Free Never (The Ever Series Book 2) by C. J. Valles Page A

clearing his throat makes me cringe and spin around.
    “Don’t mind me,” Alex says from where he’s standing on the sidewalk.
    Glaring, I turn and rise up on my toes to kiss Ever before hurrying up the stairs. Unlocking the door, I step inside and stare suspiciously at my mom.
    “Great timing! I was just about to pick up the pizza. … Hey, where’s your boyfriend?” she asks innocently.
    Right. Like she wasn’t just peering out the window. I’m just hoping that she didn’t see Alex, the creepy voyeur.
    “He couldn’t stay.”
    “Not even for pepperoni?” she asks.
    “I guess not.”
    “You want to come with?”
    “Actually, I’ve got homework. But I can get most of it done before you get back,” I promise.
    “So studious on a Friday,” she says.
    More like so human , I think.
    When she grabs her purse from the front table, I kiss her on the cheek and start climbing the stairs. Within a few short minutes, Algebra 2 has landed me squarely in the mortal plane of existence. I tap the book and squint at the problem, annoyed by my faulty math gene.
     
    Graph :
    x 2 + y 2 = 25
    3x - 4y = 0
     
    Based on the example in the book, I know that the coordinates are going to form a circle, but this fails to inspire a wellspring of excitement in me. Every problem takes me way longer than it should, but I finally finish with a glimmer of hope that my answers won’t elicit scorn from Mr. Bellarmine. Next, I move on to my English assignment. We’re supposed to choose two poems by the same poet, analyze them, and draw correlations. I can’t help thinking that if everything is inspired by the poet’s thoughts and feelings, then how am I supposed to know what the person intended? I mean, seriously. Someone a hundred years ago writes something, and everybody thinks they know what it’s about. Probably not.
    I flip through my anthology of nineteenth century American poets. I’ve already chosen mine: Edgar Allan Poe. But I’m not doing The Raven . Instead, I’m focusing on two that referenced dreams and death. The beginning of the first selection is appropriately titled Dreams .
     
    Oh! That my young life were a lasting dream!
    My spirit not awakening, till the beam
    Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.
     
    I feel a chill run through me. As I read the rest of the poem, I’m reminded that Poe’s words have nothing to do with me or my life, but they still rattle around in my head, reminding me of my mortality.
    Do I regret turning down Ever’s offer of immortality? I shake my head, answering my own question. I don’t want to die before my seventeenth birthday, but I’m also not ready to trade my humanity before I’ve had a chance to live. Besides, at what cost? Ever didn’t get around to telling me the consequences. And there is always a price. Risk and reward for every choice. My mom told me that when I was hesitant to join the cross country team. I’m slow , I told her. Her response was: You’ll get better. Take a risk and see what happens.
    And she was right. Me, Wren Sullivan, the girl who hated sports and got knocked unconscious by a soccer ball in elementary school, ended up loving running. I look across the room at the pair of running shoes I hastily abandoned before Ever and I left the house. There is no way I’m letting this immortal feud derail my plans to keep running.
    When I hear my mom’s car in the driveway, I get up and stretch my legs. Edgar Allan Poe will have to wait before I make any more amateurish guesses about his fascination with dreams and dying. Bounding down the stairs, I swing open the door before my mom can put her key in the lock. As soon as she walks in, I swipe the box from her.
    “I’m starving!”
    “Good. Because I thought you’re boyfriend was coming over, so I ordered an extra large—and a salad.”
    “That’s very nutritionally conscious of you,” I smile.
    “So? Where is Ever tonight?”
    I look at her as we walk into the kitchen. She’s thinking about how