by Lehman, Kim
Lucky Stars Publishing, LLC
www.LuckyStarsPublishing.com
Other books by Kim Lehman
RIGHTEOUS
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
First, Last, and Always
Copyright © 2014 by Kim Lehman
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information contact the author by emailing [email protected].
For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Lucky Stars Publishing at [email protected].
ISBN 978-0-9895637-4-1
Cover design and formatting by Tugboat Design—www.tugboatdesign.net
Author photography by Ann Durkin
For my brother and sister,
Chris Vallier and Ann Durkin
It’s true what they say...
The best friends you’ll ever have are the ones you never choose.
And in loving memory of Jack Vallier (Pop)
1926–2014
Acknowledgments
This book was a challenge for me, mentally and emotionally. While my name is on the front of this book, the actual credit, I feel, lies with those who pushed for me to see this book through; those who helped me with the writer’s block, the deadlines, the god-awful first, second, third...sixth, and seventh drafts. It took much longer than I imagined, but it’s finally done and I hope all of my readers are as happy with the story as I am.
First and always, I have to thank Greg. Honestly, all I can do is pause and shake my head (insert speechless expression and a gazillion ellipses here). There truly isn’t enough time, space, or words to come up with how thankful I am for you, but I want to say it anyway—Thank you, thank you, thank you!
My editors: Tiffany Yates Martin of FoxPrint Editorial, your wisdom, knowledge, and guidance in the art of the written word are magic. Thank you for being my literary compass. And to Lindsey Alexander, thank you for giving the manuscript the final piece of TLC it really needed.
Miss Rachel Lawrence and the students of the 2013–2014 Spring-Ford High School Reading Group: I’m lucky to have an outlet such as yours to help me develop as a writer. Your constructive feedback and excitement for reading keep me motivated. I can’t thank you all enough for your support.
My test readers: Kathy Snell and Sarah Cowan, it’s never easy for a writer to share raw material, but you both made it painless. Thank you for your friendship and support. I can’t wait for you to read the final product. I’m not sure you’ll even recognize it.
Pam Hopkins and Rachel Batykefer: Thank you for your contributions and for taking an interest in following my journey. Everything is more rewarding when you have people to share it with.
Finally, my immediate and extended family and friends: Your endless love, support, and continued excitement are humbling. My life is richer because you all are a part of it.
It’s not the first love that counts,
it’s the last love that matters most.
-UNKNOWN
1
Charlotte
The first time I fell in love I was in third grade. His name was Harry Collins. He was in my class, and everything about him was perfect, except for the fact that he didn’t like me. At all.
I know. You’re thinking, Third grade? Really?
Yes. Really. People may say that you never really fall in love when you’re young. They’ll say things like, “It’s impossible,” “You’re not mature enough to understand love,” or “It’s just a crush.”
They’re wrong.
Nobody can tell you when you’ll find or feel love. Love doesn’t know how old you are. My own aunt and uncle met when they were fifteen and, after thirty years, they’re still in love.
Love is ageless and timeless and colorless and shapeless and it happens upon you when you least expect it; hitting you square in the chest like a hundred mile-per-hour fastball that you never saw coming. That’s what happened to me, and it was neither beautiful nor wonderful nor all the things they tell you it’s suppose to be. For me, it stung. Bad. Because of all the things people will tell you about love, they neglect to warn you of the two most important things: love can be excruciatingly painful, and that feeling never goes away.
That old, dormant sting returns today when I happen to overhear one girl whisper to another on the school bus in the seat behind me. “I’m totally in love with Harry Collins,” the girl says with a sigh.
The mere mention of the name makes me flinch and—I can’t help it—I glance behind me to see who it is. The soft, brown curls peeping up from over the edge of the seat are unmistakable. It’s Jessica Bennigan, the prettiest girl in our freshman class. “He’s in love with me too,” she adds. Boys prefer pretty girls like Jessica. I do not fall into that category. I was the girl who was once referred to by another girl in junior high as “the perfect ten.” It was not a compliment. She was talking about my clothing size, which, at that time, was not exactly a size ten, but it didn’t really matter. The point she was trying to make is that I was chubby. Or rather, I am chubby. I’m not someone that Harry Collins or any other boy in school would give the time of day to.
“Charlotte?” My best friend Miles, who’s sitting next to me, taps my arm. “Gum?” he asks, extending his hand, distracting me from my thoughts.
“Sure,” I say absently. As my hand reaches out and touches the foil wrapper, a buzz-cut head pops over the back of the seat in front of us—Lenny Grapinski, the meanest kid in our grade. If his personality had a face, it would seriously be less attractive than a naked mole rat. Smirking, he narrows his black eyes and hocks a loogie, spitting it dead center between me and Miles, missing our hands by a fraction of an inch.
“What’s up, nerds?” Lenny sneers before coughing up more phlegm.
“Turn around and sit down!” the bus driver yells.
“I’m talking to my friends!” he shouts back, the sarcasm heavy.
