Page 1 of The Perfect Steal

1

Nate

Dances were not worth the trouble.

At least, this last one hadn’t been. It didn’t start out as the worst date I’d been on, but then the food we ate at Kate’s started to affect me. Three days later, I was slowly starting to feel like myself.

I threw the wrapper of my protein bar in the trash on the way out of the commons area. After throwing up for nearly two days, it was the first thing that didn’t trigger the gag reflex. Whatever we’d eaten at Kate’s house right before the Harvest Dance on Saturday was to blame.

If another girl asked me to a dance, I was going to say no. Unless dinner was at a restaurant. Or maybe I’d just wait until I felt like myself again to decide that.

“Everton, where are you headed?” Jake asked, walking up next to me. He played shortstop on my baseball team, and after all the changes he’d made over the past six months, he would probably end up captain this year.

“That’s a great question.” Fourth period was the easiest class on my easy schedule, but it took a minute to remember since I’d been in bed yesterday instead of my Monday classes. “Art.”

“Oh, the joys. Have fun with that one. I’m in Autoshop, but I’ll see you after school.”

Jake took off down one hall, and I made the trek up the stairs, not sure I was ready for art today. I’d already dragged myself through three other hour-and-a-half classes and debated whether I should just go home and sleep again. Even a flight of stairs was harder than normal.

“Ah, Mr. Everton. You’re looking a bit pale. Are you all right?” Ms. Shiels, the art teacher, remarked.

“Thanks, getting there,” I said, giving her a forced smile and sliding into my seat. With my backpack on the table, I leaned into it, closing my eyes.

I didn’t get sick often, but this time had knocked me down and thrown a few punches in for good measure. We had a baseball tournament this weekend, but at least our last tournament of the fall season wasn’t until next weekend. One of those games was sure to be against our cross-town rival, Groveton High, and there was nothing better than working against them for a Rosemont Royals victory.

Footsteps approached, and I opened an eye for a split second, seeing my teacher looming over me.

“This is for you, Mr. Everton.” She laid a green piece of paper on the table.

Why couldn’t she stop calling me Mr. Everton? That title was reserved for my dad, the Mayor of Pecan Flatts, Texas. Right now I wanted to enjoy every minute of being a teenager, free from the adult responsibilities that always pulled him away.

I lifted my head enough to read the title on the paper she’d placed in front of my backpack. What did green mean again?

Rosemont Counseling Department was printed at the top.

Why did I need to see the counselor? I’d never met whoever was supposed to be directing me through the classes to graduate, unlike some of my teammates who’d had several meetings with theirs. I’d been fine up until now. Why change things? And it wasn’t like I was thinking that far into the future yet. I was halfway through my junior year and loving every minute of the no-schedule, relaxed life I was living.

“You should probably go now,” Ms. Shiels said, stepping back toward her desk as the final bell rang.

Sit here and have to work on my silhouette portrait or go to the counselor’s office? At least walking back downstairs would mean I could get out of something.

The halls were empty as I made my way through and then down the stairs. One of the administrators was walking across the commons, and I made sure to hold my paper to the side so he could see it, not in the mood for any confrontations.

My breath came out in rapid spurts, and I could tell I still wasn’t in top shape. But the end of the school day was in sight, and I’d be able to go home and collapse on my bed.

Opening the door to the counselor’s office, all I could smell was stinky fish, probably tuna. My stomach turned, and my gag reflex reacted. I had to breathe in through my mouth to keep that protein bar down.

“May I help you?” a lady at one of the desks asked.

I held up the green paper. “I got this in my art class.”

She took it from me and said, “Oh yes. You’ll be with Ms. Riley.”

She pointed toward one of the small offices along a wall, right in the center.

I walked over, accidentally breathing through my nose again and gagging once more. How could people stand to eat that kind of stuff? Even when I wasn’t sick, it wasn’t something I would willingly pick to eat.

I knocked on the open door and glanced in.

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