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That was probably number five on her list of worries. “I’m hoping Drew doesn’t notice I’m there.”
“I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Seriously.” Quinn sounded hurt.
“Thanks. Seriously.” But Becca didn’t feel like she’d done anything to be proud of.
Drew lived down off River Bay Road, in an old shore house that could fit two of hers inside it. The house backed up to one of the many tributaries of the Chesapeake Bay, and sported a thirty-foot span of beach beyond his backyard. The water was nothing you’d want to swim in, but the beach was nice in the summer; just enough sand to make you feel like you were vacationing all the time.
She remembered it well.
She had to park down the road a ways, and they could hear the music from here. Some kids already had fires going in a couple of drums down on the beach. Smoke and charcoal wrapped around her and flavored the air.
hat air left her lungs in a rush. She stared right back at him.
“In.”
Chris counted the rust-colored cinderblocks of the detention room. Twice.
When the bell rang, he scowled through the lecture about a next time and hustled up the stairs to the front hall. Gabriel and Nick weren’t exactly patient.
They weren’t exactly there, either. The bench by the double doors sat empty.
Chris swore.
It was only three miles. He’d walked it before.
The last time sucked.
But Michael’s work truck sat idling in the fire lane, a massive red pile of steel with their last name on the door. The diesel engine roared over the extracurricular students spilling through the double doors, a low thrum that moved the pavement.
Michael was working on something, his head bent over a notebook.
Chris was halfway through the crosswalk when Michael’s voice caught him. “Don’t screw with me, Chris.”
Whatever. Chris climbed into the cab and flung his backpack on the floorboards. The truck perpetually smelled like mulch and grass clippings and always reminded him of his father.
He didn’t look at his brother. “What are you doing here?”
Michael flipped the notebook closed and shoved it into the center console. “It seemed as good a place as any to catch up on paperwork.”
This would go on forever and a day if Chris let it. “Would you just say whatever you came to say?”
Michael waited for students to clear the road before pulling the truck away from the curb. “I think you’re the one who needs to do some talking.”
Chris had no idea what that meant. Did Michael know about what Tyler had said? About the deal? He kept his mouth shut.
Michael glanced over. “You picked a fight in class?”
Christ, this was worse. “The school called you?”
“No. I’m psychic. What the hell is wrong with you? First that crap with Seth and Tyler, and now this?”
Chris felt his hands curl into fists. It wasn’t like he’d laid a hand on Dunleavy—and that was the rule. No contact, no parents. Now he wished he’d just slammed that stupid prick in the face. “I didn’t pick a fight.”
“Chris—”
