Free Vertical Lines (The Vert Series Book 1) by Kristen Kehoe Page B

list—more of a mantra, really—and then back at her. “Well, Red, I’d say we both need the same thing right now. What do you say? Want to take a chance with me?”
    She glances at the list—contemplating—and then me. “I think I might. What do we do first?”
    We walk along the boardwalk—away from my house still—no destination in mind, just wandering. With each step we take, each question she answers, I feel my mind open, cracks of light breaking through.
    “Why elementary education?”
    “Because it allows me to give back to the people in society who need it most.” Her answer is fast—much faster than any other she’s given today. Before I can call her on it, she blows out a breath. “That’s a lie. I’m sorry—I don’t know why I do that—and why I can’t stop.”
    “Good training,” I tell her. When I see that hit home, I stop, placing my hand on her shoulder so she will, too. “You know what got me the other night in the parking lot? Why I had to take your picture?”
    “Preppy girl in a five-hundred-dollar dress throws up convenience-store cupcake. You could get a lot of hits on YouTube for something like that.”
    I don’t smile—stepping closer, I look down at her, waiting for her to really see what I’m saying. “It wasn’t the cake—or the throw up. It was what you said afterward. You gave your mother credit when it was obvious you wanted that small piece of rebellion to work. Even all alone, you couldn’t lie. And I’d bet money you were taught to lie—or at least stretch the truth—from day one.”
    Color leaves her cheeks and she takes a step back, looking down. “I lie more than you know. I’ve only recently learned it doesn’t actually change anything—it just makes it so we have to live up to those lies.” Looking up, she gives a small smile. “We should get back—I have an early class again tomorrow.”
    I nod, turning with her. She’s quiet on the way back—an internal war raging inside of her. I don’t offer comfort, nor do I ask her to explain what she meant. But I memorize her features—the heavy mouth serious, the conflicted eyes, her hands clenched tight enough to keep herself together.
    She’s not a liar—but she doesn’t believe in herself. I think of Ashton and my chest tightens. I could never save her—never make her see how beautiful she really is—how smart. Maybe I can do that for Jordan. Not save her—she doesn’t appear to need saving, just support. Maybe I can give her this gift—a small rebellion to show her she isn’t wrong, she isn’t a wallflower, and she isn’t empty.
    Something—anything—to keep another girl from disappearing inside of herself.
     

Chapter 15
    Jordan
    I don’t expect the first time I see Mason to be in my Calculus II class—and good news for me, he didn’t appear to want to run into me ever .
    I’m already seated in the second row near the center when he walks in, as carelessly beautiful as ever, with his flawlessly-tanned skin, lean frame, and casual clothing that screams money. We share few similarities—I’m our father; he’s our mother. Where his frame is lean and muscled—like it has been since birth—without proper nutrition and exercise, mine is bony and unflattering. His hair is burnt blonde, his brown eyes like milk chocolate, offering his skin the ability to tan. My hair is redder than not, my skin smattered with the freckles my father’s Irish mother passed down.
    We make eye contact and he pauses for a split second, enough that one of the other Ken dolls he came in with bumps into him. He jerks, then pulls himself together, taking a half-hearted swing at the guy. He motions for his friends to keep walking, and then he heads my way.
    “Hey, sis .”
    “Hello, Mason.”
    He eases his hip down on my desk, which makes me feel a little trapped. In the seventh grade, Lani Borden cornered me in the girls’ locker room after PE, thrusting her huge C boobs in my face and threatening to end