Eclipsed: A High School Bully Romance (Del Sol High Book 3)

by McKayla Box

  It's like she's hit me with a hammer. I stare at her, not fully comprehending what she’s saying.

  “It was a boy here,” she explains. “There was no romantic story to it. They were teens who had sex. They didn't use any protection. She got pregnant. I'm not sure your mother has ever even been to New Orleans.”

  There is a roaring in my ears, and my heart is pounding wildly.

  So even my name is a lie.

  “It was the end of her senior year,” she explains. “I can't tell you for certain that she's never been to New Orleans, but I can promise you she'd never been there prior to getting pregnant. She probably thought it made for a good story.” She smiles and it seems like it almost hurts her to do so. “Fiction is almost always better than the truth.”

  “So how'd she pick my name?” I manage to ask. “She told me it was because that's where I was conceived.”

  She sighs and shakes her head. “Of course she did. I don't know where she got your name. I do recall I bought her a baby name book.” She smiles again at me, and this time it doesn't seem like it hurts. “And I do recall loving the name Nola when she mentioned it.”

  It occurs to me that I'm now about the same age that my mother was when she got pregnant. I can't really imagine what that would feel like, but I’m pretty sure I would never lie to my kid about where I met their father or the rationale and meaning behind their name.

  “I know the boy played football,” my grandmother says. “I can't recall how we learned that, but I do know that he was a football player.” She holds up a finger. “I take that back. I do know how we figured that out. I found a T-shirt in your mother’s laundry. A practice T-shirt, I think it was. And it was clearly not hers and it was clearly for football. And eventually I got it out of her that it was his.” She nods. “So I do know that. But it was like pulling teeth to even get that little bit of information.” She pauses. “So I'm sorry to say we never even got to meet him. I know nothing about what he was like. The little bit we got was all filtered through her. And I have no idea how true any of that even was. She has always maintained that he was the one who walked away, but I truly doubt that's the truth. My guess is that decision was hers. But after you were born, she packed up and left, so it became less about knowing anything about him and more about trying to maintain a connection to you. But I tried with her a few years later and she hung up on me. I've never brought the subject up with her again.” She shakes her head and frowns. “All I wanted to know was whether she was still in contact with him. That was it. I just asked 'Do you still talk to Jay?' And she immediately hung up on me.”

  It takes me a moment to process her words as I replay them back in my mind.

  “Wait,” I say. “Jay?”

  She nods. “Yes. I know he played football and I know his name was Jay.” She holds up two fingers. “The only two things I ever really learned about him.”

  “His name wasn't Jay,” I tell her.

  She looks at me. “What?”

  “She told me his name was David,” I say. “I asked her one night about him. She was drunk, but she told me his name was David.”

  She purses her lips for a moment, her eyebrows furrowing together. “David?”

  I nod. “Yeah. I remember because it's the one time she ever told me his name.” I tell her about sitting there with the cat and asking her about him.

  When I'm done talking, she chews on her upper lip for a moment, then shakes her head slowly. “I don't know what to tell you, Nola. The name she gave us was Jay. And I can remember at least three specific conversations before you were born in which she used his name. Jay. I don't recall her ever mentioning someone named David.” She shakes her head again, this time with more certainty. “No. I don't remember that. Football and Jay. Those were the two things we got out of her and the only things I've held onto over the years.”

  I lean back into the pillows, confused and just a little shell-shocked. As sure as she is about what she remembers, that's exactly how certain I am of my own memories. David. It's always been David.

  She places a hand on my arm and gives it a gentle squeeze, “I'll check with your grandfather,” she says. “Just to make sure I'm not losing my mind. I don't like to bring it up with him because it usually sets him off on some rant about how we should've done so many things differently.”

  “You don't have to ask him,” I tell her. “I don't want to upset him.”

  “Oh, please. He'll be fine. He can stand to be riled up every once in awhile.” She pats my leg. “And you deserve an answer. So I will ask him.”

  I thank her. She gives me a hug and then leaves, closing the door behind her. I lean over and switch off the light.

  But I can't sleep. My mind is working overtime after the conversation with my grandmother and all of the revelations brought to light. The one thing I can’t shake is the conversation I had with my mother all of those years ago,

  I know I heard her right.

  David.

  She said my father’s name was David.

  But I don't doubt my grandmother, either.

  Jay.

  I'm not entirely sure why it matters so much to me at this particular moment, but it does.

  I need to know what my father's name is.

  Chapter 7

  I barely sleep because I need to know.

  I doze off a little bit before the sun comes up, but I'm awake as soon as it starts streaming through my window. I shake off the fog that came with the lack of sleep, take a quick shower to fully wake myself up, dress, then grab my phone and sit down on the bed. I scroll through the notes on my phone until I find what I'm looking for. The instructions on how to call my mother while she's in prison. I can't call in. She can only call out. But her attorney has a way to notify her in prison if I want to hear from her. I don't know how this works and I've never asked, mainly because I never want her to call me. But I text the number from the attorney and explain that I need her to call me. The attorney responds almost immediately and tells me that it will be about thirty minutes before she can call me back.

