Three Strikes (Four of a Kind Book 3)

by Kellie Bean

  Three Strikes

  Four of a Kind, Book Three

  Kellie Bean

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Three Strikes (Four of a Kind, #1)

  CHAPTER ONE

  A pale pink sheen takes over my nail bed as I run the polish brush over the tip of my pinky finger. One hand down, one to go. Although, I’m not convinced that I'll be doing my right hand in the same shade as my left.

  With a quick glance up at Mrs. Jones's desk, I find my art teacher still reading her romance novel, sitting cross-legged in her swivel chair. As though sensing me, she looks up at the same time I do. Her eyes meet mine before she offers me a quick smile. It was she who encouraged me to use nail art as another way to express myself. I still feel weird about doing something like this during class. Mrs. Jones pays it no mind, going back to her book without so much as a comment.

  With only about ten minutes left in the period, there really isn't any point in starting something new. My right hand will have to wait. Besides, I've already finished my last assignment for the year other than our final, so it's not like I technically have any homework. Though, I really should figure out what I'm going to be doing for my most important project for this class.

  In theory, I love the idea of complete freedom to choose a medium that I'm comfortable with. But, there's something to be said for having a little too much choice. There are so many things I want to try, but so far, nothing is good enough. I'll give my final project some thought over the weekend, since we don't have to pitch anything until Monday.

  Three cheers for procrastination.

  I put the pink polish bottle back in my backpack, pulling out a complementary shade of blue. Before I can open the lid, a familiar form sits down beside me in a flurry of motion and cursing.

  "All done?" I ask, looking over at the girl with whom I've been sharing a work desk all semester.

  I've known Rosie since we first moved to Fairview, and she's never been anything other than nice to me. Despite that, I still can't help but think of her as Reagan's friend instead of mine.

  "That painting is as good as it's going to get," Rosie says with a shrug, gesturing toward one of the easels lined up along the wall. Her long dark hair brushing against the surface of the desk, she leans over to start collecting the brushes and paint pots she left behind.

  "It's beautiful." I assure her.

  It really is.

  Rosie has spent the last week working to perfect her self-portrait. While her style is a little more abstract than what I'm used to, I can still see her larger-than-life personality shining through the image she painstakingly formed on canvas. It's ten times better than what I managed to pull off.

  Rosie doesn't answer. Instead, she turns and studies me. I mean, she really looks at me like it's the first time she's ever noticed me beside her. Her deep brown eyes stare at me like they're trying to find the answer to a question I don't understand.

  I can't help but look away from the intensity of her stare, while at the same time feeling drawn back toward it.

  "You paint, right, Reilly?" she says slowly. I nod. Yes, I paint, maybe not as well as she does, but I paint. "Like, flowers and stuff. Right?"

  I can't help it, when I look back at her I'm blushing a little. I know Rosie doesn't mean anything by her question, but my floral obsession is well documented in my family and is something my sisters all love to tease me for. Even the shirt I'm wearing right now has a daisy print.

  "I do a bunch of nature stuff," I answer. Flowers are kind of my thing. I still don't know what it is Rosie is trying to figure out, and I desperately don't want to get the wrong answer.

  "Have you come up with something for your final project yet?" Rosie asks, taking the conversation in a new direction without warning.

  I'm not usually the type to leave assignments to the last minute, and I hate admitting that I don't have anything. If the next question is about to be what I plan to work on, I'm not going to have anything to offer. So instead, I confess.

  "I have a few ideas. I haven't really worked out which one I want to focus on yet." At least that much is true.

  "Well, if you're not sold on anything, I think I could use you for an idea I've been working on. If you're open to collaboration, that is."

  Now it's my turn to study Rosie. The two of us have been chatting a little every day all semester, and she’s never been remotely rude or standoffish. She was usually so focused on whatever she was working on that I didn't think she even noticed what I was doing. At least, she never said much.

  I smile without really knowing why. Usually, smiling just feels like what I'm supposed to do. This time, it seems to work.

  "You're not saying no. I like that." Rosie smiles back at me, her pink lips broadening the expression into a grin. "Here," she says, holding out her hand. "Give me your arm, please."

  I should probably ask what it is she wants but instead, I reach toward her and place my hand in hers. She tugs it toward her side of the desk and pulls a pen out from behind her ear. Before I know it, she's scribbling a few numbers on my palm. Probably her phone number.

  Hopefully, her phone number.

  "Text me tonight, and I will give you the details. I really think we will be perfect for this. Mrs. Jones loves the idea of partnering up instead of doing the usual solo thing. I think having a second style mixed into what I was imagining could help push this from good to great."

  She doesn't say what exactly this is, but she's going for the hard-sell. I'm definitely interested.

  "Okay, sure," I say, trying to sound casual.

  I finally pop the lid off my nail polish, getting to work finishing my other hand. I hope the polish will dry before I have to head back out and finish the school day. As I apply a second coat a minute later, I'm still doing the same thing I've done almost all semester. Usually when I should be focusing on something that actually matters to my grade, I’m trying to look busy, pretending like I'm not totally aware of how insanely pretty Rosie Thompson is. Not this time. My thoughts are all about her.

