by Patty Blount
Meg stared for a minute, her steel resolve now a puddle of molten indecision. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, meaning it this time. “So…what happened today to cause this fight?”
He shut his eyes again, and Meg wanted to protest. Even in the low light of the lamp on the table where she sat, his eyes drew her in, and she wanted to see them. She waited, not patiently, while he collected his thoughts.
“It’s not a pretty story. It ends with no college. No lacrosse. No life—except for watching my brothers and helping at the store.”
She gasped. No college meant no degree. No degree meant no career. No career meant no financial independence. He’d be—
“Trapped,” he whispered, and she blinked at his uncanny ability to know exactly what she’d been thinking. “I don’t know if I can stand it.” He let his head fall into his hands. “I can hardly stand it now.”
She ached to move closer to him, to put her hand on his back and rub small circles to comfort him. So she slid her hands under her legs and forced herself to remain in her chair.
“In September, I planned to go to community college. My parents won’t let me go away to school and I didn’t get any scholarships, so that was the only option left. But today, there was a coach from Manhattan College at practice. He had a bunch of kids change their minds and decide to go to other schools. He’s got spots to fill and decided to give us a chance.”
He slouched lower on the old lumpy secondhand sofa. “My mom triple-booked herself today, and somehow, that was my problem. She texts me in school, tells me I have to pick up Dylan at some birthday party because Connor’s got music lessons and she had to take Ethan and Evan to the doctor. I don’t have the car, and she wants me to take the bus all the way home to get it, come back to pick up Dyl, and then go to practice. I’m annoyed, but I say okay because…well, it’s not really a choice, you know?”
Frustration rolled off his shoulders in waves, but she let him vent.
“Then I find out about the coach, and there’s no way I can miss practice now. So I text her back, tell her I can’t pick up Dylan. Only she never got that text. Dylan walked home by himself, and I—”
He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Meg could see the what-ifs play out on his face and knew every one of those scenarios ended horribly.
“Anyway, my dad shows up at practice. We fight all the way home. Then I get the cold shoulder from my mom and then Dylan won’t talk to me and Ethan and Evan are up my ass about old Micro-Machines they found in my room, which they’re not supposed to be in and—” Chase flung up his arms in a huge shrug and then let them fall. “Sorry. I guess I didn’t use enough nails.”
She shook her head but said nothing. Sighing, Chase shut his eyes and scrubbed both hands over his face.
He lifted his head and turned Technicolor eyes burning with pride on her. “The point is, the coach liked me, Megan. Me.”
The feeble bulb in the lamp next to her flickered once. Her stomach flipped and she squirmed in her seat. Yeah, even lightbulbs reacted to Chase’s power.
“He told me to get the application in right away—there’s still money left. I have no idea how much or even if they’ll give me any, but I have to try.”
She nodded. Of course he did.
His phone buzzed. He dug it out of his pocket, frowned, and ignored it, tossing it on the bright red coffee table.
“They must need someone to run an errand.” He sneered at the phone. “Probably didn’t even notice I was gone until now.”
Meg knew that wasn’t true. His family adored Chase. Whenever she saw them all together, Chase’s mom and dad always wore smiles so full of pride. The thought gave her pangs in her chest.
“I don’t know what to do, Megan. Can I stay here? I can sleep on the couch. Please?”
Yes, God, yes! Her stomach pitched and fell. Crap. “No, Chase. My mom would have a fit. Don’t you have any…any, like, guy friends who can help, friends whose relationship statuses aren’t lies?”
He snapped his mouth shut and stood up. “I’m outta here.”
He was leaving. Good. That’s what she wanted. So why did she suddenly blurt out, “You’re already eighteen. You don’t need their permission anymore.”
His eyes widened as they snapped to hers. “You mean, just…just defy them?” He sank back down to the sofa.
Slowly, she nodded. “Yes, they can’t stop you from doing what you want now.”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh, yes, they can. They can kick me out.”
“You have money. You can get your own place.”
“Megan, my money is their money. I work in the store whenever they need me. The credit card and the allowance are all theirs. I have nothing that’s mine. Not really.”