  I finish getting ready for school, then venture into the kitchen, fully expecting to see my grandparents at the table. But the kitchen is empty, and there’s a note on the fridge that tells me they left early for a round of golf. I force down half a bagel and a banana for breakfast, then head out the door. I'm just pulling into the school parking lot when my phone rings on the passenger seat. It scares me and I jump. I pull into a parking spot, turn off the car, and answer the phone.

  “Nola,” my mother says, without saying hello. “Is everything alright?”

  “Yeah, I'm fine,” I say.

  “Are your grandparents okay?”

  “Yeah, they're fine.”

  The line buzzes for a moment. “Okay. I'm a little surprised that you're calling. I'm not sure if you've ever called me here before and it's the morning, so I'm a little worried.”

  “Was his name David?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “My father. Was his name David?”

  The line buzzes again, for a longer period this time, and I’m beginning to wonder if the call got interrupted. “Are you still there?”

  “Why are you calling me, Nola?”

  “That was actually going to be my exact next question,” I tell her. “Why did you call me Nola when you'd never been to New Orleans after you told me that's where I was conceived?”

  The line is quiet for a long time.

  “Was his name David?” I say again, my voice rising. “You told me his name was David.”

  “Nola,” she says. “I don't have time for this. I don't—”

  “You don't have time for this?” I say on a harsh laugh. “Really? I thought all you had was time.”

  She sighs, and it's loud through the line. “What do you want from me?”

  “I think I just made it clear,” I say, one hand clutching the steering wheel. “I want to know if my father's name was David. You told me it was one night.
You were knee-deep into a bottle of wine, but I asked and you told me his name was David. I'm asking if that is the truth. This isn't hard.”

  “Why are you asking me?” she says. “After all of these years. Why are you asking me now?”

  “Because I want to know his name,” I tell her. “I want you to tell me what his name is.”

  “I haven't spoken to him since you were born,” she says. “I wouldn't know where he is or where to find him.”

  Anger is now boiling in my body. “I didn't ask if you knew where he is or where to find him. I'm asking if his name is David or if you lied to me about that.”

  The line buzzes. “When did I tell you his name?”

  “I was eight or nine,” I tell her. “We still had Ralph.”

  “Ralph?”

  The anger finally spills over.

  “Our fucking cat!” I yell. “You don't ever remember our fucking cat because you were so damn drunk all the time?”

  She doesn't say anything and I'm shaking.

  I take a deep breath, exhale. My fingers are white on the steering wheel.

  “Is my father's name David?” I ask again through clenched teeth.

  She clears her throat. “No.”

  I already know the answer before she says it because it seems so obvious that she doesn't want to answer the question. But hearing her admit that she lied about it for years gives me a certain sense of satisfaction that I've never been wrong about her. Everything she's told me was a lie. She's always been the same person, and no matter how bad things are here in Del Sol, I am better off being as far away from her as possible.

  “I don't know why I told you that,” she says. “I don't remember it, but I believe you that I said it. I'm sure I was drunk. I was always drunk. So I'm not sure why I said his name was David.”

  I look out the window. People are crossing the lot toward school. It looks normal. Just like every other day.

  Except now everything feels different to me.

  I'm not exactly sure why. It's not like I ever met the man. But I guess it's because I've spent my whole life believing this one thing about who my father was. Despite the stories I’d fabricated over the years, this was the one truth I clung to. And now that I know it’s a lie, it makes me question everything.

  “Nola?” she asks. “Are you still there?”

  “What was his name?” I ask quietly.

  She clears her throat again. “Nola, I just don't think that—”

  “It was Jay,” I say flatly. “Jay, right?”

  She doesn't say anything.

  And I know that my grandmother's memory was correct.

  “Nola, I think—”

  “I don't care what you think,” I say and hang up.

  Chapter 8

  The last thing I need is Reese McClure coming at me, but that's what I'm getting.

  I made it through the morning of classes, but I didn't really absorb anything. I'm still focused on the phone call with my mother and how she led me to believe the wrong thing for most of my life. I'm not sure what it all really means for me, but I can't stop thinking about it. So the lectures and work from my morning classes were mostly a blur.

  At lunch, I'm sitting at a table on the side of the courtyard, picking at my food, when I see Reese and her little followers, Bree and Fallon, heading in my direction. I don't see her soon enough to pack up my stuff and get out of there, so now I just have to sit and wait on her to get to me.

  “Party for one, it looks like,” Reese says with a smile as she reaches my table.

  “Party for none,” Fallon whispers behind her.

  Bree snorts a laugh.

  I ignore them and pick up my phone.

  “It's so sad to see you eating all by your lonesome,” Reese says, not sounding sad at all. “It must get lonely being such a big fucking loser.”

  Bree and Fallon laugh.

  I look at Reese. “Do you need something?”

  Reese laughs. “Oh, no, honey. I don't need a thing. Seeing you sitting here alone is the only thing I've ever needed and now that I have it, my life is complete.”

  “Good for fucking you,” I say, turning back to my phone. “Leave me alone then.”

