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“When did you get here? How did you get here?” His forehead wrinkled in bewilderment – a familiar expression – and I smiled. “You should have called, I would have come to get you from…. wherever.”
“She ‘confiscated’ my phone,” I answered, using air quotes with a roll of my eyes. “I took a Greyhound, apparently the stop is a couple miles north of here, so I walked the rest of the way,” I explained as I checked out the accommodations, relieved to see it was at least clean, if extremely old. The color scheme fell somewhere between rust orange, avocado green and a shade of yellow I was unfamiliar with. There were two beds and, surprisingly, a tiny kitchenette. It was roomier than most standard hotel rooms nowadays and not too terrible if you ignored the shag carpeting.
“Well, kid, welcome home,” Dad said enthusiastically as he watched me take everything in. I knew him well enough to see the uncertainty he was trying to disguise and gave him a small smile.
“Which bed is mine?” I finally asked and he let out a relieved laugh.
“Whichever you prefer, Bunny.”
“You’ve got to stop calling me that, Dad.” I shook my head, glancing away to hide my smile at his use of my nickname. As much as I despised it, I also couldn’t imagine him not using it.
“I will,” he promised for the umpteenth time.
“Yeah, when I’m eighty?” I said in my standard reply.
“Eighty, eighteen, somewhere in there,” he answered, our routine familiar by now.
“You have a month. I don’t think you can do it,” I dared him, mentioning my upcoming eighteenth birthday.
“So little faith in your old man,” he answered, acting wounded as I threw my bag on the first bed and then proceeded to bounce on it.
“Ompf,” I grunted as the bed gave a loud squeak and I felt a spring poke me in the back. “Comfy.”
He looked abashed as he went to the other bed and sat down. “It’s temporary. They don’t have a lot of available housing and the local community college just started their semester and all of the apartments got snapped up,” he rambled, eyeing me sheepishly.
I nodded, not wanting him to feel any worse, but I did wonder how long I could share a hotel room with my Dad. I loved him, but there was no escaping the ick factor.
“I’ll figure something out,” he promised, and I nodded as he ducked his head. “I’m glad you’re here, kid.”
“Me too, Dad. Me too.”
Chapter Two
Two days later, Dad deposited me in front of my new high school and drove off with a honk. I got a few sideway glances and some out right stares, but ignored them as I climbed the steps of what I’d mistakenly assumed was an old courthouse before spotting the sign proclaiming it to be Banks High School. The brick building was beautiful, if intimidating, and like everything else I’d seen so far, old. As I stepped inside, I was relieved to see the requisite linoleum floors and double stacked lockers lining the halls as I followed a sign to the office.
Half an hour later, I had enrolled and been directed to my first class of the day. It didn’t take me long to find since the halls were numbered and apparently all of my classes were in hall 400 since I was a senior.
I squinted at the doors trying to find Room 412. A couple of the florescent lights were out, leaving the hallway dim. I wasn’t paying attention so when he spoke I jumped, letting out an embarrassingly girly shriek.
“What are you doing here?” The tone was accusing, instantly pissing me off.
“You scared the shit out of me,” I snapped back, aggravated. It took my heart a second to slow from the sudden rush as my eyes found the person who’d spoken.
I studied the guy in front of me and mentally corrected myself. The man in front of me wasn’t smiling as he crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes the only thing standing out in the dimly lit hallway. They were a light yellow, almost luminescent, and I took an instinctive step back when they met mine, the primitive part of me recognizing danger.
“Class,” I stammered, my heart suddenly racing again. “I’m trying to find my class.” I waved the schedule in my hand as evidence, but it didn’t erase the grim expression on his face. “412 is my homeroom.”
“You don’t go to this school,” he stated and I shook my head before I realized what I was doing.
“I do,” I disagreed before adding, “Go to this school.” He didn’t look convinced and I felt annoyance start to creep back in. This guy had me flustered and I didn’t like it. “I’m a new student. Hence the looking for my classroom.” Again, I held up my handwritten class schedule since the hundred-year-old printer in the office refused to print and the school secretary had decided it was faster to write it than get someone to fix it. “Jess Carter.”
