If I Break THE COMPLETE SERIES Bundle (150 page)

When Chris reappears, he lets me know his mom is on the way, and in less than ten minutes, his mom’s big truck has pulled up in front of Amanda’s house. We say our good-byes to the few people still sober enough to notice who we are, then we make our way to the truck. I quickly pull out a piece of gum from my purse and stuff it into Chris’s hand in case he has any beer left on his breath. His face becomes panicked when he realizes the reason for it. When I head to the back door of the truck, he nudges me to the front. I’m not surprised by that, but I am surprised to see Chris’s dad sitting in the driver’s seat.

Our small town doesn’t offer much, and that’s a double-edged sword. The only crime, even on the poorer side of town, is mostly bored kids graffitiing on public property or stealing beer from little mom-and-pop liquor stores for a rush. There aren’t a lot of exciting things to do or exciting people to know. So when I get in the car with Mr. Scott, I can’t help but laugh at myself for never having realized what a beautiful man Chris’s dad is.

Mr. Scott looks amused, and his blue eyes dart between us. The lower part of his face is covered with stubble, about thirty minutes past a five o’clock shadow, and his plump pink lips turn upward. Light from the car door opening displays his deep-set dimples. One strand of his collar-length golden-brown hair falls in his face.

I try to think of the last time I saw Mr. Scott—maybe a couple of months ago? No, almost a year ago. For some reason, he looks different. I think it’s the hair. It’s longer now. I remember him always keeping it cut short, and I think the length and the color make his eyes stand out. The way Chris described him, I’d expected a sullen man with frown lines and a permanent scowl, but he looks happy, amused.

“You guys have fun?” he asks, almost as if he’s covering up a laugh. Not in the sarcastic, hard way most parents would ask after seeing a dozen teens with plastic cups presumably filled with alcohol at almost two in the morning.

“Yeah,” Chris answers quickly.

“Lisa, how are you? It’s been a while,” he says as we drive away.

“I’m good,” I say, making sure my smile matches his upbeat tone.

“I feel like I haven’t seen you and Aidan in forever. Where is he anyway?” he asks.

“Aidan is being Aidan,” Chris answers.

“You three have always been like the Three Musketeers.” Mr. Scott chuckles.

“Yeah, he’s always swinging his sword at someone,” I say and immediately remember that there’s a parental unit sitting next to me.

Instead of a frown, he gives me a hearty laugh.

“Thanks for picking us up, Dad. I thought Mom was coming,” Chris says, quickly changing the subject.

“She was tired, and I wasn’t doing much of anything. I thought the car ride could help me sleep once we made it home. How’s your mom doing, Lisa? I haven’t seen her in a while,” he asks.

I feel my stomach tighten, but I try to hide how awkward this topic makes me feel. “She’s good.”

“We used to go to parties like this. Me, your mom, and your dad,” he says with a smile.

That makes me perk up. No one ever talks about my dad. He left when I was just two years old, so I guess people think it’s a sore subject. As sucky as he may have been to leave my mom and me without as much as a word of good-bye, I can’t help yearning to know more about him. I’d known that Mr. Scott and my parents went to school together, but I guess he never had a reason to talk to me about them since the subject never really came up.

“My mom doesn’t really talk about my dad,” the words slip from my mouth before I can censor them. The emotion in my voice catches me off guard.

Mr. Scott glances at me, and he realizes that maybe he shouldn’t have been so free with his words or memories. “When I knew him, he was a great guy.”

The rest of the ride goes by quickly and without anyone speaking. Mr. Scott changes the radio station from the eighties hits that Mrs. Scott likes to one Chris and I listen to. I’m a little surprised he even knows what we listen to. I try to distract myself by focusing on the song rather than my lingering thoughts about my dad. I look over my shoulder at Chris, who seems to have fallen asleep. I wonder how many beers he had. He had to have had a few, which is completely out of character for him. That would explain the compromising position he was in with Amanda. I look at Mr. Scott as he drums his hands on the steering wheel along to the beat of the song.

“So what’s the problem you’re having with math?” he asks, throwing me a quick glance.

I snicker. “I can’t think of one problem I don’t have with math.”

A wide grin spreads across his face. “I’ve found a lot of people don’t have a problem with math. It’s more the
idea
of math than anything.”

“The idea of math?” I ask.

“Yes. Just think, when did you start having problems with it?”

“Uhm, maybe around seventh grade, I think. When the letters and numbers and equations all started to happen at once.”

He nods. “I think you psyched yourself out about it. You became intimidated by it and put up a mental wall. You’re making it more difficult for yourself than it actually is.”

I can’t help but frown a bit. “I don’t think that’s it.”

“Then what do you think it is?”

I stop and think a bit. “I just can’t grasp it. It’s so unbelievably confusing. It’s like my mind just shuts down whenever I try to do it.”

“See? That’s what I mean. Think about it. Unless you suffer from some type of mental disability, I’m sure your mind doesn’t just shut down at the sight of an equation,” he jokes. “I think you became intimidated by it. You’ve already sent cues to your brain that you’re not going to get it, which causes you to lose focus, distract yourself, and give up before you’ve even started. Math isn’t something you’re incapable of doing unless you’ve convinced yourself incapable of doing it.” He gives me a reassuring smile.

“Maybe you’re right.”

“I am right,” he says with a nod. “I was the same way with English. I hated to read. I hated to write so much that I convinced myself I
couldn’t
do it. I didn’t want to do it until I really started to believe that I could.”

