Page 36 of Spencer and the Younger Girl
Flopping down onto the bed, she pressed her face to the pillow and screamed. One stupid prank. It was supposed to make her senior year epic. Instead, it ruined the last spring break of her high school career.
Her grandfather was right. Hadley Gibson wasn’t meant for manual labor. She didn’t do dirt or sweat. Stealing those goats was the first time she’d ever seen a barn, much less been inside one.
Her phone vibrated on her bedside table, and she rolled over to answer it.
“You going to tell me it was you yet?” Charlotte asked.
“They suspended me.”
“I knew it was you! Damien helped you, didn’t he? There was all this talk at school about the goats belonging to the Lees, but I know you, Hads. You wouldn’t steal them.” Charlotte was the first person to say that, the only one who didn’t believe she was capable of something like that.
“Yeah, but Charlie, you can’t tell anyone.”
“My lips are sealed. But… Roman may have already told Jesse and Cassie.”
Hadley laughed. “Of course he did.”
“So… suspension, huh?” Charlotte’s voice grew quiet.
“Yeah.” She couldn’t yet bring herself to mention the other part of her punishment. Charlotte would only laugh.
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, everyone at school thinks you’re pretty awesome now.”
That was what she wanted, wasn’t it? But for some reason, it didn’t feel like she thought it would. “Doesn’t really make me feel better.”
Charlotte went on telling her about a teacher who was chased down the hall by a goat and another who couldn’t enter her own classroom because she was terrified of the goat inside.
Hadley did succeed in one thing. It didn’t sound like anyone would forget the day of the goats anytime soon.
* * *
Four in themorning came way too soon. Hadley’s eyes slid open as she rolled onto her side with a groan. Today was going to be awful.
The blackout curtains in her window kept the room dark, but she figured it would be dark at this ungodly hour anyway.
Tilting her head back, she glanced at the clock. It took a moment for the time to register.
She shot up in bed. Seven o’clock? Kicking the tangle of blankets from her legs, she scrambled from the bed, tripping on her tennis shoes near her dresser.
“Screw ups are gonna screw up,” she said to herself. It was true. Her entire life, she’d been the person showing up late or saying the wrong thing. It was like she couldn’t help it. In a teenager, it was accepted.
But what about when she got older? When she decided a college degree wasn’t for her, and no one batted an eye because that’s what screw ups said.
Digging through her closet, she found an old pair of loose jeans and tugged them up her legs. If she was going to work on a ranch, she had to look the part. She slid a plaid shirt over her shoulders and buttoned it up. Her grandfather bought it for her last Christmas, and she had yet to wear it.
Yanking on her white tennis shoes, she almost fell over and slammed her shoulder into the dresser. She cursed as pain wound down her arm.
But there was no time to let it fade. She raced out the door and sprinted down the stairs, stopping when she found her mom in the kitchen.
“Why didn’t you wake me up?” She pulled open the fridge, but there was nothing quick to eat. With a sigh, she shut it and reached for an apple on the counter.
“How old are you?” her mom asked. “Anyway, I was busy packing.”
“Packing?”
“Yes, I’m going to Europe with a few friends for a week. Surely, I told you. You’ll be fine here with your grandfather.”
“Mom,” she bit out, hating that she wasn’t more surprised. “Are you going to Paris?”
