THE WILSON MOONEY BOX SET
Copyright © 2015 Gretchen de la O
ISBN: 0983665885
ISBN-13: 978-0-9836658-8-5
First Edition, July 2015
Almost Eighteen
Copyright © 2011 Gretchen de la O
Eighteen at Last
Copyright © 2012 Gretchen de la O
Beyond Eighteen
Copyright © 2013 Gretchen de la O
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.
Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored on a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.
Table of Contents
THE WILSON MOONEY SERIES
Almost Eighteen
Dedication
My Shout-outs…
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Epilogue
Eighteen at Last
My Shout-outs…
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Epilogue
Beyond Eighteen
My Shout-outs…
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Epilogue
Max
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
There is no real ending…
Stay Connected
The Wilson Mooney Book Club: Allison, Becky, Brittney, Debbie, Jennifer, Karley, Lisa, and Nicole: Thanks for the insight into Wilson and Max and the dinnertime discussion of the characters you loved—and even the ones you didn’t love so much. You all hold a very special place in my heart.
April: Your belief that I could write a good story means the world to me. Thank you, sis, for giving me the push I needed to publish Wilson.
Eunice: Thank you for stepping forward when I needed someone to help me. I am so grateful for your time and generosity.
Toski & Sommer I am so glad you were willing to work with me. Your flexibility and willingness goes above and beyond. Thank you for your encouraging words and gentle manner.
Liza: Thank you for your creative eye, and finding our perfect Wilson and Max! It was wonderful meeting you and working with you!
Dorothy: Thank you for your wisdom, excitement, and the faith you have in me. I appreciate your wealth of grammatical knowledge.
Karley: Thank you for your endless cheerleading and your total belief in what I was doing. I am completely grateful for your support, input, and the late night readings.
Debbie: Thank you for your eyes, ears, and voice; for putting up with the countless times you were forced to listen and read aloud. I appreciate the brainstorming moments that kept me focused and moving toward my goals.
My Family—Ed, Jared, Kyle, Nate, and my mom (Grandma K): Thank you for giving me the space I needed to create, and the moments in life when you had to fend for yourselves. Thank you for believing that, beyond my righteous titles of wife, mother, and daughter, you saw me as an author. Thank you for making Sunday mornings our family time. You guys are my world and I love you.
Becky: No words exist in any language in the modern world today that can express the limitless gratitude I have for you. I am beyond blessed to have you in my life. You are my twin in consciousness and my sister in greatness. Thank you for your unconditional love, your fabulous dreams, and the absolute reassurance that I am worthy. (REALLY, REALLY!)
Christine (Perfectly Publishable): I adore you! Your talent is brilliant, your dedication is incredible, your attention to detail is priceless and your professionalism is refreshing. Thank you for the continued support, friendship, and loyalty. You're one fiercely creative person!
I wish I could remember my childhood. The vivid memories and deliberate words just didn’t work for me. I remember small pieces—chunks of events that took up residence in my head—but details of who took whom to the fifth grade dance or how it felt when Christian Sibley, one of the most popular boys in middle school, broke up with me…well you could just forget it. My mind was blank. It was like Swiss cheese; cheese that left a pukey, pungent flavor in my mouth after I swallowed.
Okay, so maybe I was
being a little melodramatic with the Swiss cheese reference and the Christian Sibley thingy—but it stung. If I thought really hard, I could remember some of the couples at the fifth grade dance. But if you’ve lived a life like mine, you tend to make it a habit to forget the crappy parts and a struggle to retain even the mediocre ones too.
My name is Wilson Mooney and I’m a senior at Wesley Academy. I knew from an early age that my life was different. Think about it, how many girls do you know named Wilson? Then saddled with the last name Mooney? Odds were stacked against me from birth, I was going to be the butt of someone’s joke. If I had money for every time someone called me Looney Mooney, I wouldn’t need to work another day of my life; but life’s not fair.
Unlike most of the girls at my school, I wasn’t born into privilege. I was the product of a one-night stand between two under-aged, pimple-faced ninth graders. My father was a no-show from the second my mom told him she was pregnant, and my mother had made it her life’s work to live off of the state of California. That’s why I’m here. My grandparents thought I would be better off at a school away from my misguided, loser of a mother. Oh yeah, Wesley Academy is a boarding school for girls.
