“Mom said to choose modern classics,” I argue back. “Sinclair, Huxley, Orwell…”

“I think she meant like The Great Gatsby or something.”

I close my eyes and drop my head back, releasing a snore before popping it back up again, mocking her.

She rolls her eyes. “You’re such a brat.”

“When in Rome…”

My sister graduated last year and goes to the local college while living at home. It’s a great arrangement for our mom, who’s an event coordinator and is frequently out of town for festivals, concerts, and expos. She doesn’t want to leave me alone.

But honestly, I have no idea why she puts Carson in charge. I make better grades and stay out of trouble—as far as they’re aware—a hell of a lot better than her.

Plus, my sister only wants me in bed and out of the way so she can get it on with whatever guy is on his way over here right now.

Like I’m going to tell our mom.

Like I care.

“I’m just saying,” she says, planting a hand on her hip, “those books are a lot to wrap your head around.”

“You don’t have to tell me that.” I play along. “All those big concepts inside my itty bitty brain. It’s enough to make me feel as dumb as a bag of wet hair.” And then I assure her, “But don’t worry. I’ll let you know if I need help. Now can I get my nine hours? Coach is taking us through a circuit in the morning.”

She shoots me a little snarl and glances at my wall. “I can’t believe Mom let you do this to your room.”

And then she spins around and pulls the door closed.

I look at my wall. I decorated it using black chalkboard paint about a year ago and use it to doodle, draw, and write everywhere. Misha’s lyrics are scattered over the wide expanse, as well as my own thoughts, ideas, and little scribbles.

There are pictures and posters and lots of words, everything meaning something special to me. My whole room is like that, and I love it. It’s a place where I don’t invite anyone. Especially my friends. They’ll just make a joke out of my really bad artwork that I love and Misha’s and my words.

I learned a long time ago that you don’t need to reveal everything inside of you to the people around you. They like to judge, and I’m happier when they don’t. Some things stay hidden.

My phone buzzes on my bed, and I head over to pick it up.

Outside, the text reads.

Tapping my middle finger over the touchscreen, I shoot back, Be out in a minute.

Finally. I have to get out of here.

Tossing the phone down, I peel off my tank top and push my sleep shorts down my legs, letting everything drop to the floor. I dash to my arm chair and snatch up my jean shorts.

Pulling them on, I slip a white T-shirt over my head, followed by a gray hoodie.

The phone buzzes again, but I ignore it.

I’m coming. I’m coming.

Stuffing some cash and my cell phone into my pocket, I grab my flip flops and lift up my window, tossing them out and sending them flying over the roof of the porch, down to the ground.

Scooping up my hair, I fasten it into a ponytail and climb out the window. I carefully push it down again, leaving my bedroom silent and dark as if I were asleep. Taking careful steps over the roof, I make my way over to the ladder on the side of the house, climb down to the ground, and pick up my sandals, dashing across the lawn to the road ahead where my ride waits.

I pull open the car door.

“Hey,” Lyla greets from the driver’s seat as I climb in. I glance back, spotting Ten in the backseat and toss him a nod.

Slamming the door closed, I bend over and slip into my sandals, shivering. “Shit. I can’t believe how chilly it still is. Tomorrow morning’s practice is going to suck.”

It’s April, so it’s warming up during the day, but the early morning and evening temperatures still drop below fifty. I should’ve worn pants.

“Flip flops?” Lyla asks, sounding confused.

“Yeah, we’re going to the beach.”

“Nope,” Ten chimes in from the back. “We’re going to the Cove. Didn’t Trey text you?”

I look over my shoulder at him. The Cove? “I thought they posted a caretaker on site to keep people out.”

He shrugs, a mischievous look in his eyes.

Oooookay. “Well, if we get caught, you two are the first ones I’m throwing under the bus.”

“Not if we throw you first,” Lyla sing-songs, staring out at the road.

Ten laughs behind me, and I shake my head, not really amused. The thing about being a leader is that someone’s always trying to take your job. I was joking with my comment. I don’t think she was.

Lyla and Ten—a.k.a. Theodore Edward Neilson—are, for all intents and purposes, my friends. We’ve known each other throughout middle school and high school, Lyla and I cheer together, and they’re like my suit of armor.

Yeah, they can be uncomfortable, they make too much noise, and they don’t always feel good, but I need them. You don’t want to be alone in high school, and if you have friends—good ones or not—you have a little power.

High school is like prison in that way. You can’t make it on your own.

“I’ve got Chucks on the floor back there,” Lyla tells Ten. “Get them for her, would you?”

He dips down, rustling through what is probably a mountain of crap on the floor of the 90’s BMW Lyla’s mom passed down to her.