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  I couldn’t help but think that this time, I may have gone a little too far.

  “Are you sure we’re going to the right place?” I asked. Just ahead, a group of men in baggy jeans and baseball caps strolled down the street, each of them holding drinks covered in brown paper bags.

  They stopped to stare at the SUV while we passed.

  “Shelters for battered women and abused teens aren’t usually in posh areas,” Kimberly said, a tinge of annoyance in her tone.

  “I know that,” I snapped, nearly adding that when I was younger my mom and I had seen our fair share of shelters. Fortunately, I caught myself in time and clamped my mouth shut.

  “Okay, it’s the next house on the right,” Kimberly said, pointing to a small yellow house that had a tiny and almost unreadable sign near its mailbox. It said, “Angel’s Den- Women and Children only. No exceptions.”

  The house looked pretty dark. I glanced at the time. 10:32.

  “Are you sure someone’s there?” I asked as I parallel parked in front of the home.

  I’d barely turned the car off when Kimberly opened her door. She glanced over her shoulder, smiling as she said, “Come with me. It’ll do you some good. You’ll see.”

  I rolled my eyes, but got out of the SUV. I watched Kimberly open the back door, retrieve an old, crumpled Chick Fil a bag and then slam her door shut. The noise echoed across the relatively quiet street.

  “Well, congratulations,” I said. “If you were hoping to wake someone up, I’m sure you got your wish.”

  Kimberly laughed and, the Chick Fil a bag in hand, took the path to the small home’s two front steps and onto the porch. I followed her, all the while wondering why I was following her.

  I wanted to kick myself, but another part of me, a deeper part, wanted to see this through.

  A place like this deserved money, Kimberly’s self-centered and greedy father, did not.

  As if reading my mind, she turned to me and smiled. “We’re doing the right thing.”

  I shrugged. “I guess.”

  “You guess?” She laughed and shook her head. “Do you know what it’s like to feel completely worthless? To feel like you don’t matter at all, just because the men in your life treat you like you don’t?”

  I watched Kimberly’s hazel eyes grow sad, even as she kept a smile on her lips. I wondered what it was that had pushed her to get out of bed every morning after it happened. Was it anger that gave her strength? Or was it courage?

  Whatever it had been and whatever it currently was, it was a quality I didn’t possess. But I’d seen it in my mother. I saw it after she’d escaped from my dad’s abuse. And I saw it week after week for the next four years, as she did whatever it took to put food on our table and keep a roof over our heads.

  “You’re right,” I said, my voice low and a little shaky. “These women deserve all the help they can get.”

  She nodded. “The world owes them at least that much, we all owe them at least that much. Most people ignore them, pretend they don’t exist. Not me. I respect them.”

  With this, she handed me the crumpled fast food bag.

  I arched an eyebrow. “Why are you giving me an empty Chick Fil a bag?”

  “Dump the money in it,” she said, pointing to my pockets.

  In all the action of the evening, and with my anxiety upped more than it had been in the past few years, I’d almost forgotten about the stacks of cash in my pockets.

  Now, eager to be rid of it, I grabbed the bag and unloaded my pockets, dropping the cash inside. It was so full, it almost didn’t fit.

  Kimberly wordlessly pointed to a slot in the front door, just to the right of the mail slot. It was labeled with a small, homemade sign that said, “Donations.”

  Without a word, I shoved the bag into the slot.

  We left the porch, the moon shining brightly above us, the smell of smoke drifting in the air and the sound of fire truck sirens in the distance.

  I felt both bad and good. But mostly good.

  As we returned to our seats in the SUV, I started the engine and glanced at Kimberly.

  A huge grin on her face, she leaned back and closed her eyes.

  “How much did we just donate?” I asked.

  “Eighty thousand,” Kimberly said with a yawn.

  “Eighty thousand,” I softly repeated as I pulled forward and returned to the street. Ironically, that was the exact amount my mom had stolen from her New Orleans ‘boyfriend.’

  Now, I’d stolen the exact same amount.

