understand is I’m seconds away from dropping to my knees to beg her to change her mind.

“Joshua is more than capable of helping out around the house.” My younger brother by just over a year. I’m cushioned in the middle between four older-than-me and four younger-than-me siblings. Each older sibling has served their sentence as being the one in charge. Heading to private school would be the equivalent to handing in my two weeks’ notice.

“Joshua isn’t you,” Mom says. “He can’t handle the responsibility.”

“So you’re saying I should screw up and then you’d let me go to private school? Because that’s the logic of your argument. I meet your expectations and I have to stay home.”

“Mrs. Miller.” Sensing a full-on argument, my guidance counselor interrupts. “This is a fantastic opportunity for Breanna. With her photographic memory—”

“Just a good memory,” I correct softly. There’s no such thing as a photographic memory. At least it has never been proved, though there are people like me who can remember random information very well, but, in other areas, can struggle.

“Of course.” Mrs. Reed smiles at me, probably remembering the conversations we’ve shared where she insists on calling my memory photographic and I insist my memory isn’t quite that impressive. Since my freshman year, she’s performed an array of tests on me like I’m a cracked-out guinea pig.

“Regardless, Breanna has a fantastic memory and a high IQ. We can supplement her education, but High Grove Academy can offer her opportunities we are not prepared or equipped to give her.”

Exactly. I sit taller with Mrs. Reed’s well-thought-out, adult-validated argument, but Mom leans into her hand propped up by her elbow on the armrest and hides her eyes, while Dad...he remains quiet.

Gray streaks I’ve never noticed have marred his dark hair and he rubs at the black circles under his eyes. His typically fit frame seems smaller in his business suit. Dad’s been under extreme stress at his job and guilt drips through me that I’m adding to his burdens.

I open my mouth, close it, then try again. “Dad, I will do everything in my power to pay for this myself.”

“It’s not the money, Bre.” Dad raises his head and it’s like he’s aged ten years from when I saw him this morning. “It’s the timing. The company lost a huge contract, and if I don’t win over this next client, the whole town’s in trouble.”

Because over half the town works for the factory. They make paint. It’s a lot of chemical reactions going on in a small, contained space, but it’s a process that requires a ton of people.

“Your mom just received a promotion at the hospital and her hours are more than we thought they’d be. Give us a few months to get our feet underneath us and then, your mom and I, we’ll do everything we can to help you with the college of your choice, but for right now, we need you at home. We need you here. This family would be impossible to run without you.”

He offers a weak upward lift of his lips and Mom’s beaming as if she thinks Dad’s monologue will persuade me. As if his words will cause me to forget how each day that passes in this town makes me feel like I’m drowning under a million gallons of water.

This should be one of those proud moments—the ones I’ve seen on television—where I hug my father and tell him how I’m overjoyed by his faith in me, but on the inside I’m a rose wilting in fast-forward on the vine.

How do I refuse my parents? How do I explain that of our family of nine, I’m the one who’s never fit in?

“I understand.” I hate it, but there’s nothing else to say. “I understand.”