Then, just for good measure, I take out a few twenties and put it back in my sock drawer. If Dad goes snooping for my money, I want him to think he found it.
When I slam the drawer closed, it rattles, reminding me that there’s half a bottle of whiskey in there from a party I went to over the summer. I open the drawer again, and grab the bottle from the back of it. The amber liquid sloshes around, practically begging me to take a long sip. Just enough to calm my stress and lull me to sleep.
But then just as quickly, a sickening feeling falls over me. I feel slimy thinking this way. That’s what my dad does. He drinks to forget about all of his pathetic problems. If I did the same, I’d be no better off than him.
And I have to be better than him.
I put the bottle back in the drawer. I am not my dad.
A tiny voice in the back of my head whispers that my dad also wouldn’t confess to vandalism. I tell it to shut up.
*
The next morning, I find myself rushing to school for possibly the stupidest reason ever. Those first fifteen minutes of class. The rest of the school day is boring and filled with AP classwork, but those first fifteen minutes are the most interesting minutes of my day.
Even though I’m here five minutes before the bell rings, Clarissa is already in her seat in homeroom, along with a couple of other students who’d rather sit in a desk than socialize in the hallways.
“Good morning,” I say, grinning at her as I walk by. She’s wearing a V-neck shirt that’s not exactly low cut, but it shows enough skin to make me wonder how soft it’d feel to run my lips across her collarbone. Her hair is always shiny and straight, which makes me want to run my fingers through it.
I’m finding that I want to do a lot of things where Clarissa is concerned.
“Morning,” she says, lifting an eyebrow as I slip into my desk. “Did you see the good news?”
“What’s that?” I ask, leaning forward slightly. She’s turned sideways so we can talk, and I want to do whatever it takes to keep her this way. The back of her head is pretty, but the front of her is better.
She nods her head and I follow the direction to see a much younger, much shorter woman behind the teacher’s desk. “Who’s that?” I whisper.
“Substitute,” she whispers back, giving me a grin. “I remember her from last year. She lets you do whatever you want.”
“Nice.” I bite my lip. I’m running out of things to talk about, but I don’t want to stop talking. “Homeroom is supposed to be a blow off class anyway.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s supposed to be a class to get important information.”
“Same thing.”
She gives me a look that makes my heart skip a beat.
The guys walk in just as the bell rings, and they’re both absorbed with TJ’s phone.
“Dude,” TJ says as he slides into the seat to the left of mine. “The cheerleading sleepover is all over snapchat. You want in?”
He tips his phone toward me, showing a snap of three girls in their underwear having a pillow fight. Normally I’d be all over this. But Clarissa is within earshot and I want to make a good impression. “You know they post that shit just for attention, right?”
“Yeah, fucking duh,” Beau says. “That’s what makes it so good.”
I open my binder as if there’s something important in there. TJ snorts. “He just wants to look at them at home where he has some privacy.”
“Dude,” I say. “Shut the fuck up.”
“Ugh, such a teacher’s pet these days,” TJ says, which makes absolutely no sense, but whatever.
“He’s just pissed about the soccer drills,” Beau says. “We’re all pissy about that.”
“Punishing the whole team for something one of us did is stupid.”
TJ looks at me for a long moment and in the corner of my eyes, I see Clarissa turn slightly toward us. She’s listening.
“They said it was two people,” I say, playing this game with TJ where we act like we’re innocent. “And yeah, I’m sick of the drills. Someone needs to fess up already.”