“Lenny.” The bus driver slows the vehicle. “If I have to stop this bus, it’s going to ruin both of our days.”
Lenny actually considers this for a moment and then scoffs. “Fine!” Then to us, “You’re both hurting my eyes anyway.” He grunts and flips around in his seat.
Miles and I look at each other and stare, both of us thinking the same thing: I hate the bus.
“Ignore him,” Miles says. He must think I’m more upset by Lenny’s comments than usual, but it’s not that. It’s everything. In less than five minutes, I’ve been reminded of how unappealing I am, twice. Usually this kind of reminder comes once a day from the girls at school, or my older sister when she feels like talking to me. I do my best to block out the snide remarks. For the most part, I’ve gotten good at it. I shouldn’t care, especially when it comes to Lenny, but I do. It’s always harder not to care when you actually believe what they say.
I pull my headphones out of my bag. Miles does the same with his. Simultaneously we stick the buds in our ears, hit the sideways triangle on the music players, and focus on the world passing by outside the window.
Parachute sings into my ears:
You wake up every morning looking for your answer; you’re waiting for your sign...
I’ve gotten used to telling people that I don’t want a boyfriend. I always pretend that I’m not ready for any of that. “Too much drama,” I say, or “I don’t have time to like anyone.”
It’s a lie. I want to be in love just as much as anyone else.
...Love, if you can hear t
his sound. Oh, just give me something, something to believe in...
Is it too much to hope that I’ll meet someone who wants to hold my hand, or call me just because he misses the sound of my voice? Is it really crazy to want to find that one person who cares about me more than anything?
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lenny curl his head around the side of his seat. His lips move, but the words drown in the music. Miles lifts his hand and pulls out one of his earbuds. Curious to know what Lenny is saying, I hit pause on my music player, keeping my gaze on the trees and houses sliding past.
“Go ahead, Miles. Do it,” Lenny whispers. “Slip Charlotte the tongue.”
“Why don’t you leave us alone?” Miles replies, his voice as calm as always.
“I’m not stupid,” Lenny challenges. “I know you like her.”
Miles likes me? There’s a slight tinge of curiosity. No. Lenny has to be joking. The thumping of my pulse quickens. I hold my breath, waiting to hear what Miles says next.
“No,” Miles responds flatly. “I don’t.”
My shoulders slump.
“Right,” Lenny drawls. “I gotcha. Just friends with benefits then, huh? My dad calls that ‘getting the pork without the fat.’” He chuckles.
Miles shakes his head. “That’s gross. You’re disgusting.”
Hitting play, I slide the volume all the way up.
...Sometimes it’s hard to keep on living...
Miles cares about me as a friend. I know this. I’ve never thought that he actually liked me beyond that. I would have been surprised if he did, but it still kind of hurts to know that even my own best friend would never be interested in me.
They say there’s a first for everything.
In my case, when it comes to finding love, I’m not so sure.
Ten minutes later, the bus screeches up to school. Students file out. Stiffening, I take a deep breath. I could really use a good pep talk right now. Like the kind football coaches give to their players before a big game: “This is your chance to play hard. This is your chance to shine. No matter what people say, no matter what people do, you have to stay strong. You have to fight. Now get out there and show ’em what you’re made of! Go! Go! Go!”
I can do this. I can do this.
Somehow my rigid legs stand up. I’m in the aisle, walking behind a girl who smells like eggs and bacon, and not in a good way. The churning in my stomach worsens. Miles walks behind me. One after the other our feet hit the pavement. The massive entryway to Radcliffe High is before us. Students scuttle like ants into the building. My nerves are interrupted by an energetic, petite girl who jumps in front of us. “’Sup, snitches!” she yells.
I’m as happy to see her as I was to see Miles. “Hi, Lani,” I say.
Lani Hale (pronounced Hall-ay) is my other best friend in the entire world.
“Hey,” Miles grunts next to me. The three of us are best friends, but I’m pretty sure Lani and Miles have this love-hate relationship. Lani loves to tease Miles and Miles hates it.
Crossing her arms, Lani assesses Miles from head to toe.
Lani is unlike anyone I’ve ever known. She’s brave, outgoing, loud (both vocally and aesthetically; her favorite color to wear is fluorescent pink), and she’s eccentric and fun. Her attire today is more subdued than usual, in color, at least—white T-shirt, gray shorts. The brightest thing on her is an electric-blue scarf that she’s converted into a headband and tied into a bow on the top of her head. The relative lack of color is compensated for by the dozens of bangle bracelets running up her arms, silver hoop earrings that are so large they almost touch her shoulders, and fingerless white lace gloves on her hands. The outfit looks like something pulled out of the 1980s. Lani likes to experiment with fashion. She doesn’t care what anyone thinks.
Still looking at Miles, Lani cocks her head and says, “Miles, you’re looking exceptionally somber today.” Miles has two expressions: serious and more serious.
“Thank you,” he says, straight-faced, no inflection in his tone.