  I bit down on my bottom lip, thinking that maybe some old idioms were true, maybe there really was something to the saying about falling apples and trees.

  And as much as I admired my mother, I wasn’t sure how I felt about being like her.

  Chapter Eight

  My second day of school was mostly a blur. After my late night pyromaniac antics with Kimberly, I was having trouble keeping my eyes open.

  But that changed in fifth hour- my Humanities class.

  I had two friends in that class, Jonathan and Kimberly. But at first, even their presence wasn’t enough to keep me fully awake. Especially seeing as Kimberly was just as tired as I was.

  Our short, stocky teacher, a guy named Kirk Pruitt, was going on about how television is a reflection of our society’s degraded values and warped sense of justice when he suddenly said something that woke me up.

  “For example, who heard about the fire at Chickens?” Mr. Pruitt asked.

  I sat up straighter in my seat and looked around. Every hand in the classroom shot up.

  Kimberly, seated behind me, lightly kicked the back of my chair and cleared her throat.

  I realized I should probably raise my hand too. Now was not the time to stand out.

  I raised my hand, falling in line with everyone else in the classroom.

  Mr. Pruitt nodded knowingly. “How many of you saw a story about it on the local news?”

  Only four kids, including me, put their hands down, everyone else’s stayed up.

  “The news said it was probably arson,” a boy named David said. My mouth went dry and I tried to look nonchalant as David went on, “They interviewed this one dude who said he thought it was some guys from Hank’s Used Cars over in Gunnersville. He thinks they snuck into town and tried to burn down the competition.”

  “Or maybe that wasn’t what happened at all,” Kimberly piped up from behind me. I tensed at the sound of her voice and tensed even more as every pair of eyes in the classroom turned our way. “Maybe an angry customer did it.”

  “Is that what your dad thinks happened?” Jonathan, seated at my right, asked.

  Kimberly shrugged. “I have no idea what he thinks. I haven’t even seen him since the fire. He’s been tied up with the police and our insurance guy.”

  “I’m so sorry that happened to your family, Kimberly,” Mr. Pruitt said. “I can’t imagine how difficult it must be.”

  “Thanks, we’re fine though,” Kimberly said briefly.

  I gulped.

  “That said,” Mr. Pruitt continued. “Something else happened yesterday, something that didn’t make it onto the local news last night or this morning.”

  “What happened?” a girl in the front row asked.

  “A young woman was kidnapped in broad daylight,” Mr. Pruitt said with a sigh. Pausing, he shook his head and continued. “It happened yesterday afternoon around 3 PM, and the only reason I know about it is because her parents are my next door neighbors. According to witnesses, she was forced into a vehicle and taken away. The story was on the third page of this morning’s newspaper, but it wasn’t even mentioned on the local television news. Do you know why?”

  Before I knew what was happening, I was speaking. “Was it because she looked like me?”

  Every head in the class swiveled in my direction.

  Mr. Pruitt pointed to me and said, “No, Libby. It was because she didn’t look like you. She was an African-American woman. And in this town, th
e color of a person’s skin still determines their worth as a human being.”

  Heat rose to my cheeks as a mixture of anger, annoyance, and embarrassment flowed through me.

  I raised my hand.

  “Yes, Libby?” Mr. Pruitt said with a nod.

  “Actually, and I know this isn’t your point, but I just think it needs to be said- I’m African-American,” I said. I watched as Mr. Pruitt’s face turned red. For some reason, this made me less embarrassed. So, I continued, “We’re not all brown, we come in all colors.”

  He shifted on his feet. “I apologize, Libby. I didn’t, um, I didn’t know.”

  The class snickered and some students began to whisper with each other.

  I felt bad for hijacking Mr. Pruitt’s moment, but I didn’t feel bad about steering the conversation away from anything even remotely related to the fire at Chicken’s Cars.

  I also didn’t feel bad about letting my classmates know that I was one of the five black students in our entire school. My heritage was one of the few things I could actually be honest about – and I have to admit, it felt pretty nice to be honest about something.

