Life Before Read Online Free
Author: Michele Bacon
she’s on her game, Gretchen is utterly unlike herself. She is super focused and super aggressive. And that competitiveness is super-sexy.
If Jameson is out of the picture, some of that super-sexy could move to my couch.
Jill doubts it. “Xander, if you could untie your tongue and find the balls to make a move, something great could happen. Otherwise, Gretchen will just be the twelfth in your long line of first dates.”
“She would be number thirteen. And I already know we fit. Familiarity and intelligence put her lightyears ahead of the last three.”
“Ahead of the vapid daisies, yeah, Xander. But you’re the same guy: timid and shy. Grow a set and go after the girl you really want.”
Someone rips through the neighborhood and parks less than two feet from Neapolitan. Jill freaks out until Grant Blakely steps out of the car. Grant Blakely is one of those guys who plays sports year round: football in fall, basketball in winter, soccer in spring. And in summer, for good measure, he competes in the Youngstown Swim League. Girls swoon over him like he’s a movie star; that’s probably why we always call him by his full name.
Five other guys tumble out behind him like it’s a clown car.
Tuck’s mom makes us drag some huge logs out of the woods and arrange them around what will be a campfire. We won’t be breaking any of her lawn chairs tonight.
_______
Our party grows remarkably quiet when Pizza Works delivers. My first slice of sausage and onion doesn’t sit well in my stomach, so I hang back while everyone else devours the pies.
I can’t get Gary out of my head.
If I could fast-forward through the next three days, this Gary episode will be over, and so will the speech. No more nausea, and hello summer!
Smooth sailing. No seasickness.
It’s still choppy waters in my stomach at this juncture. I probably can’t even touch the beer. Nausea plus alcohol is a surefire recipe for barfing in front of—or all over—everyone I know.
Free beer isn’t worth a reputation I can’t possibly live down in the next ten weeks. Damn.
My stomach and brain are on overload. Can Gary even come to graduation? Maybe he got special dispensation from Mom’s Order of Protection for my really special life event.
Or what’s supposed to be special. Instead, I’m nine years old again, scheming about getting out of his way. I used to swear that if my parents’ fighting got any worse, or if I took one more beating, or if Mom wound up in the ER one more time, I would skip town. Jill and I called it the Youngstown Escape Plan, and any time my parents did something annoying, one of us would say, “YEP.”
Jill helped me plot the whole scheme—hell, she practically plotted it singlehandedly—and promised I could hole up at her grandparents’ house in Youngstown, a mere seventeen miles away. (When you’re nine, you don’t think big.) I had just wanted some peace. I hated both of my parents, and I hated my life, and I hated all our family secrets. Having a plan made me feel better—nevermind that Jill’s grandmother would have called Jill’s house the second I showed up on her doorstep.
I never told another soul about that exit strategy. And now I desperately need a new one for graduation. Bonus points if it gets me out of the whole public-speaking thing.
I am in serious danger of barfing, even without the pizza and beer. Maybe I could go the other way: chug several beers and my mind will float away, taking my nausea with it.
Too risky. Damn. Double damn.
F OUR
Maybe because the world is quieter, or maybe because the truth is easier in dim light, or maybe because the visual landscape shrinks—whatever the reason, intimate things are more apt to happen after dark.
Several couples—mostly the newly dating—have retreated to tents at the far end of the lawn. The socially awkward people are fumbling through conversations and board games in the garage, but most people are hanging out in the yard again.
Jill and I
If Jameson is out of the picture, some of that super-sexy could move to my couch.
Jill doubts it. “Xander, if you could untie your tongue and find the balls to make a move, something great could happen. Otherwise, Gretchen will just be the twelfth in your long line of first dates.”
“She would be number thirteen. And I already know we fit. Familiarity and intelligence put her lightyears ahead of the last three.”
“Ahead of the vapid daisies, yeah, Xander. But you’re the same guy: timid and shy. Grow a set and go after the girl you really want.”
Someone rips through the neighborhood and parks less than two feet from Neapolitan. Jill freaks out until Grant Blakely steps out of the car. Grant Blakely is one of those guys who plays sports year round: football in fall, basketball in winter, soccer in spring. And in summer, for good measure, he competes in the Youngstown Swim League. Girls swoon over him like he’s a movie star; that’s probably why we always call him by his full name.
Five other guys tumble out behind him like it’s a clown car.
Tuck’s mom makes us drag some huge logs out of the woods and arrange them around what will be a campfire. We won’t be breaking any of her lawn chairs tonight.
_______
Our party grows remarkably quiet when Pizza Works delivers. My first slice of sausage and onion doesn’t sit well in my stomach, so I hang back while everyone else devours the pies.
I can’t get Gary out of my head.
If I could fast-forward through the next three days, this Gary episode will be over, and so will the speech. No more nausea, and hello summer!
Smooth sailing. No seasickness.
It’s still choppy waters in my stomach at this juncture. I probably can’t even touch the beer. Nausea plus alcohol is a surefire recipe for barfing in front of—or all over—everyone I know.
Free beer isn’t worth a reputation I can’t possibly live down in the next ten weeks. Damn.
My stomach and brain are on overload. Can Gary even come to graduation? Maybe he got special dispensation from Mom’s Order of Protection for my really special life event.
Or what’s supposed to be special. Instead, I’m nine years old again, scheming about getting out of his way. I used to swear that if my parents’ fighting got any worse, or if I took one more beating, or if Mom wound up in the ER one more time, I would skip town. Jill and I called it the Youngstown Escape Plan, and any time my parents did something annoying, one of us would say, “YEP.”
Jill helped me plot the whole scheme—hell, she practically plotted it singlehandedly—and promised I could hole up at her grandparents’ house in Youngstown, a mere seventeen miles away. (When you’re nine, you don’t think big.) I had just wanted some peace. I hated both of my parents, and I hated my life, and I hated all our family secrets. Having a plan made me feel better—nevermind that Jill’s grandmother would have called Jill’s house the second I showed up on her doorstep.
I never told another soul about that exit strategy. And now I desperately need a new one for graduation. Bonus points if it gets me out of the whole public-speaking thing.
I am in serious danger of barfing, even without the pizza and beer. Maybe I could go the other way: chug several beers and my mind will float away, taking my nausea with it.
Too risky. Damn. Double damn.
F OUR
Maybe because the world is quieter, or maybe because the truth is easier in dim light, or maybe because the visual landscape shrinks—whatever the reason, intimate things are more apt to happen after dark.
Several couples—mostly the newly dating—have retreated to tents at the far end of the lawn. The socially awkward people are fumbling through conversations and board games in the garage, but most people are hanging out in the yard again.
Jill and I
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