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He steps back with a smile. “Yessir.”
I slam the door.
Unfortunately, his foot was no longer in my line of fire.
CHAPTERTWO
I can only avoid doingmy homework for so long. The stack of assignments is continually growing, piling up on the corner of my desk, almost ready to spill over. I’m supposed to be keeping up with my classes from home, but most of the assignments are untouched.
Every day, about this time, I try to focus enough to do some of them. That way, when Mom comes home, I look busy. It’s an excuse not to talk.
My chair is covered in laundry that needs to be folded. I push it off, knowing full well that I’m not going to touch it again until I need something new to wear.
I sit and add the new homework packet to the pile. Then I take the newest math assignment and set it on the center of my desk, smoothing out the wrinkled edge. Math is the one class that I enjoy the homework from. There’s something about how every problem has an answer that I find therapeutic. The answers never change. They’re written in stone, just waiting to be discovered.
I reach into the overfilled drawer on my left, searching for my pencil pouch. The pencils are mostly new and sharp, but I shove my chosen pencil into my sharpener anyway, twisting it against the blade. Small ringlets of wood with yellow fringes flutter onto the desk. I brush them away, replacing them with a light smear of lead.
I take a deep breath and glance at the first problem. It’s not that complex. At least, it shouldn’t be, but for some reason, I can’t bring myself to find the answer. I just . . . stare. The problem might as well be written in a foreign language because the numbers are blurring together.
My phone buzzes, breaking my feeble attempt at concentrating. There’s a text from Mom reminding me to let Buddy outside, but I swipe it away. Muscle memory takes over my hand, and I open my socials, something I do so often it comes as second nature.
I don’t ever “like” anything, but I’ll scroll for hours, watching mind numbing videos—everything from movie bloopers to thirst traps to people icing cakes. And while I never open up the app with the intention of wasting half the day, one thing leads to another and, before I know it, I’ve sunk into the deep, dark hole of the internet where cats are terrified of cucumbers.
The first video that pops up in my feed is a lava cake that oozes when a fork slides into it. Next is a kid that runs into his room—well hetriesto. A sheet of clear plastic wrap gets in the way of that plan, knocking him to the ground. His sister giggles in the background as he glares at her.
I continue swiping, searching for something more entertaining, but my hand freezes when I see him. Ethan.
His hazel eyes are full of life, and he’s smiling ear to ear with Sadie’s arms wrapped around him from behind. She’s kissing his cheek, and when she pulls away, she laughs.
I remember that day. I was the one holding her phone, recording them. She’s laughing at the face I made when she kissed my brother. It was at Ethan’s graduation party over the summer. He was only a year older than Sadie and me.
My cheeks warm and tears well in my eyes, threatening to spill over.
The caption underneath the video is enormous, and before I can comprehend any of the words, I click the big fat “unfollow” button. Her profile switches to private, and I toss my phone onto my bed.
I pick up my pencil again and read the math problem over and over, not wanting to acknowledge the fact that I just unfollowed my best friend. We’ve been inseparable since the day we met back in fifth grade—until three months ago. She’s obsessed with keeping his memory alive, and she’s posted way too many long, sappy reminders about him. She’s constantly declaring how much she loved Ethan. I can’t stomach it anymore.
My scribbles start to fill in the blank space under the problem, but I make a mistake right away and flip the pencil over to erase it.
A deep, loud thud fills my room.
I jump. The pencil slips from my hand and clatters on the desk.
The thud repeats, forming a chaotic pattern of hard notes.
I trudge over to my window with my hands in fists, ready to fight.
Why does he have to practice his annoying drums right now?
The drumming only gets louder when I open the window to poke my head out. “Shut up!”
Yelling doesn’t do any good. I can’t even hear myself.
I slam the window closed and cover my ears, returning to my homework. I have nineteen and a half more problems to go before I can justify watching another movie.
Yet, no matter how much I contort my body, I can’t find a position where I can successfully muffle the sound in both ears while still holding onto the pencil. The terrible, repetitive sound passes through me, ricocheting off my eardrums and directly into my brain.
I groan and throw my pencil down. In a fury, I shove my chair away from my desk, grabbing my long robe off the pile of clean clothes on my way out of my room. I stuff my arms into the sleeves as I march down the stairs.