The grimy dust from the dry-erase pens always covered my hands—evidence that I was one of “those” kids. I’d been erasing the whiteboards for twenty minutes straight and it sucked. Not only did I have to use the crappy black brick eraser to wipe away the chicken scratches of my fifth period teacher, Mr. Swanks, but I also had to use a wet wipe to clean the residue that made my hands look like I belonged in the first grade again. What teacher in their right mind had to use every color pen that came in the economy-sized box? Weren’t black and red enough? After I erased the trig problems, in all different colors, I had to clean Mrs. Clouser’s boards. She was my English Lit teacher. At least she stayed to the two-color maximum.
When it’s all said and done I spend sixty minutes every day of my life cleaning the whiteboards of six of my teachers, three of whom I hate with a passion and two who I can barely tolerate. At least I have Max Goldstein. He’s the young new student teacher who came to Wesley last year to teach government.
Today Mr. Goldstein came into Mrs. Clouser’s classroom while I was cleaning the whiteboards. His strong hands pushed his straight black hair away from his face. His electric green eyes watched me erase. Back and forth they danced. I caught him staring.
“Hi, Wilson, I’m looking for Mrs. Clouser, have you seen her?”
My heart fell into my stomach. He was actually talking to me as an equal.
Don’t be stupid, answer him using sophisticated words. Think, think, think—okay, I got it.
“No.” I felt the dry eraser brick catch under my hand and stumble across the whiteboard as it flew to the ground toward him. My cheeks flushed red, how embarrassing.
“Here let me get that.” He bent down and his hair fell toward his sharp, well-built nose. The tip of his tongue wet his lips as he held out the eraser.
Don’t stare, I kept repeating to myself as I opened my mouth and tasted the sweet aroma of his French Vanilla coffee across my tongue. A hint of Crew hair gel found the spot in my body reminding me that I was a woman. God, he is so hot! Man, I wish he wasn’t my teacher. Maybe I should just brush his fingers when I grab the eraser. I could make it look innocent enough.
“Here you go,” his voice shattered my thoughts. He held out the eraser giving it a little adjustment in his hand.
“Thanks.” I reached for it and my fingernails caught the back of his hand scratching across to his knuckles.
I can’t believe I scratched him. “Oh, I’m sorry.” Why wasn’t I more careful?
“I think I’ll survive.” His lips parted; he smiled and I melted.
“If you see her, could you tell her I came by?”
“Sure.” He turned away and left through the big beige metal door.
I tossed the black eraser onto the aluminum tray, grabbed the wet wipe, and finished the job that helped bankroll my stay at the academy, thinking about him the entire time.
I’m seventeen—I’ll be eighteen in another month—and he’s twenty-two. Four years is nothing; it was actually considered normal now. I figure with the maturity gap between males and females, I am about the right age for him.
I was born on Christmas. Yeah, it sucked for me. I never understood the hypocrisy of people getting presents for someone else’s birthday. How could I justify getting presents for someone who died for my sins over two thousand years ago? Here, sacrifice your life for me. And, by the way, look at the new iPod Touch I got for your birthday. Besides, I always got stiffed. I never had a real birthday party with my friends. It always amounted to my grandparents singing “Happy Birthday” to me as I opened my one birthday-slash-Christmas present that was surely wrapped in dreary solid red paper. I’m not complaining; my grandparents did the best they could with the cards they were dealt. They didn’t intend to emotionally damage me with the Christmas thing—they loved me.
When I lost my grandma six months ago I didn’t expect my grandpa to follow her five and a half months later (almost to the day). He went out to get the newspaper and suffered a massive heart attack. He was dead before he hit the driveway. He just gave up and died of a broken heart. They’d been married sixty-four years.
Some people tried to comfort me into believing my grandparents were together, sitting in heaven, looking down from their celestial space in the sky. Me? Well, I didn’t know what to believe. Part of me wanted to think they were sitting right next to Jesus, but I couldn’t. I just wasn’t convinced the legs of their chairs weren’t going to fall through the soft, puffy clouds. Besides, what were they going to do on a picture- perfect, clear day?