That was the entire problem, she knew. She suffered from the same problem—a deep need to do something that she could take pride in. Something that was hers.
“Chase, what do you want to do?”
He groaned. “That’s the problem! I have no idea. I only know I really don’t want to work in a bakery until I die.” He angled his head at her. “What about you? What do you want?”
She swallowed thickly. Her plan, her future, and everything in it faded to green when she looked in his eyes. Her heart raced and her throat tightened. What did she want? Or maybe the right question was who did she really want?
She shook her head. Who, what. It didn’t matter.
It was the one thing she could never have.
Chapter 8
Bailey
Bailey sat alone in her room, steadily exploring Facebook for signs of Simon. He hadn’t posted an update all day.
He was probably over at Caitlyn’s house. She kicked the pile of clothes on the floor. She checked her email too. Still nothing. Oh, this was stupid and pointless and maddening, so she turned to her game system. Maybe spilling some blood and guts in Call of Duty would get her mind off Simon. She signed in, loaded up the game, and noticed someone had messaged her. She really hoped it wasn’t another of those annoying Tenth Prestige Lobby invites.
Like she needed to cheat.
From: WyldRyd11
To: Goldilx
Hey, I got your gamertag off a Call of Duty forum and I thought maybe we could play a match together—I totally want you on my team. I’ll be online Monday from three until about seven. If you’re online, I’ll invite you.
WyldRyd11. Wow, what are the odds? He probably didn’t even know that her Goldilx gamertag and “Take It for Granted” blog were her. He didn’t say what forum, not that it mattered since she was in about eight of them. With a shrug, she figured it couldn’t do any harm, so she decided to accept the invitation if and when it came through. She’d just made her first kill when the invite flashed. She accepted it and started a new game.
“Hi, this is Goldilx.” She spoke into her headset, but no one answered, which was weird since she could plainly see WyldRyd11’s avatar on the screen, leaping from an abandoned truck. She pressed the Guide button on her controller and found another message.
From: WyldRyd11
To: Goldilx
Sorry! Headset’s broke. I can hear you but can’t talk back. My name’s Ryder. What’s yours?
Bailey smiled. “Oh…hi, Ryder! My name’s Bailey. I’ll check for messages once in a while, so if you have something to say, just do something to get my attention, like shoot the ground near me or something, and I’ll go read it.” She ran up a flight of stairs in some abandoned apartment building and shot at a target on the street.
“Ryder, behind you!” She pressed down on the right stick of her controller to access her knife and stabbed his attacker before he could react. “Ha! Got him. No need to thank me.”
A spray of bullets hit the ground nearby and she laughed. “Okay, hold on.”
From: WyldRyd11
To: Goldilx
&nbs
p; Holy crap, girl! You have some mad assassin skills. We should play Assassin’s Creed after this.
“Sure! I love that game too.”
They played for twenty minutes or so, prowling through streets and abandoned buildings, shooting at enemies. When he took a knife in the back, she checked his next message.
From: WyldRyd11
To: Goldilx
Mistakes were made.
She laughed out loud into the headset.
His next message showed awe.
From: WyldRyd11
To: Goldilx
You got the Call of Duty joke? Impressive. Want to chat on Instant Messenger? I’m WyldRyd11 on IM too. Send me your ID. Or you could friend me on Facebook if you want. My name is Ryder West.
Bailey nibbled a fingernail and thought about that for a moment. Meg would totally have a cow. She smiled, imagining Meg’s perfectly logical and smart and safe and boring reply to Ryder’s suggestion. First, she’d remind her of all her past mistakes. And then she’d try to scare her with things like “What if he’s a pervert?” or “What if he’s an ax murderer?” But really, what could possibly happen? It’s not like he knew where she lived or anything.
“Okay.”
She switched screens to her computer, turned on Instant Messenger, and found WyldRyd11.
Goldilx: I’m glad you invited me to play.
WyldRyd11: Yeah, I’m glad too.
Goldilx: Most people hate playing with me.
WyldRyd11: Why?
Goldilx: I’m freakishly good at video games, and guys hate that.
