Page 11 of Redemption
15 years old
Langston is late—again. He was supposed to pick me up from dance lessons over thirty minutes ago. Now, I’m the last one here.
I hate it when he does this because Mrs. Jefferson, the old nag who is my dance teacher, always looks like she might bite someone’s head off.
Well, me too, lady.
It’s not like I asked to be forgotten—though I should be used to it. When it comes to my family, I’m always the forgotten one—the one that can’t measure up.
Langston, however, can do no wrong. This is the fourth time he’s been late in a month, and has he gotten in trouble once?
No, sirree, he hasn’t.
He isn’t a bad brother. I kind of like him when he doesn’t forget me places, but he falls too hard into the pressures of our parents’ expectations—always taking on more.
I gave that up years ago when I realized that the bar is always being moved higher and higher. It’s impossible to satisfy my mother, so why try?
It’s who Langston is, though—ever the people pleaser. Because of it, he’s in every scholastic club imaginable, killinghimself to maintain his grades and get a football scholarship. It’s stupid if you ask me. He doesn’t even like football.
Kicking at a rock on the sidewalk, I peek over my shoulder into the window of the dance studio. Mrs. Jefferson’s eyes glare back at me, sending a cold chill down my spine.
Old nag.
I turn back around when I hear a truck revving its engine as it comes down Main Street, and when I catch the square body of an old Chevy, my heart does a little pitter-patter in my chest. There’s only one person in this town who has a truck like that, and I just so happen to be tragically in love with him.
Frantically, I reach up to smooth my hair, but the locks are a frizzy mess from class. There’s no fixing it—not that it matters anyway. Hayes has never once looked at me as more than his best friend’s little sister, but a girl can dream.
Cursing my luck, I plaster a bright smile on my face as my brother’s best friend pulls up to the curb.
When he’s fully stopped in front of me, Hayes leans over inside the cab and cranks his window down as I step closer and peek in.
“Hey, Hayes, what’s up?”
He throws me a boyish grin, and butterflies dance in my stomach. The boy is handsome. With dark hair that’s shaggy enough to fall across the top of his eyes and a jaw that’s sharper than that of any boy my age—he is the epitome of a teenage girl’s dream, but it’s his eyes that draw me in and make me forget that he’s a year older than me and completely off limits.
Those eyes turn wary, and then he clears his throat. Heat flames my cheeks as I realize that he was talking to me while I stared at him like a love-struck idiot.
Looking at the sky, I say a silent prayer. Please, God, let the ground swallow me whole. I promise I’ll make it to Sunday school next week if you do.
It doesn’t work, but thankfully, Hayes doesn’t linger on the fact that he caught me ogling. Instead, he pretends it didn’t happen and says, “Langston asked me to pick you up. He is getting in an extra practice with Coach. I’m sorry I’m late. I had to grab a shower.”
When I see my brother again, he’s dead meat.
“I can call my parents. You didn’t have to come out here.”
I’d bet a million dollars that if I looked in the mirror right now, my skin would be the color of an overripe tomato.
“MJ,” he says as he reaches across the bench seat towards the passenger door handle. “Just get in the truck.”
With one jerk of his hand, the door pops open, and I step back, chewing on my lip.
On one hand, this is my chance to be alone with Hayes, but on the other—I’ll be alone with Hayes. It’s statistically guaranteed I’ll do something stupid in the ten-minute drive to my house.
Glancing at the clock on his dashboard, I realize it’s already six o’clock. It will get dark soon, and I don’t want to be here alone when it does. I’ll deny this if anyone ever asks, but at fifteen, I’m still terrified of the dark, and I would rather take my chances being alone with Hayes.
Decision made, I throw my bag into the cab of his truck and climb in, pulling the door closed behind me. His truck has a bench seat, and if I were brave, I would throw my bag on the floor and scoot next to him, but I’m not brave. Instead, I use my bag as a buffer, making sure it stays tight on the seat between us.
“What tunes are we listening to?” Hayes asks, oblivious to the fact that I’m trying not to hyperventilate from being so close to him.