“I guess that makes sense,” I say, noticing that we’re pulling up to my old house. He must have forgotten I don’t live near them anymore. “Uhm, we’ve moved.”

His face scrunches up and realization dawns on his face. “Oh yeah. I remember Gwen telling me something about that.”

I try to swallow the embarrassment stuck in my throat and ignore the flicker of sympathy in his expression. I can imagine what was said. Mrs. Scott is nice, and I don’t see her being catty or gossipy, but anyone from Madison knows when you move anywhere lower than Fourth Street, the move was strictly a downgrade. After the whole thing with my stepdad divorcing my mom for sleeping with his brother, even if you’re a saint, you just can’t leave something like that out.

“We home?” Chris asks, awake again.

“No, I forgot Lisa moved,” Mr. Scott says.

“Can you let me out then? I really have to go to the bathroom,” Chris says urgently.

Mr. Scott pulls up their driveway, and Chris opens the door.

“And, son, next time you have enough beers that you can’t hold your urine, you’re going to be grounded for a week,” Mr. Scott says knowingly.

Chris’s face turns bright pink before he hops out of the truck.

“See you later, Chris,” I say, covering my snicker.

“Just a piece of advice, if you ever want to cover the fact you’ve been drinking, make sure your bladder is completely empty before getting a ride home from your parent,” Mr. Scott jokes.

He and I don’t say much to each other before he pulls up in front of my house. I see my mom’s car is back. Jack must have run out of gas money to joyride.

“Are you okay from here?” Mr. Scott asks hesitantly.

I nod and give him a wide smile. “I’m fine. Thank you, Mr. Scott.”

“So your homework for the weekend is to open up your mind to the possibility that you can be a math genius who is overjoyed by how unbelievably easy it is,” he says with a confident smile.

“I doubt it, but who knows?” I chuckle, then I remember we never set a time or specific date or anything. “Uhh. Is Monday at eight okay?”

“Great. Did you want me to come here, or will you be coming to my house?”

I want to vomit at the thought of Mr. Scott sitting at my kitchen table while my mom flounces around in her skanky shorts with her boobs out, interrupting us by continuously reminiscing about their good ol’ days. No thanks!

“Your house is fine,” I say, and he nods with a smile.

I get out, shut the door, and make my way up the steps to my house. Once I open the door, I turn around and give him a wave, and he flashes the lights before pulling off. I hear my mom and Jack Doe are in the midst of loudly making up. I roll my eyes, and a shiver crawls down my spine at the thought of the last time I saw him. He implied he’d be here more than a few times.

I wonder what his deal is. Is he homeless, jobless, kicked out of his wife’s house? Those are usually the only guys who stick around longer than a few days with my mom. Guys who need help more than they could ever imagine helping. I close the door to my room and move the chair from my desk in front of my door. Just in case he
accidentally
mixes up our rooms, which has happened on more than one occasion with mom’s friends.

I take off my jacket, toss it on my desk, grab my CD player, and put on my headphones, blasting Kelly Clarkson’s newest single. As I fall on my bed, I think of Brett Stelson and his beautiful eyes and how he saved me from a night of brooding over Deanna’s bitch attack. I shoot up in bed. I didn’t give him my number. I sigh. How did we forget that? Well, maybe he didn’t forget… maybe he was just being nice to a sad girl sitting on his friend’s girlfriend’s steps.

My thoughts drift to Chris and the embarrassing episode from earlier. I wonder how many beers he actually had. At least his dad was cool about it. Mr. Scott seems pretty cool in general actually. I’ve never really been around him much. I guess there hasn’t been much of a reason for me to be. Well, hopefully he’s a magician because it’s going to take magic to turn my awful grades around.

As I start to relax and my lids get heavy, I giggle—Mr. Scott’s eyes are the same color as Brett’s.

“T
hese are so cute. Can I have them?” I beg Gia as I try on a pair of her sunglasses. As I look at my profile from each side in the mirror and pose for her, she laughs.

“Sure,” she says lightly.

I flash her a wide smile and give her a hug. Today is the morning I head back to prison camp. At least she’s sending me away with a souvenir.

“You going to miss me, sis?” I ask as I plop on her bed. My bag’s all packed. I’m just waiting for her lover boy to come pick me up.

“Of course I am,” she says, taking a seat next to me.

“I wish I didn’t have to go back.” I let myself fall into the softness of her mattress, and she does the same.

“It will only be as bad as you make it. Mom isn’t that hard to please,” she says.

“If you pretend to be everything she wants and do everything that she wants.”

“You don’t have to pretend.”

“Of course
you
didn’t. You’re everything she wants already,” I say, sitting up. “She promised she’s not going to send me away, right?” Paranoia starts to creep up on me. What if my mom is lying and has a bus waiting to ship me off to some juvie center the moment I get home?

“Mom’s not sending you anywhere,” Gia says as if she’s annoyed by my question.

“Because if she is, I’ll never speak to her again,” I say, pointedly eyeing Gia.

“You’re being such a baby. Come on. William should be here any minute.” She pulls me off the bed.

We sit in the living room so that we can hear William when he pulls up even though he has a key.

“What type of music does he like?” I ask, picking at a hangnail on my thumb. I can’t go for hours listening to heavy metal or something equally annoying.

She chuckles. “I’m sure you’ll survive whatever he plays on the radio.”

“Does Mom have everything set for the dinner?”

“Yes, I told Will to wear something appropriate.”