A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(9)

I've held on to this stupid thank you card I made for him when I was  nine, stuffed it in the box with my class pictures and the few birthday  cards I've gotten over the years from my grandparents. No cards from my  mom in the box. No calls from her. No letters. I guess no broken  promises either, that way. Though, I feel like when you have a child,  you sort of make a quiet promise to always be there for them. So that  one's broken for sure.

My mom, Kristina Winters, was living a double life. There was the woman  who smiled at me, hugged me in the way I thought was a way a mom hugged  her daughter, and coddled me when I came home from school every day-and  then there was the one I never knew very well at all, other than the  fact that she lies, and she never really cared much for her life here  with me in Bakersfield. That Kristina was a stay-at-home mom who filled  her day from the time I left to the time I got home with motel rooms and  parked cars on the outskirts of town with the man she really wanted to  be with. I was collateral waste. Just like my dad.

I'm glad I don't have any cards from her in the box. They don't belong in here with Christopher's card.

It has to be him. I spent the night wishing I'd taken one picture of Wes  Stokes, just his eyes. In my mind, they're exactly the same. But now I  worry that I'm imagining-pieces of my dreams finding their way into my  waking moments.

I pull the card from the box, replacing the lid and sliding it back  along the floor under my dresser. The paper has yellowed and the edges  are soft and slightly bent, but I can still see the vase and flowers I  drew in pastels. I thought I was an artist then. The picture is so  elementary now, but it felt important when I drew it. I flip the paper  open and read my childish message: Thank you for saving me from the car.  I'm glad you were in the race. I was hoping you would win. I hope you  didn't get hurt. Your friend, Joss.

I smile as I read it back. I haven't looked at the card since the day I  came home from the Woodmansees with Taryn. I hid it from her after she  teased me, and I slide it in my algebra binder now, my cheeks still  burning with embarrassment. Years later, and I still don't want people  to think I have a crush on the weird kid.

Taryn honks twice outside, so I zip up my backpack and grab a pack of  cherry Pop-Tarts from the pantry on my way through the kitchen. My dad  leaves for school early-he opens the gym for morning workouts for his  players. I know sometimes nobody shows up, but he opens the doors every  day anyhow-even some weekends. I think he just prefers to be in the car  alone. The few times he's driven me to school, all we've done is fight.  He tells me how I'm throwing away my gift by not trying hard enough and  by ditching practices, and I tell him I'll listen the day he starts  treating me like his daughter instead of one of the guys on his roster.  Somehow, eventually, it always ends up with one of us bringing up Mom.  She's like our trump card; we throw her out when we want to really hurt  each other. I say she left because of him, and he laughs, saying it's  the other way around. The real story is she didn't want either of us;  so, we both lose in the end.         

     



 

"TK would have a field day with your breakfast choice, Joss," Taryn  says, motioning to my cherry pastries. I smirk and roll my eyes, my  stomach growling as I tear the package completely open and take a large  bite out of one of the tarts.

"I notice you're a good twenty minutes early this morning. Someone you want to see on campus, Taryn?" I tease her.

She texted me last night that he had called her. She didn't give me  details because he was on the phone when she sent the message. I'm  assuming that's what has her so amped for school this morning.

"He's actually waiting for me," she says, her red lips curved into a  smug smile under her sunglasses. "We talked on the phone all night. I am  going to crash hard at practice."

"Look at you," I say through my full mouth. I grin at her and nod my  head in support. "So where's he meeting you this morning? Hot date under  the bleachers?"

"No!" She scrunches her face, looking at me briefly before returning her  eyes to the road. "He's going to your dad's workouts, actually. I said  I'd meet him by the gym."

"Uggggghhh," I grumble, small crumbs falling from my lips. I catch them  in my lap and wrap up the second pastry in the napkin, tucking it in the  front pocket of my backpack for later.

"You don't have to come inside. Besides, your dad's always busy talking to people. He won't even notice us," she says.