  “Oh, don't worry. We will.” Reese leans against the table, and I can smell the perfume or scented lotion she used. “I just thought we'd come over and take pity on you for a minute.”

  I don't say anything because I know there's a punch line coming.

  “Is the minute up yet, girls?” Reese asks. “Because this shit is taking forever.”

  Bree and Fallon laugh.

  “If you don't leave now, you're going to have trouble walking away,” I say.

  “Tough girl,” Reese says. “Alright, alright. We were just trying to be...nice.”

  “The fuck you were,” I say. “Leave.”

  “I'd think you might be a little nicer to the only person at this school willing to be seen in public with you,” she says. “A thank you might go a long way.”

  “I'd prefer go a long way,” I say, looking at her. “Away.”

  Her smile flickers. “You're such a bitch.”

  “Yep, and the feeling is mutual.”

  “I can't believe Archer ever put up with you,” she says.

  “Again,” I say. “The feeling is mutual.”

  The smile flickers again and she leans closer to me. “But I have a little secret for you. Since I know you like secrets so much.”

  It's all I can do to not put my fist in her mouth. But I know that if I do that, it will just make everything worse for me. Instead, I start packing up my lunch.

  “I'm gonna get him back,” she whispers.

  I put my half-eaten sandwich and half-eaten bag of chips back in the bag.

  “I'm going to,” she says. “You'll see. I mean, you will literally see it. I'll be holding his hand. I'll be kissing him. Right here, on campus.” She smiles. “And then after school? I'll probably just fuck him in his truck in the parking lot. I'll make sure he parks near you that day. So you can get the full show.”

  My stomach twists into a knot as I toss my lunch into my backpack.

  “And then we'll go back to his house so I can do him again,” she says, still grinning. “I'll try and scream loud enough so you hear me.”

  I zip up the bag and stand.

  “Because you're not getting him back,” Reese says. “Ever. He was mine before and I'm going to get him back.”

  I sling my bag over my shoulder. “Hopefully, he'll be able to get hard for you. I guess maybe you could show him some porn first. That might do it.”

  Her expression darkens. “Fuck you.”

  “I thought you wanted to fuck him?” I say, momentarily enjoying that I'm getting to her. “Make up your find. But I wouldn't touch you with a ten-foot pole.” I look at Fallon and Bree. “And that goes for all three of you.”

  They glare at me.

  “You won't get him back,” Reese says, her eyes narrowed to slits. “I'm going to make sure of it. And after how you lied about your pedophile convict of a mother? He's not ever going near you again.”

  I adjust the bag on my shoulder. “Newsflash, bitch. I don't want him back. He's all yours.” I look her up and down. “But I'm not sure he's into human bags of trash. Good luck trying.”

  I walk away before she can say anything else.

  Chapter 9

  Lunch isn't over, so I have to find some place to go.

  To hide.

  Because my hands are shaking and I want to puke.

  I hate that Reese gets to me, but she does. Thinking about her and Archer together is enough to turn my stomach and that's exactly what happens. I want to throw up what little I ate of my lunch and I want to find a corner to go cry in.

  So I head to the one place on campus that's become my go-to hiding place.

  The library.

  I walk in and, like always, it's virtually empty, save for the librarian. She gives me the once over when I walk in, then goes b
ack to staring at her computer screen. I make my way to a table in the back and collapse into a chair. I throw my bag on the table and put my head down on it for a minute. Even though I feel like crying, the tears won't come. I'm not sure why. Maybe I'm dehydrated. I sit up and sigh. I don't feel like eating the rest of my lunch, but I've still got a good forty minutes left until class starts.

  I lean back in the chair and look around. Every table is empty. There's one kid at the bank of computers and he's hunched over, leaning close to the screen. I look at the tall bookshelves, but can't think of anything I want to read.

  Then I see something that catches my eye.

  “Del Sol Through the Years.”

  It's a display on a smaller shelf. The banner is handmade with purple and red markers. Standing behind it is a tall stack of yearbooks.

  I get up and walk over to them. There are ten yearbooks stacked behind the sign, one from each of the last ten years. Thick, leather-bound yearbooks with the year inscribed on the spine.

  And then I start to wonder.

  I walk back to the front where the librarian is sitting. She seems surprised that I need something. “Yes?”

  “Those yearbooks,” I say. “In the back. Are there more of them?”

  “You mean more copies?”

  “No. I mean for other years.”

  “Yes, we should have one for every year the school has been in existence. Last shelf on your right. They start about halfway down. They aren't available for checkout, though.”

  “Okay, thank you,” I say.

  I turn and walk back to the shelf she's directed me to. I find them right where she said they'd be and then I start doing the math in my head until I settle on the year my mother would've graduated from Del Sol. Just in case I'm wrong, I grab the year before and the year after, then carry all three back to my table.

  I crack open the first one and page carefully through it. The yearbook doesn't look all that different from what mine have looked like in the past. Sports, extracurricular activities, current events from the year of the yearbook all have pages, and then lots of photos of all the students. The haircuts and clothes are different, but otherwise it doesn't feel like it's that old.