WyldRyd11: No. Guys LOVE gamer girls.
Goldilx: Guys love gamer girls but hate when gamer girls kick their ass.
WyldRyd11: U are a girl, right? Not some 60 year old dude in a prison cell?
Bailey giggled.
Goldilx: I was thinking the same thing about you. I am definitely a real girl.
WyldRyd11: And I’m a real boy. I’m 17, not 60. :) And I won’t mind if you kick my ass.
Goldilx: Cool! I’m 17 too. And I promise not to kick your ass that much. Or bug you for help designing my video game.
WyldRyd11: UR designing a video game? Cool.
Okay, he didn’t actually ask for the details, but she’d give them to him anyway.
Goldilx: It’s called Lost Time. My BFF and I thought it up during world history class last year. You have to examine major stories in history to find the stories behind the stories, the ones that are like never in our textbooks, you know?
WyldRyd11: Wow. Sounds complicated. How would u play?
Goldilx: I have a bunch of character outlines. Players could choose one or create their own.
WyldRyd11: Single or multiplayer?
Goldilx: Single player. The whole idea was to be able to play it by myself, but I did add a subplot about art so Meg would play.
WyldRyd11: Who’s Meg?
Goldilx: My BFF.
WyldRyd11: Is there a BF?
Goldilx: No. Not anymore. I just broke up with my last BF.
WyldRyd11: Sucks for him. UR awesome!
Goldilx: Aw :)
WyldRyd11: Did u break up w/ him or did he break up with u?
Goldilx: I broke up with him.
WyldRyd11: Good. :) U need APIs and game engine software. I can get that for u if u want.
Good? Why was it good? Oh, my God, he was flirting with her. She almost clapped until she remembered she should be cool. Low key. She’d ignore the flirting and comment on the APIs—whatever they were. Simon had once tried to explain game engines to her. And Noah before him. And Chase the other night.
Goldilx: No, it’s ok. I don’t know much about programming.
WyldRyd11: u have to learn!!!!! u have to build this game so I can play it!!!
Could he be any sweeter? Bailey’s face split into a wide grin.
Goldilx: I’m not good at programming and stuff. I just like games.
WyldRyd11: I can help! I’m really good at programming. What’s ur email?
Again, Bailey heard Meg’s disapproving voice in her head. With a frown, she refused to believe Ryder West was bad. He was sweet and kind and helpful and really smart. Oh, she bet he was cute too. Bailey logged onto Facebook and did a search for Ryder West. She found a bunch. Virginia, Oregon, two in California, and a few in New York, but when she found one on Long Island whose avatar was Ezio Auditore from Assassin’s Creed, she knew she’d found the right Ryder and sent him a friend request.
Just as she clicked “Add Friend,” her cell buzzed with a message from Meg.
Meg: Leaving work. Want me to bring u candy?
Aww. That is so sweet. Bailey grinned. She opened the phone, ready to tell Meg all about Ryder and how awesome he was and how he was totally into gaming and—
She tossed the phone to her bed and crossed her arms over her chest. What Meg didn’t know wouldn’t get Bailey another long, boring lecture on The Future. Another message from Ryder showed up.
WyldRyd11: I’ll play u anytime :)
She did a little chair dance, happy he didn’t mind getting his ass kicked by a girl.
Goldilx: I want to see pictures of you. You have none on your Wall.
WyldRyd11: Sorry. I don’t have any pictures to post. They’re all home.
Goldilx: Home?
WyldRyd11: Yeah. Montana. I just moved here.
Goldilx: Where’s here?
WyldRyd11: I can’t tell you. UR a stranger. LOL.
Goldilx: OMG, seriously? You think I’m a psycho stalker?
WyldRyd11: I don’t know what u r yet.
Fair point, Bailey decided.
Goldilx: OK, fine. So tell me about Montana.
WyldRyd11: I grew up on a ranch.
Goldilx: A ranch? Like with horses and stuff?
WyldRyd11: Horses, cattle, poultry, hogs.
Goldilx: I love horses.
WyldRyd11: Can u ride?
Goldilx: Yep. I took lessons when I was little. Classical dressage.