Lani shakes her head. “Just once I’d love to see you get emotional or mad or something.”
“I can get mad,” he argues, making an unsuccessful attempt at a hard scowl. It makes me laugh.
“Uh, yeah, it’s not working,” Lani says.
“Really?” Miles relaxes his face and sags his shoulders. “Not even a little bit?”
“No,” Lani says. “It just looks like you’re thinking really hard.”
I’ve known Miles my whole life and one thing is certain: he’s never been mean or hurtful to anyone or anything.
We met in first grade. I spilled my milk at lunch the second week of school. He was standing next to me, along with a few other kids. Everyone but Miles ran off as the milk pooled around our feet. “Here,” he had said, extending his arm to me. “You can have mine.” I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen him mad, and even then most people would never know that he’s actually upset. But I know if something is bothering him. I’ve learned to notice all the small, almost undetectable signs when something is wrong. Like the red, blotchy patch that forms on his neck when he’s embarrassed or nervous, the twitch of his ear when he’s excited about something, or the way his eyebrows turn down when he’s sad.
Right now, through the serious expression, I can tell Miles is disappointed. I pat him on the shoulder. “Face it, Miles, you’re just too nice.”
“Is that a bad thing?” he says.
“Well—” Lani starts to speak.
I cut her off before she can finish her thought. “No,” I shake my head. “More people should be like you,” I tell him.
The edges of his lips turn up.
“So hey, did you get my Snapchat?” Lani asks Miles, changing the subject.
Another thing about Lani: I’m pretty sure she has attention deficit disorder. She hasn’t been diagnosed; it’s more of a personal assessment. She tends to jump from one subject to the next, barely breathing in between. The first time we ever met, the conversation went something like this:
Lani: Hey.
Me: Hi.
Lani: Love your hair.
Me: (Skeptical.) Thanks?
Lani: What do you use to make it so thick?
Me: Uh...shampoo?
Lani: That’s it? You don’t use any other products?
Me: No.
Lani: Huh, you gotta give me the name of whatever you’re using. (Short pause.) So, have you ever seen a chinchilla attack a snake? I did. It’s crazy.
Me: (Blank stare.)
We probably don’t seem like the most likely of friends, but despite the obvious differences in appearance, we do have a lot in common. For example, we both love to eat, we love all the same movies and books, and her passion for fashion is something I wish I had. I think we complement each other too. She’s a great talker and I’m a good listener. She could talk about a pile of dirt and make it sound interesting.
The already barely noticeable smile on Miles’s face fades completely at Lani’s mention of a Snapchat. “Unfortunately,” he responds.
I feel left out. “What?” I ask. I wish my parents would just let me have a cell phone already. Hubbard law (Hubbard is my last name) will not allow it until I turn sixteen.
Miles shakes his head. “You don’t want to know,” he assures me.
“Yes, I do,” I say.
Lani whips out her phone, overly excited. Miles sighs. “For the record, I tried to warn you,” he says.
“First of all,” Lani prefaces, holding up her hands, “my morning sucked. And because you”—she glares at me—“do not have a cell phone, I had to share my pain with someone who does.”
Behind Lani’s back Miles points to himself. Victim, he mouths.
“So,” Lani continues, “I sent Miles a Snapchat of what happened. You guys have no idea what my life is like now.” Lani flips through pictures on her phone as she talks. “The quads kept me up all night, and this morning was a shit show.” Lani
was an only child until recently. Four months ago quadruplets were welcomed into her family—two boys and two girls: Ipo, Kapino, Keahi, and Moana. Since the quads’ birth, things in Lani’s household have been crazy, to say the least. “See!” Lani hands me her phone.
As soon as my eyes hit the screen, I practically throw the phone back at her. “Oh, dear God!” I didn’t realize she was being literal. “That’s disgusting.”
“I know!” Lani agrees. “Have you ever seen anything so small create such a huge mess? It’s like Kapino’s diaper exploded.”
When I look at Miles he just gives me a face that says, I warned you. I should have listened to him.
“You guys want to see another?” Lani asks.
“No!” Miles and I say simultaneously.
A bell rings.
My nerves kick in again. “I think that means we have ten minutes. Do you guys know where you’re going?”
“No idea,” Lani says.
“Me neither,” I say.
Miles is the only one who has bothered to look at a map of the building. Pulling a diagram out of his pants pocket, he gives us instructions on where to go. With one last look of encouragement and a supportive smile from Miles, I take in a deep breath. “All right then, let’s do this,” I mumble.
Lani scowls. “I’m so excited.”
“Yep,” Miles mimics, stoic.
For a good thirty seconds none of us move; then, with a final simultaneous breath, the three of us step forward with trepidation into the rough-and-rowdy game called high school.
Miles
I shouldn’t be doing this right now.
Class is going to start in less than five minutes, which means I have two to three minutes to make my detour, take care of what I need to do, then two more minutes to head to the opposite side of the building to my first class. The timing is tight, but possible.