I purse my lips because I know better. My dad will notice. He'll wonder  why I'm here early and not working out myself. Then he'll ignore me, in  front of everyone, which actually feels worse than having him ride my  ass about being lazy.

"Fine, I'll drop you off at the front of the school so you don't have to  come with me. You can hang out in the library," she shrugs. It's a  pissed off tit-for-tat kind of gesture, because she knows I hate the  library. Nothing against books or reading-it's just the place they send  me for detention, and I get those … a lot.

I don't have my own car, so I always ride with Taryn. Her grandma wasn't  able to drive anymore, so she gave her car to Taryn. It's a giant,  white, Crown Victoria that looks like an undercover cop car until you  get really close. I'd make fun of it, but I won't have a car until I can  find a way to afford one. No grandmas hanging up the keys and giving  away cars in my family anytime soon.

We drive up to the front, and Taryn slows at the curb. She doesn't even  feel guilty about any of this, flipping her visor down to check her  blood-red lips in the mirror. She's going to wear off all of that crap  on her face; I'm not sure why she's bothering to touch it up.

"I guess I'll see you in history," I say, not bothering to look her  direction as I kick open the door and push it closed behind me with my  ass. She doesn't linger, and I hear her cop-motor rumble through the lot  to the other end of campus behind me.

It's early enough that the hallways are empty, which somehow makes  everything feel darker. They pulled all of the lockers from the walls  last year. Our principal said it was for safety reasons-one less place  for kids to hide weapons. I kind of think they were hoping it would be  one less place for kids to hide drugs, though. Finding what you  want-pills and other shit-is pretty easy around here. I doubt stripping  away our lockers is going to do much to stop the drug trafficking that  happens in the school parking lot.

They haven't painted yet, so the walls are still full of holes and bare  spots where metal doors once lined up. It looks like a warzone, which I  guess is also appropriate.

The library is at the very end of the main hall, five hallways jutting  off it to other parts of campus. I notice a few students sitting at  tables when I open one side of the double doors. They never look up at  me, so I slide past them to the back. It's the first day of school after  break. Who the hell is studying now?

I dump my heavy bag on a table in the far corner, then kick my feet up  next to it with a weighty clunk. Mrs. Tierney, our librarian, clears her  throat and wiggles her finger at me in a circle before pointing down. I  bunch my brow and she raises hers, repeating the gesture. She wants me  to put my feet on the floor. I got it the first time. I just don't like  being pointed at with her spindly finger.

I pull my feet down, but the second she looks away, I compromise and  wedge my toes in the metal ledge right under the table top and lean my  chair back on two legs. With my phone in my hand, I type Taryn a  message: You're a real bitch for making me hang out here.

She writes back, sending me a picture of her lips. I roll my eyes and  flip through my apps, finally settling on a game where I have to shoot  paper airplanes into a trashcan. My dad won't buy me a car, but a phone  he'll pay for. Thank god I have this paper airplane game.         

     



 

After about ten minutes, I've managed to beat my all-time high score,  when I notice the main library door swing open again. Wes is holding a  sheet of paper in one hand, his backpack slumping over his opposite  shoulder. He's wearing a different hat today-this one's a brown mesh  Padres hat, trucker-style. It's fucking cute, and he's lost, which makes  him super compelling. I chew at the inside of my cheek, fighting the  urge to bound to my feet and help him before some other girl does. Which  is a stupid challenge, because I'm in here with two girls who are way  more focused on studying for SATs than the soap opera that is Wes Stokes  and how he fits into my twisted world.

He finally looks up at me, and my feet slip from their grip, my chair  clunking forward and my butt sliding slightly off the chair. I have to  lean over and grab the table to keep myself from hitting the floor.

Shit. That was embarrassing.

"Hey," he says, unfazed by my chair aerobics. He slides a crinkled paper  in front of me that looks like he's just pulled it from his back  pocket. My hair is flung in front of my face from all of my … flailing … so I  push it back with both hands in order to see what he's showing me. It's  his schedule, just as I figured.