WyldRyd11: LOL. U are such a girl.
Goldilx: What’s wrong with dressage?
WyldRyd11: Dressage won’t help u wrangle a lost calf, Goldilx.
Goldilx: I never planned to wrangle lost cows. I just wanted to ride horses, and those were the lessons they signed me up for.
WyldRyd11: OK, OK, I was just kidding. I think it’s great u can ride. Are there any stables around your town?
Goldilx: There’s a place in Hempstead I go to.
WyldRyd11: OMG. There’s a town called Hempstead not far from where I live.
Goldilx: Do you live on Long Island?
WyldRyd11: Yes! So cool. Maybe we can ride one day.
Goldilx: Are you asking me out?
WyldRyd11: If I say yes, will u say yes?
Goldilx: That’s cheating. I can’t say yes unless you ask first.
WyldRyd11: OK! OK! I’m asking.
Goldilx: Then I’m saying yes.
WyldRyd11: Really? Cool.
Goldilx: Does this mean you want to meet me in person?
WyldRyd11: Yep.
Goldilx: Great!
WyldRyd11: It would be kinda hard to go riding online. LOL
Goldilx: Shut up! I was just making sure.
WyldRyd11: UR hot. Which is good, since I’m hot too.
Goldilx: Thanks :) Will you send me a picture of you?
WyldRyd11: U don’t believe me?
Goldilx: I don’t know you yet.
WyldRyd11: I like u.
Bailey smiled. He liked her. Whoa.
WyldRyd11: I gotta go. I’ll text you later, pretty Bailey. Send me ur email and cell #.
Bailey sent him her contact information and flung herself on her bed. Pretty. He thought she was pretty. S
he did another happy dance that messed up her comforter and pillows. Maybe he’d text her a picture of himself. She really hoped so. And then her mood shifted when Simon popped back into her head. She got up, stood in front of the mirror over the white dresser she’d had since she was a baby, and stared at her reflection. Ryder said she was pretty. Simon Kane could just run away with his little alley cat sidekick for all she cared. Who needed him?
Not her. Not anymore.
She had sent Ryder West her email address, cell number, and the house phone number. Just to be thorough. She was about to turn off her phone when she saw the clock display. It was after ten and she hadn’t heard from Chase. He was supposed to come over tonight to help with the game. Bailey tapped out a text message.
Bailey: Hey, you didn’t show, so I’m guessing the happy meals didn’t work? Hope things are better tomorrow and we can sync up when you finish practice. Also, stop worrying about Meg. She gets angry a lot, but she’s not depressed or anything serious. TTYL.
Bailey plugged the phone into its charger while the words she’d just typed brought her back to that look in Meg’s eyes. She’d assured Chase Meg wasn’t depressed, but was she right? How would she even know? It’s not like she was an expert on emotions. She twirled a curl around her finger, counting the number of times Meg fell into dark holes and brooded her way out of them. She didn’t smile often except when she saw Chase and almost never laughed. But that was just Meg on her normal setting. Whenever Meg thought about her dad, Bailey knew she’d be in her dark broody hole for days at a time, painting and…and, well, brooding. And when that stopped working, which was typical, a patented Meg Farrell Blurt could strike. It was kind of like a perfect storm where a bunch of conditions all had to be just right. Bailey had seen a blurt only a handful of times since she and Meg had become friends, and the last one had been about a year ago when Meg learned the movie theater where she worked would soon close its doors for good.
She shivered. It wasn’t pretty.
Meg had spiraled down into the closest thing to a panic Bailey had ever seen. Money was tight for the Farrells, Bailey knew. But until that night, she had no idea how tight. Creditors were threatening them. There was often no food in the kitchen. The cable TV had been canceled. Bailey always assumed Meg didn’t like TV—except for The Vampire Diaries, of course. She had no idea how much Pauline’s books for her night classes cost or that they’d lived upstairs last winter because they just couldn’t afford to heat the entire house. She’d never suspected that Meg’s aversion to shopping wasn’t because she didn’t like designer clothes. It was because she had to help pay the bills and couldn’t splurge on an expensive pair of jeans.