  ***

  Jonathan bit into the weirdest sandwich I’d ever seen.

  And that’s saying a lot considering the spam specialty I’d watched Jen’s mom wolf down back at the mobile home also known as Hoarders meets Naked and Afraid.

  We sat at a corner table in Sunnyville High’s huge cafeteria. And, for the first time in all my years of attending public school, I found myself in a cafeteria that didn’t smell like hot garbage rolled up in a cigarette made of actual poo. Instead, the entire room smelled like sirloin steak and fresh baked apple pie, two of the items on that afternoon’s menu.

  Since moving to Sunnyville, I’d learned that it was one of the many Texas cities that took school lunch seriously. Unfortunately, I was a vegetarian and Texans also took their meat incredibly seriously. Every option on their menu included meat- even the vegetables were cooked in chicken stock and often had bits of bacon or chicken.

  So, as good as the cafeteria smelled, I brought my own lunch.

  Jonathan, likewise, had a dairy and nut allergy, which meant he was also better off bringing his own lunch.

  I took a sip of my apple juice and pointed to the extraterrestrial matter that was attempting to masquerade as Johnathan’s lunch. “What even is that?”

  He chuckled good-naturedly and pointed to the dark brown bread housing the otherworldly substance, “This is Ezekiel bread, just below it is a slice of liver, underneath that are some alfalfa sprouts, and then on the bottom you’ve got a fried egg and some onions.”

  I stared at the sandwich and then I stared at him.

  He laughed. “You look completely grossed out. Is this going to ruin our friendship?”

  I tried not to look too ecstatic over the fact that he’d just referred to our propensity to hang out as a friendship.

  Sure, it had only been two days since we’d met but we’d spent yesterday’s entire morning and afternoon bus-ride talking non-stop. We’d also eaten lunch together both yesterday and today. And even more importantly, Jonathan had this whole Zack Efron-except-more-manly thing going on. I mean, his hair was a little bit on the unkempt side, but that somehow added to his attractiveness. It was like the purposely imperfect note in a jazz song, it just made him even more unique.

  I smiled. “I think with therapy, and maybe some prayer, we can work past this.”

  He chuckled and looked down at his liver sandwich. The fried egg was beginning to slide out.

  “It’s really not that bad,” he said, pushing the egg back in with his thumb. “Especially with barbeque sauce, which I think my mom forgot to put on it this time.”

  I dug into my lunch bag and pulled out one of the small containers of Chick Fil a barbeque sauce that I’d packed with my day-old waffle fries and side salad.

  “And now you are complete,” I said, setting it in front of him.

  “Sweet.” He grinned and grabbed the sauce. “Thanks, Libby.”

  I watched him, silently thinking that his perfect smile was where every bit of the actual sweetness was.

  When he smiled it took his good looks to an entirely new level, it added something innocent and kind to his features.

  Trying not to openly stare at him like some kind of obsessed freak, I lowered my gaze to my waffle fries and picked one up.

  “No prob, Cletus,” I said, taking a bite.

  “Is that my new name?” He laughed as he opened the container of sauce and poured it directly onto the main ingredient of his catastrophe of a sandwich.

  I grinned. “Yes, I’m still trying to decide what mine should be.”

  “How about,” he pursed his full lips and narrowed his eyes as he thought. The look worked for him. Like, if I’d snapped a picture of him right then and there and forwarded it to GQ for their next cover, it would have totally worked. Jonathan’s eyes lit up and he grinned. “How about Cloydelia?”

  I laughed. “Cloydelia? Is that even a name?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. But it fits with Cletus.”

  I bit back a silly grin.

  He wanted my name to fit with his.

  Resisting the urge to squeal like a K-pop fan, I calmly picked up another waffle fry.

  “I accept. Cloydelia I shall be,” I gulped down the fry and watched Jonathan bite into his liver sandwich. “So, Cletus, does your mom pack a lunch for you every day?”

  His mouth was full, so he just nodded.

  “Lucky you.”

