Free Golden by Jessi Kirby Page B

the bodies must’ve gotten swept right into Summit Lake. I didn’t know what bodies they were talking about until the next day, when everyone knew, and there was the candlelight vigil, and . . .” I realize the car has slowed way down and Trevor seems to be only half listening. “I’m sorry. You probably didn’t need to hear the entire story.” God, why can I not just have a normal conversation with him?
    â€œNo, it’s fine,” he says. “That’s the most you’ve ever said to me, so I was gonna let you keep going.” He smiles over at me. “I was just trying to figure out where you want me to take you. It’s still seventh period, so . . .” He looks me over, and I feel his eyes on every mud-covered inch of me. “You probably wanna go home though, right? To shower?”
    â€œYeah, that’d be good.” I pinch my crusty shirt away from my chest and a few flecks of mud fall off onto my legs. I see Trevor see them. “Oh, crap, I’m sorry. I’m totally getting your car dirty.”
    He smirks, but doesn’t say anything.
    â€œWhat?” I fight the urge to check the mirror. Do I still have dirt in my teeth? Mud stuck in my nose?
    â€œNothing, don’t worry about it.” His eyes slide over to me for a second before they bounce back to the road and he shakes his head. “I wasn’t looking at the mud, Frost.”

11.
    â€œOn Looking Up by Chance at the Constellations”
    â€”1928
    By the time my mom walks through the door, I’ve showered, erased the message from the school about my unexcused absences for periods two through seven, and am still giddy at the fact that I somehow got away with my little foray out onto the edge today. And it was fun. And Trevor Collins was checking me out in his car.
    I’ve even got a pot of spaghetti boiling on the stove, but it’s more a gesture than anything else, because my mom probably won’t eat any. Instead, she’ll pour a glass of wine and sit down at her computer to check her e-mail even though she just came from work. There’s an ebb and flow to her store, which caters to the high-end tourist ladies who want toshop while everyone else skis. The store lives and dies by November through January. Spring, summer, and fall are the slow times, which means she’ll stress out at the end of every month until things pick back up next ski season.
    â€œHey, Mom,” I say as she sighs her way into the kitchen. “Long day?”
    â€œYou have no idea.” She stands on tiptoe, reaching in the cabinet for a wine glass. “Sales for spring break were not what I was hoping for. Not even close. At this rate I may actually have to cut down hours come September.”
    â€œYou say that every May, and by every September, it’s fine. You always make it.” I heft the pot over to the sink and stand back from the billow of steam when I dump the noodles in the strainer. “You want some spaghetti?”
    She shakes her head. “Not now. I may have some later.” It’s quiet a moment as I scoop some into a bowl for myself, add a ladle of sauce, and grab the parmesan cheese. “So,” she says, making a point to look at me. “How was your day?”
    A little tremor of nervousness zips through my stomach, but I shake the parmesan can over my bowl and play it cool. “Fine.”
    She nods. “Good.” Then she pours her wine and sits down at the table with her laptop. When she doesn’t ask about anything else, not even my speech, it surprises me. Normally she doesn’t let it go at just that, which means things at the shop must be really bad.
    Partly because I don’t want to spend my dinner in silence, and partly because I’m nervous, I elaborate. “I’ve been helping Mr. Kinney with these senior journals he sends out everyyear, so that’s pretty cool.” She nods absently,