Free One Day More by Aprilynne Pike

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    I SLAM MY HAND DOWN on my blaring alarm clock and roll back over. Silence. And not just my alarm clock. The whole house is filled with a silence that practically shouts its emptiness—as empty as it is every morning. Sometimes, if I don’t hit the snooze button and go back to sleep, I can creep to the top of the stairs and hear my parents leave the house—listen to the garage doors clattering shut as they drive their separate cars to their separate jobs in the separate little lives we all lead.
    But I haven’t done that in ages.
    Besides, it’s Thursday. And I hate Thursdays.
    So when the alarm goes off again I reach out and hit the snooze button. Again.
    By the time I finally get up, I’m hella late for school. And need gas.
    Really need gas.
    I stayed out way too late last night and didn’t want a gas purchase to show up on my credit card at three in the morning. The credit-card statement is one of the few things in my life to which my parents pay any attention.
    Plus, if I stop for gas on the way to school I can get my coffee, too. Medium cappuccino, nonfat with sugar-free hazelnut, no whip. I have a figure to maintain, after all.
    I throw my shades on as I get out of the car. California is all well and good, but damn, there’s so much sunshine! After last night I need my dark sunglasses for protection, at least until the first coffee is in me.
    I walk around the coffee-shop-slash-convenience-store while the barista works his magic, and no one gives me a second look. My school uniform is practically camouflage. Everyone trusts a well-coiffed girl in a plaid vest and conservative black skirt. As though I would choose to wear something this lame every day. I let my fingers run softly over the rows of miniature products. Single-dose Tylenol, little cans of SpaghettiOs, tiny screwdrivers. Gas stations are really just the dollhouses of grocery stores, and I love all the teeny stuff.
    By the time my drink is ready, my purse is two packs of gum, one of those cool peanut-butter Snickers bars, and one Early Response Pregnancy Test heavier. Not that I need the test, but it seems like a good thing to stockpile. Just in case. I mean, really, who wants to go get a test when you actually need it? Way more likely to get caught lifting stuff when you’re jumpy.
    And don’t tell me you’re not jumpy when you think you might be knocked up.
    After smiling and handing a tip to the guy who pumped my gas, I slide into the driver’s seat and drive around to the Dumpsters at the back of the parking lot. The far corner where no one ever parks.
    I drink half my coffee before I’m chill enough to reach into my purse and, with shaky hands, pull out the stuff I stole. I always have such calm hands when I’m doing the deed—afterward, not so much.
    â€œA pregnancy test?” I mutter. “The hell was I thinking?” Because despite the lame excuse I came up with in the gas station, this is possibly the dumbest thing I’ve ever stolen. And that’s saying something. I shove it into a wrinkled paper bag from some fast-food place and toss it into the backseat, where I can’t see it. Without glancing at the gum and candy still sitting on the passenger seat, I push down too hard on the gas pedal and squeal out into traffic.
    The clomp of my platforms echoes as I saunter down the pristine beige-and-sea-green hallway of Whitestone Academy. My high school is actually a pleasant place to be when it’s quiet and empty like this.
    â€œMiss Schaffer?”
    Not quite empty. I turn and put on my I’m-such-a-good-girl face. “Yes, Mr. Hennigan?” Principal. Ever heard that little saying for remembering the spelling of principal versus principle ? That he’s your pal?
    Not this one.
    He glares at me. “School started over thirty minutes ago.”
    I nod energetically—vapidly, really—and wait for him to continue, letting the air get heavy