  By Sunday night, Rosie is in my attic with a few dozen paint swatches spread out all over the floor. It was all too easy for her to win me over when it came to partnering up for this assignment. I'm already more than a little in love with her vision.

  I can hear the murmur of voices coming from downstairs; my whole family is home for the afternoon. Despite that, I still feel like the two of us are in our own little world.

  "What you think?" Rosie asks, locking her eyes on mine for the dozenth time since she got here, while holding up two different shades of green for me to look at.

  I don't think I'm ever going to get sick of her looking at me that way. Still, I force myself to study the pieces of paper in her hands as we try to come up with the right color scheme.

  I can’t help but to flip my gaze back up to meet hers. She’s just so nice to look at.

  I need to focus. I told myself not to let my imagination get the best of me, not again.

  "Dark green, for sure."

  The theme we’re supposed to be working with is sacrifice, but Mrs. Jones didn't give us any other requirements for what our project needed to accomplish. Therefore, Rosie’s is thinking big. The two of us are going to spend the next two weeks making a mural, which is unlike anything else I've ever done. Supposedly, we’re meant to be studying for exams at the same time, but this project is all I want to work on, all I want to think about.

  I should probably start thinking about Rosie a little less, and this assignment a little more. That's easier said than done.

  A happy silence fills the attic. The two of us go back to what we were working on, sketc
hing out ideas on large pieces of parchment paper on the floor. My concentration is re-broken almost as soon as it forms by the sound of heavy steps clumping up the stairs behind me. With six people living in my house, this is pretty much an inevitability.

  "Almost done?" my sister's voice interrupts.

  I don't have to look to see that it’s Reagan, my oldest sister by a few minutes. Like the rest of my sisters, she looks just like me, but I‘d recognize the excited yet hesitant pitch of her voice anywhere.

  I look over at Rosie, expecting to see her turning to look at Reagan. Instead, she's watching me. Again.

  The slightest shiver runs down my spine. I push the thought and all the feelings that come with it far, far away.

  She's probably just trying to see if I'll be okay with her taking off early.

  "You can go, if you want," I say, keeping my voice light. "We've gotten way more done than I thought we would today. All we have to do is get approval on the idea before we do any of the real work. No matter what, this is going to be amazing."

  Rosie shakes her head. "I'm kind of in the groove though." She pauses for a second. "I mean, if you want to stop, we can."

  I finally look at my sister who is still waiting expectantly. "Are you okay if we keep working on this a little while longer?" I ask with hope welling up in my chest against my better judgment.

  I could stay up here in the attic forever, or at least until reality comes calling.

  Reagan makes a face, like she can’t imagine why we would ever want to focus on schoolwork when we don't have to. "No problem. I'll see you guys later."

  When she turns around, I'm a little afraid that she's going to sit down at her computer on the other side of the attic rather than going back downstairs, but she leaves as quickly as she came, leaving Rosie and me alone all over again. I'm quickly learning that Rosie is an easy person to be alone with.

  I could get used to this.

  I shake my head, trying to release the thought from my mind. Spending more time with this girl is only going to dig me into the same hole I've been in so many times before: having a massive crush on someone who's never going to feel the same way I do.

  As soon as Reagan is gone, Rosie is grinning at me again. Her smile is light and genuine, like the two of us are in on something together, and I can't help the feeling in my gut that's telling me it's not just our project.

  Maybe, just maybe, there's something here.

  Color rushes to my cheeks. A second later, Rosie's complexion takes on the same pink tinge.

  Is there any possibility that this isn't just in my head? Is there a way for me to find out for sure without ruining everything? It's not like I can just go ask Reagan if her friend is into girls. Or if she'd be okay with me being interested in one of her friends.

  I don't know how to do any of this.

  I look away, as if I'm focusing one hundred percent of my energy on the project I'm supposed to be working on.

  Instead, all around me, all I can feel is her.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The final weeks of Junior year fly by in a blur of studying, exams, final projects, and Rosie. By the time we make it to the last day of school, I'm ready to sleep the entire summer away. At the same time, I’m also not ready for it to begin. Summer vacation means stepping away from Fairview High for two whole months, including all of the things I've come to love about it.

  My friend Sarah gives out a happy little sigh as she stares up at the mural Rosie and I finished a few nights ago. It now hangs in the gym along with all of the other art finals, so the rest of the school can see what we've done before every hint of this school year gets packed away.

  "It's beautiful, Reilly. Really. I can't believe you guys did this in only two weeks."

  I can't help but smile. I look over at Rosie to see her reaction, but she’s so fixated on our art. I’m not sure if Rosie heard, but I’m happy with Sarah’s reaction. Sure, Sarah would never say a mean word against something she knows I care about, even if she actually thought it was awful, but I agree with her anyway.

