Page 16 of We Shouldn't Be Together
I search his desk and then snatch his inhaler. “My gosh, your asthma used to be so bad. Why would you risk it? Or have you forgotten all those scary times?” I grimace at the blackened marks on the outer plastic of the inhaler. “Ick, maybe you haven’t. Drew, you’ve been burning your inhaler? That’s so dangerous!”
He grabs the inhaler from me. “I don’t need my little sister lecturing me.”
“Sorry for caring.” I back out of Drew’s bedroom. “Look, I just didn’t want you to set yourself on fire. I’ve got homework I’m ordered to do.”
“Close the door on your way out,” Drew says, picking up the lighter and flicking it on.
“No way.” I gasp, startled. “Drew, seriously, put the lighter away.”
He gives me a wry smile. “Why? Gonna tell Mom?”
I deadpan him. “What if Dad catches you?”
His grin widens. “I’m counting on it.”
“Ugh. You’re impossible.” I leave his room, making sure the door is as wide open as possible, and move on to my room. Hopefully, Freddy will catch Drew in the act and snatch the lighter from him. Or, second-best, Corbin runs in and screams the house down, alerting our parents to our oldest brother’s newest destructive habit.
I shut my bedroom door behind me and slink over to my bed. When I collapse, I lift my phone over my head and open a new episode of my favorite podcast, Crime Spree’d. The two hosts use wacky humor that always makes me smile, yet they talk about graphic true crimes. Something about the horrible murders takes me out of my reality. To hear about something so vile makes me forget about my crappy school day, my crappy arguments with my mother, and my crappy interactions with my friends.
Speaking of which, Camila and Yvette would never approve of me listening to Crime Spree’d if they knew. This is only for late nights when I’m alone in my bedroom. Unable to help myself, I open the text chain with the girls. Annoyingly, they put off going to Cynthia’s until I’m around to see Cammy modeling the red dress again.
Now that they’re both home, Cammy and Yvie are rating guys from our school. Although, surprisingly, they’re not concentrating on the football team. Maybe my crack about Clint earlier today made Cammy want to sideline her usual favorite topic. Instead, they’re reminiscing about watching the baseball team. Yvie is commenting on how tight Wade Peters’s butt looks in his baseball uniform.
My hands cramp as I use the phone. I’m still pent up about the fight with Mom, plus my back is knotting from what Drew is up to, so I keep alternating hands as I join the conversation. Wade might have a good body, but who are we kidding? Hayden McGregor is downright adorable.
"OMG, Tabby! He’s going with Cindy Struthers,"Camila texts."Do you really want to go after her man?"
I frown at the text. All I said was, he’s cute. I’m not looking to be the other woman.
"Tabby’s always had beef with Cindy,"Yvie texts."OMG Tab, you’re gonna make a play for Hayden. You’re so naughty."
I huff and drop my phone. Whatever. My head hurts too much to defend myself. They wouldn’t listen, anyway. Now that they’ve convinced themselves I’m going after Hayden, there’s no stopping them until a juicier piece of gossip comes up. Real or fake, it doesn’t matter.
The hosts of Crime Spree’d do their best to hold my attention. Somehow, my mother’s nagging voice claws its way into my head. Scrunching my eyes closed, and massaging my forehead, I try recalling my chemistry homework. I was paying zero attention in class. I don’t even know what page we were on. It never occurred to me to copy it down. I don’t remember a single class where Cammy and I didn’t chat the whole time. Why is itall of a suddena big deal for Mrs. Field?
And why the heck did she have to tell my mother?
4
“Mom,“Icomplainat7 a.m. the next morning. “Can we go already?”
I’m shifting my weight, wearing my Ashworth Academy Hawks hoodie over my phys-ed uniform. I’ve been ready for ten minutes and still no one has driven me to the school’s soccer field.
Man, I can’t wait to get my license.
Two more weeks.
Just two more weeks.
“Wait five minutes,” she calls from the kitchen. “Your brother isn’t even downstairs yet.”
“So?” I call back. “Can’t we go without him?”
“Malakai,“ she scolds.
I curl a finger inside the collar of my hoodie, wincing at the use of my full name. It only comes out when she’s truly peeved with me. Since I cost her a trip to the emergency room, and another lecture from the head doctor, she’s been particularly prickly.
“But, Mom,” I whine, dragging my feet into the kitchen. “Milo’s probably not even dressed yet. You let him have all those dang books up there. You know he gets sucked into them.”
