Ransom(2)

“Does Lennon have to come too?” I ask, frowning.

“Yup, we’re all going. Hurry up now.”

“I gotta go tell my friend first,” I say quickly, running out of the garage before he can stop me. My dad doesn’t like it when we’re late for our lessons.

I find Daisy sitting atop a bright yellow bike at the stop sign.

“Hey,” she calls when she sees me. “I beat you! Where’s your bike?”

“I have to go to piano lessons,” I tell her, kicking the grass. I wish I could stay and play with her. Talking to Daisy was the first time I’ve had fun since we moved here.

“You play piano?” she asks, her eyes wide.

I nod. “Yeah. All my brothers do. I’m still learning.”

She looks really excited. “I love music. Will you play me a song sometime?”

I shrug. “Sure. I only know a couple.”

“Wow. I’ve never met someone who could play piano before.”

I look at her bike, wishing I could go ride with her. “Do you think we could ride bikes tomorrow instead?”

“Sure. Just come knock on my door.”

I hear a horn and look over to see my dad’s car approaching the corner. I sigh. “That’s my dad. I gotta go.”

“Okay. See ya tomorrow, Daltrey.”

“Bye.”

The car pulls up next to us, and Lennon throws open the door. “Hurry up, dummy.”

I climb in and buckle my seat belt. As we pull away. I turn to the window, looking back at Daisy. She stands at the stop sign and waves before climbing on her bike. I watch as she pedals down the street, her yellow bike glittering in the sun, until I can’t see her anymore.





Chapter Two


Fourteen Years Later



Daisy





It’s been more than a year since I’ve seen that face. Daltrey Ransome was my next door neighbor from the time I was five years old right up until the day he left town last year. It feels like there has never been a time when I didn’t know that face.

So it comes as quite a surprise to see it splashed out over two pages in the glossy magazine someone from the last class left on my desk. My breath catches in my chest as I stare down at the photo of him. God, he looks exactly the same. A shock of golden hair sticks out from beneath a grey beanie. The photographer caught him just removing his black Ray Bans, and his icy-blue eyes are stark against his tan skin. He’s not wearing his eyebrow ring today, so the little scar I know so well is visible just above his eyelid. I rub my finger lightly over the blemish. I put that scar there with a mishap involving a hockey stick when we were fourteen and goofing off in his driveway.

“All right, people. We’re continuing with our discussion on Keynesian theory today.”

I blink and look up at Professor Bartlet. I almost forgot where I was. I slip the magazine under my notebook and pull out a pen, trying to focus on the professor’s monotone. Macroeconomics is boring enough, and Bartlet does little to breathe any interest into the topic.

And it certainly doesn’t help my concentration to know that a picture of Daltrey is hanging out right under my notebook. There’s probably an article about him, too. My breathing quickens. It’s so tempting to just slide the notebook over a bit so I could—

“Miss Harris?”

The professor is staring at me, along with about half of the class. The other half are paying about as much attention as I had just been.

“Yes?”

A slight titter ripples through the class. Bartlet’s face tightens, and I feel heat flood my own. I have clearly missed something, and I’m sure I look like a total idiot.

“I asked you to please name the effect that Keynes tells us will magnify small decreases in consumption.”

I stare at him, feeling something akin to panic. I have no clue what he’s talking about. “Uh…”

He turns away from me, clearly annoyed. “Would someone who has bothered to pay attention like to improve their participation grade today?”

A hand across the room shoots up. I don’t bother to listen to the answer. I take deep breaths through my nose, focusing on the blank page of my notebook. My heart rate slows to normal, and I feel the heat fading from my face and ears. I make a conscious effort to unclench my fingers, feeling the sting where my nails cut into skin.

I’m not upset about not knowing the answer. I couldn’t care less about macroeconomics. In fact, if my father sees my complete lack of aptitude in the subject, maybe he’ll allow me to stop taking so many business classes. A bad grade will only help my argument there.

No, the thing that has me so worked up is the way everyone was looking at me. I shiver a little under my thick black hoodie. I hate when people look at me. I should have sat in the back, but I was late, and my normal row was full, so the only choice was the middle of the room.