The school assigned me a grievance counselor; someone who could help me with all the “pain” I buried deep in my soul. When I didn’t show up for my first session, they called me out from seventh period and cornered me in the hall outside the classroom. Talk about a real awkward intervention. Principal Rose, Vice Principal Hardbough (known to most as Mrs. Hardballs), and the guidance counselor, Mrs. Jenkles, swarmed around me and bounced in rhythm. They kept chanting strange words about letting go of my disappointment and embracing the small, lost child within. Lesson learned that day? Fake it ‘til you make it. If I’d just gone to the stupid appointment, I could have stayed in pottery and finished the ashtray I’d been making for my non-smoking best friend’s parents. Instead I got shuffled into the guidance counselor’s office every day for the next two weeks during seventh period.
By the time I convinced Mrs. Jenkles that I was mentally balanced enough, the trimester ended and I got a “D” in pottery. You want to know what the real kicker was? My grade was a result of my lack of attendance and incomplete projects. That was the bureaucracy of it all; nobody would claim the blame. The day I took my unfinished ashtray to Joanie’s parents, I realized how much I missed my grandparents. The stupid, restless bowl of an ashtray helped me break down and understand that I was truly alone in this world. I cried hard that night into my pillow and vowed to never cry for my grandparents again; and I haven’t.
Truth be told, I wasn’t really alone in the world. I had Joanie, my BFF. We met when we were both dumped at Bethany’s Boarding School for Girls at the ripe young age of eight; wide-eyed and scared, we gravitated to one another. Joanie’s the most amazing person I have ever met. She has this way of making me believe I can survive anything. You know the type: they dared you to kick the devil between the legs while holding an angel by the wings. She was my rock through the whole death comes in waves thing. While I was busy waiting for the other shoe to drop, she was there to remind me to blow my nose and wash my hands.
Flashbacks and daydreams helped lessen the tedium of my under-aged, slave-labor moments cleaning the whiteboards. By the time I looked at the clock, I only had Max Goldstein’s board left to rub; I liked to clean his last. He had the really nice, enormous erasers that wiped the board clear in a couple of swipes. But that
wasn’t the only reason. He always stayed late to work on his lesson plan for the next day and he didn’t leave until around four-thirty. If I planned my wipes right, I could spend thirty minutes in the same room with him. Thirty minutes of uninterrupted time with the hottest teacher in the entire school. No flirtatious inquiries from Bonnie Wente or stupid questions from Jacky Burlington. Only him and me, with boards that needed to be stroked and lessons that needed to be planned.
I pulled open the massive metal door to his room and shuffled past the pile of crumpled paper overflowing from his waste basket. I could smell his cologne, fresh, like he splashed some on his neck before I showed up. The hint of lavender hovered faintly in the air. He looked up from the planner he had spread across his desk.
“Oh, hey there Wilson, I almost forgot you were coming in today.”
I froze; my heart crashed down into my stomach. His words damaged me like a wrecking ball plummeting into a building. This wasn’t the first time I came to clean his boards.
“Did you need me to come back?” I asked.
“No, go ahead and do what you need to do.” He pushed his finger into a black drawn square and started to write in the time.
How dare he forget I was coming to his classroom? The way he ignored me knocked me into the swell of my own self-pity as he continued to press his pen to the planner. Fine, two can play that way. I grabbed the humongous erasers and started clearing his board, the entire thing—starting with the part where he drew a square around and wrote in big black words, “DO NOT ERASE.”
Okay, so it was immature and cruel; I would even go far enough to say rude. But I gotta admit, I felt vindicated. My emotions always ran hot and cold. That was me, that’s how I rolled. I have heard people refer to me as a pit-bull. If you were part of my pack, I’d protect you to the death. Piss me off, and I’d turn on you faster than a crazed dog chasing an injured cat.
I guess it was time for me to apologize profusely and make it look like a total accident.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Goldstein. I think I just erased something you wanted to keep.” I crumpled my eyebrows and twisted my lips. He paused from the planner and looked up. At first he narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw. Frustration draped his face. I’ve never seen him frustrated before. Wow, he is so gorgeous. Then just as fast, his expression broke to forgiveness. His eyes rounded, his lips pulled across his perfect teeth into a smile and he shook his head back and forth.
The Wilson Mooney Box Set Page 1