  He smiled. “If you like liver and egg sandwiches on Ezekiel bread, sure. She’s super into health food.”

  “She sounds like the complete opposite of my mom, obvi,” I said, pointing to my Chick Fil a salad and fries. “We basically live off stuff like this. Like, tonight I bet we’re ordering in from Pizza Hut.”

  Jonathan exhaled and moaned as he made a face so sexy I nearly fell off my chair.

  “Pizza,” he said in a low and sultry voice. “I’d give anything for a slice of pizza. That’s one of the things my mom doesn’t even let us mention. No pizza, no fast food of any kind- not even that salad you’re eating. It’s a little annoying, but I’ve gotten used to it.”

  I nodded and wondered what it’d be like to live with a parent like that.

  I loved that my mom let me go and come as I pleased, but there were moments when I wished she cared a little bit more. Like, every once in a while it would have been nice to get off the bus and walk into a house that wasn’t empty.

  I smiled and shrugged. “Well, at least eating healthy means you look great too.”

  As Jonathan arched an eyebrow, I realized I’d basically admitted I thought he was hot.

  “I mean I-I’m saying,” I stammered. “That you have, like, less skin problems than most people our age, because you don’t eat all the fast food crap the rest of us eat.”

  Jonathan smiled. “Thanks, Cloydelia.”

  I looked down at my fries and stuffed two of them in my mouth, hoping to stop myself from admitting anything else embarrassing.

  The noisy chatter of the cafeteria seemed to increase while Jonathan and I fell into an awkward silence.

  As confident as I am, I do have this teensy tiny little problem with guys. Not all guys, just the hot ones. I’m not sure why, but I just… I have trouble feeling totally comfortable around them. It’s almost like I get afraid of the fact that I’m attracted to them. I’m not sure what that’s about. But it’s annoying.

  “What do you think about what Mr. Pruitt said about the news this morning?” Jonathan suddenly asked.

  My mouth went dry, so I took a sip of apple juice before I said, “About the fire at Chickens? I don’t know. It’s weird, I guess.”

  “I mean about the kidnapping,” Jonathan said. I relaxed and started to reply, but before I could Jonathan was shaking his head and saying, “I’ve thought about that a lot actually, things happen to all kinds of people in Sunnyville,
but the only stories you see on the local news are about rich, white people.”

  Surprised, I gave him a second look.

  “Why do you care?” I asked.

  Jonathan frowned at me and my cheeks flushed hot.

  “I mean, um,” I backtracked. “You’re not… well, you’re obviously not black.”

  He blinked back at me. “Yeah, but I am, like a human… person. Of course I care. Only a monster wouldn’t.”

  This shut me up and I just nodded.

  I also couldn’t help but wonder if Jonathan realized just how many ‘monsters’ existed.

  Honestly, he was the first white guy I’d ever met who seemed to sincerely care about people who didn’t look like him …well, other than my dad. And later, he’d turned out to be a bad apple too.

  To be fair, I didn’t think those other white guys were monsters. They were just basic, like the majority of people on the planet, seeing the world from their self-centered and simplistic points of view.

  They only cared about what directly affected them.

  Jonathan, on the other hand, was the exact opposite of basic, he was a unicorn.

  I watched his face darken with fury as he continued, “My dad owns a security company, so people come to us with all kinds of stories. Just last week, a 13-year-old girl was kidnapped in the park. That never made the news. The only reason I know about it is because her parents came to us to buy a security system for their house. You know why their story didn’t make the news?”

  “Because they looked like me?”

  “Well, pretty much, in that they were minorities,” Jonathan said with a sigh. He looked as disgusted as I’d felt when I first laid eyes on his liver and egg sandwich.

  Actually, maybe even more disgusted.

  “They’re Hispanic,” he said with another shake of his head. “And they live in the ‘poor’ part of town. It’s just not fair, Libby.”

  My smile completely gone, I nodded. “Yeah-”

  “What’s not fair?” a familiar voice piped up from behind me.

  I turned around to find Kimberly, Jen, and Lindsey approaching our table.