Jillian Cade Read Online Free

forbid a normal boy be into me, just once.
    â€œYou are a fan of fiction,” I informed him, “not a fan of me.”
    Sky raised an eyebrow. “Fiction?”
    I was great at promoting my father’s paranormal baloney when operating undercover, but I drew the line at real life. Fake Me ran my father’s fraudulent cases. Real Me called it like it was.
    â€œPoorly written fiction,” I clarified.
    â€œOne man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” said Sky. “I’ve read everything your father has written—poorly or not—and the truth is that I would love to meet him.”
    â€œYou’re too late. He’s away on business.”
    â€œI’m not going anywhere.”
    â€œIt might be permanent.” My voice hardened. “And even if he was here, I’ve got better things to do than arrange his playdates.”
    Sky laughed. “Funny,” he said, which startled me. No one at school ever thought I was funny. Then again, I wasn’t exactly the class clown. He reached out to touch my arm. “Look, I didn’t ask to move to Van Nuys. Your name is the one familiar thing around here. I’m happy to meet you. That’s all.”
    He gave my arm a gentle squeeze, and before I could think of anything to say in return, he sauntered away down the hall. I stared after him, wondering what had just happened. I turned back to my locker. I was about to toss my Muenster and pickle sandwich inside it when I realized it wasn’t empty. Leaning against the interior wall was a brown envelope.
    What the hell?
    I pulled out the envelope, ripped open the top edge, and upended it. A torn scrap of paper—maybe the size of my palm—fluttered out. I lifted it and scanned the printed text.
    â€œWhat. The. Hell.”
    This time I said it out loud. The thing I was holding made no sense. It had no reason to exist.
    It was a piece of newspaper.
    An obituary.
    My obituary.

Three

    And that’s where the rest was ripped away.
    Was it supposed to be a joke? Faking a piece of newspaper seemed like a lot of work. It didn’t feel like a joke. It felt like a real piece of newsprint.
    It also felt like a threat.
    Between the obituary, the upcoming client appointment, the run-in with my father’s fanboy, and several calls from my father himself (ignored), I had a hard time paying attention in either Geometry or Chemistry. Luckily, it was all first-day BS: speeches about expectations for the year. When copies of grading policies and test schedules were handed to me, I shoved them into my backpack. Everything else, I tuned out. I needed to talk to Norbert.
    Obeying my strongly worded text message, he met me near the history classrooms before third period.
    â€œI don’t understand the question,” he said before I could speak.
    â€œIt’s simple. Of the guys I’ve dated—”
    â€œYou don’t date,” said Norbert.
    â€œI’ve been on dates.” It sounded defensive, even to me. “There was that guy the summer before last. The one in Santa Monica.”
    â€œThat wasn’t a date,” Norbert told me. “Getting drunk and making out under the pier is not a date.”
    â€œHe bought me a Slurpee.”
    â€œOh yeah? Then what was his name?”
    â€œDusty.” I said it with more conviction than I felt.
    â€œI thought it was Rusty.”
    â€œWhatever. My mother had just died. I was coping.” I snapped my fingers, remembering. “And last year, I went to the movies with Michael Wilkins.”
    â€œDoesn’t his mom play mah-jongg with my mom?”
    â€œWho cares? Do either of those guys seem certifiable to you?”
    Norbert considered. “I don’t think so. And by the way, my first day of high school is going great. Thanks for asking.”
    I scowled and handed him the scrap of paper.
    He looked it over and blinked a few times. “Whoa. Unnerving.”
    â€œNow