What She Left Behind Read Online Free

never has one.
    “Did I need one of those? Hold on—let me go get you one.”
    “Just sit down,” says Robertson. Good call. Everyone knows that if Alex Maloy leaves the room he’ll never be back. Alex hasn’t always had attendance issues, but he’s certainly making up for lost time. Last year Alex seemed like the rest of us—reasonably interested in turning in homework and passing classes. Now, none of that seems to matter to him, but not in a depressing way. No; Alex is relaxed, confident, and friendly to everyone. So you can’t help but hope that it won’t all come crashing down if he doesn’t get into a good football college.
    Alex sits in the only free seat, which happens to be next to mine.
    “Whatcha reading?” he whispers as Robertson runs through a list of possible topics.
    Oh my God. He’s not actually talking to me, is he? My cheeks heat up and I know they’ve just turned three shades of scarlet. Trying to act casual, I show him the cover. He lifts his eyebrows and looks back and forth between the book and me. “I never would have guessed,” he says. “Can I see it?”
    I pass him the book.
    Act natural, Sara. As if guys like Alex Maloy ask you questions every day.
    I sneak my cell phone under my desk and check my text messages. There’s one from Zach, asking what movie I want to see Sunday afternoon. We go to a matinee most Sundays. It’s cheap and it gets me out of the house. I can either pretend I didn’t get themessage or that I’ll be around on Sunday. There’s no way I can tell Zach the truth. If he knows anything and my dad asks him about it—it will show in his eyes. Zach can’t lie. And I know my dad will ask him when we don’t come home tonight because although he’s currently Robot Dad, he’s a very cunning robot.
    PICK WHEN GET THERE, I text. EAT LUNCH W/O ME.
    A minute later I have Zach’s reply. WHY??
    I turn off the phone.
    Alex hands me back the book. “Have you read Misery ?” he whispers.
    Now it’s my turn to look surprised. Wow. I guess I need to readjust my football player stereotype. I glance over at Robertson and try to talk without moving my lips. “No—that’s another Stephen King one, isn’t it?”
    “Yeah, I can loan it to you. I’m almost done.”
    As long as you finish it in the next ten minutes and you don’t care that you’ll never get it back , I think. “Sure, thanks” is what I say.
    When the bell rings, I’m out of my seat and at the door. So is everyone else. I have this urge to push everyone out of the way, but instead I wait my turn like I always do. Then I take the stairs two at a time, run outside, and cross in the middle of the street without really looking. Traffic in Scottsfield is practically nonexistent. Scottsfield doesn’t have any actual traffic lights, just this one blinking light at the intersection of Main and Scott Streets. It blinks yellow on Main (slow down, you might actually see another car) and red on Scott. All the businesses in Scottsfield—all eight of them—are on Main Street along a two-block stretch. We’ve lived in Scottsfield for sixyears, and it feels like I’ve lived here forever. Even before we moved from Philadelphia, we would come for a week in the summer and during Christmas vacation, because my grandparents (on my dad’s side) used to live here.
    I make my way to the Dairy Dream. Me and everyone else. We’re all going there or to Lucy’s, the only restaurant in Scottsfield. We have an open campus, which means that as long as you’re back for afternoon classes, you can go where you want for lunch.
    I walk by myself, eavesdropping on the conversations around me. Amber and Melanie are talking about Amber’s roots. Melanie keeps insisting that they’re barely noticeable. Hello. They’re about as noticeable as a hippo in a flower garden. Cameron is laughing so hard he’s staggering all over the sidewalk. Breathe already. Then there’s Josh and Kevin, discussing some game on TV last night. Kevin