  Our mural is painted on the biggest sheet of paper we could find; it’s probably larger than my mom’s car. It depicts the entire planet, with the continents and landmasses all jumbled. Nothing is in its right place. Despite that, we've clearly created our own version of Earth. Thousands of pinpricks of paint decorate the canvas, representing all of the different types of people who make up our world. The top border of the piece is lined with representations of destruction: bombs, fire, and smoke. The bottom, in contrast has colorful flowers.

  Honestly, I'm not even sure I fully understand the piece. Maybe that's the point.

  "Thank you," I say to Sarah, a little too late. "I'm really happy with it."

  "Good. You should be. I wish I could make something even half this beautiful."

  Sarah and I have only known each other since the beginning of this semester, only having our first two classes of the day together plus lunch. Now, I'm finally starting to get used to this side of her. There are a lot of things Sarah wishes she could do: paint, play the flute, speak better Spanish, cook. So far, she hasn't been that willing to jump in and give any of it a try.

  "I guess I should get going," Sarah says, interrupting my train of thought. "I actually have to go grab something to eat before next period.”

  "Right."

  I mean to apologize for pulling my friend away from her best chance of getting something decent to eat in the cafeteria, but when I move to look at her, she's already gone. Instead, I turn and try to catch Rosie's eye. She’s still gazing at our creation. Only when a girl I don't recognize pauses in front of our little corner of the gym does Rosie stir at all, studying the newcomer.

  "It's great," I whisper to her. "Don't worry about what these people think."

  I risk meeting her eyes to give her a reassuring smile. It’s too late. Rosie is already nervously looking around the room. This isn't any sort of competition, just a display to free up the art rooms. Still, Rosie wants people to like what we've created. Not that I blame her. We put a lot of work into this, and I spent way too many nights staying up late to catch up on my other classes. It was exhausting, but it was worth it.

  A familiar voice fills the space behind me, and I shift around to find its source, finding a face so like mine it might as well be my reflection.

  "Aren't you supposed to be in geography right now?" I ask Reece.

  "There's nothing left to do, so we got out early," my sister explains.

  Usually, I'd worry she was skipping class, but there have been more people than usual roaming the halls today. Really, even if she was skipping, it's too late for her to do any damage to her grades.

  "Besides, I had to cheer you guys on." She smiles.

  Along with seeing most of the art process along the way, all three of my sisters saw the mural last night before Rosie and I packed it up. That makes me suspect that Reece's random appearance in the gym has more to do with the fact that her boyfriend, John, has lunch this period than it has to do with me.

  "Thanks," I say anyway. "I think people like it."

  "For sure," Reece agrees, a genuine smile beaming through as she speaks.

  She has no clue about anything remotely related to art. I like the mural, so of course she likes it. That's more than enough for me.

  More often than not, I do the same thing for my sisters’ passions. I rarely understand even half of the nerdy stuff Reagan loves. Reece's sports analogies go right over my head. I've heard both of them talk about their things enough that I understand why they love it, and why some things matter more than others.

  It's not long before Reece disappears for a few stolen moments with John, leaving me alone with Rosie. Even though the two of us are surrounded by a gym full of people, my heart still starts to beat a little faster.

  These past two weeks have been incredible. Rosie came over nearly every day. While she'd sometimes get dragged away to hang out with Reagan and the rest of their group, s
he almost always found her way back to me, and our mural, in the end.

  Moving to stand beside her, I nudge Rosie lightly with my elbow. "It's perfect, right?"

  "Yeah, I kind of think so. I love it."

  "We did that. We made that."

  "That's exactly why I love art so much," Rosie says, as soft as a breath. "There's now a piece of me out there in the world. A piece of us. We made something totally new. People can look at it and take something away from what we did in a way that makes sense for them. Actually, I'm not even sure I get what I'm trying to say."

  "That art can make people think," I guess. "Our piece inspires someone else to think about things differently, then maybe they do things differently, or create something of their own as a result."

  I've gotten used to deciphering some of Rosie's stray thoughts. She doesn't always phrase things the same way I do, but she always sees them like I do. Even if we express it differently.

  The bell rings overhead, finally pulling my attention back to real life. It’s the last day before I'm officially a rising senior on my way to my last ever year of high school. I've been so focused on getting through exams that it never really sunk in. This is my last week where I know what will happen come September. Once I’m a senior, I’m not going to know what to expect for the fall term.

  A year from now, I could be headed anywhere.

  "We should get to class," I say after a moment when it still doesn't seem like Rosie is ready to walk away. "You get to come back and take this home at the end of the day, then you can look at it all the time if you want to."

  I can already imagine our mural taped to Rosie's ceiling–not that I even know what her bedroom looks like-–so that she gets to fall asleep looking at it every night.

  Without another word, Rosie follows me out into the busy hallway, sticking close to me as the crush of student bodies surrounds us. By now, I know the way to the art room as well as I know the way around my own house. We're pushed, jostled, and stalled by distracted classmates more times than I can count. We make it to class with a couple of minutes to spare.