My Junior Year of Loathing (School Dayz Book 2) Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.

  Copyright © 2016 by Jennifer DiGiovanni

  MY JUNIOR YEAR OF LOATHING by Jennifer DiGiovanni

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by Swoon Romance. Swoon Romance and its related logo are registered trademarks of Georgia McBride Media Group, LLC.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  EPub ISBN: 978-1-945107-65-8 Mobi ISBN: 978-1-945107-66-5

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-945107-67-2

  Published by Swoon Romance, Raleigh, NC 27609

  Cover design by Paper and Sage

  To Mom and Dad – thanks for your love, support, and the weekly rides to the library.

  Chapter One

  Moving day ends with a crash, a series of thuds, and shattering glass.

  The box labeled “Melinda’s Room” careens down the back staircase and dive-bombs on to the marble tile. All of my carefully packed, triple-layered, bubble-wrapped treasures fly out and scatter around the unfamiliar kitchen.

  I drop to the floor, grabbing for debris. “Please tell me my trophies weren’t in there.”

  “Watch yourself, miss.” The head mover shoves his hands into a pair of work gloves and hefts a cracked mirror. His partner hands me a piece of paper. “Write down a description of the contents. We’ll replace anything that’s broken.”

  I jump back up, meeting him eye to eye. “Can you replace a trophy I won five years ago at the Tri-State Youth Show Jumping Expo?”

  My fury is met with a blank expression. I sigh heavily and slide the bottom of my black Converse over the floor, listening for the crunch of broken glass. One of the movers lifts the box, uncovering the bottom half of my trophy. I locate the top half and attempt to click them back together, like two misfit puzzle pieces.

  By the time Mom pushes through the door, carrying a crate of her work files, I’ve given up any hope of repair. A bent picture frame snaps apart when she steps on it. “What happened here?”

  I point at the movers. “They dropped my box. The one with my trophies.”

  The men mutter apologies and back out of the room.

  “The way our luck runs, I’m surprised we made it this far without major breakage.” Mom sets her crate down gently and puts her arm around my shoulders. “I’m sorry it had to be your stuff that was damaged, Mel.”

  I shrug her off. “No use crying about it now.”

  She finds a broom in the nearest closet and sweeps up the shattered glass while I gather up my sports memorabilia. Basketball team photos, a collage of equestrian events featuring me and my horse, Truffle, and a tangled heap of medals I’d collected over the years.

  I circle the kitchen, opening and closing dozens of half-empty drawers, searching for a roll of garbage bags.

  “Under the sink,” Mom says.

  I locate the bags, pull one out, and shake it open. “Tell me again. Why did we think moving was a good idea?”

  Mom’s eyebrows inch up. “Did you ever really approve?”

  “Ha, ha. Don’t ask questions if you don’t like the answers.”

  The unspoken truth hangs in the air between us. After Dad died five years ago, Mom was just as broken as my riding trophy. She didn’t recover until she met the second love of her life at the age of forty-five. Brian Welsh approached her at a pharmaceutical industry conference last year. They had lunch. He asked for her card and called her the next day. Two months later, he gave her a ring.

  She’d dated my dad for five years before they even talked about marriage.

  In the biotech world, Brian is revered as a famous but geeky science guy who discovered some molecular structure I don’t understand and can’t pronounce. (He laughs when I try to string together the fifty-syllable word).

  So far, most of my conversations with Brian have been short and sweet. I stick to neutral topics like protons and ions, even though my knowledge is limited. Discussing your personal life with your new stepparent is majorly awkward.

  But how can I not try, for Mom’s sake? She’s sacrificed everything for me over the last five years, even refusing to sell my horse after I decided to withdraw from competitive show jumping. She found a way to remortgage our old house so I could stay with my friends in the same school. And she was so excited when I told her about being chosen as the assistant editor of Out of Tune, Harmony’s school newspaper. It seemed rude to ask her to wait two years and marry Brian after I leave for college.

  So, here I am. Inserting my life into Brian’s previous bachelor existence. He’ll come home from work tonight and find Mom and me more or less settled in.

  Mom finishes sweeping, we double-bag the trash, and the movers reappear to haul the mess away.

  “I think I’ll check out my room,” I say, but Mom’s already lost down a hallway leading to who-knows-where.

  Now I just need to find my room. Brian’s gray stone mansion with three story Grecian pillars in front looks like the Addams Family meets the Acropolis on the outside; the inside is ever more intimidating. I open a random door and step into a closet. My second attempt leads me to the basement. I blow a loose strand of hair away from my face. This house should come with a map.

  I backtrack to the kitchen, grab the crushed box marked “Melinda’s bedroom,” and throw everything that’s salvageable inside before hiking up the main staircase. When I reach the second level, I remember the vague directions Mom gave me earlier in the day. Turn right, then left at the dead end. Three doors later, I spy a handwritten sign reading, “Welcome Home, Melinda.” A smile spreads over my face. Brian does have some sweet moments. Then my stomach clenches when I wonder if Mom has a sign on her door too. Parental romance is hard to swallow, especially when everything is new and lots of gross PDA is involved.

  The door creaks open, revealing a queen-sized bed topped by a pink-and-white comforter. Plush new carpet muffles some of the creaks in the floor. I set my box on an antique desk and throw open the double doors to the huge walk-in closet, large enough to fit Kate Middleton’s wardrobe. My three pairs of riding pants and two new school outfits look ridiculous hanging in there.

  Swiping my arm over my sweaty forehead, I back out of the closet and open the nearest window. New paint cracks when I break the seal, letting in fresh air, along with the buzz of suburban life. Squirrels chattering, birds twerping, an occasional car passing in the distance.

  An envelope from Harmony High sits on my desk, the only sign that someone’s been in here in the last fifty years. I tear it open and skim the welcome letter, noting school now starts ten minutes before eight due to changes in bus schedules.

  As if I would ride a big, yellow freshman-mobile to school.

  All the classes I requested are listed, even Calculus I, which I had to test into. Thankfully, I had an awesome math tutor last year. I fire off a quick text to Andy Kosolowski, letting him know I’m now a certified math whiz.

  Next, I tackle the stack of unbroken boxes at the foot of my bed. I peel off the tape and pull out shoes, yearbooks, and my nail polish collection.

  A knock at the door interrupts my unpacking.

  “Melinda?” Barely twenty min
utes of alone time, and Mom’s hunting me down.

  I paste a smile on my face and open the door. “All moved in?”

  “Halfway. I think my closet could hold everything we just moved from our old house,” she says with a short laugh. “I was afraid I’d never find you. Why did Brian put you so far away?”

  My pasted smile turns into a real one. “Gee, why do you think he stuck me in the furthest room of the furthest wing?” Not that I’m upset about it. The added privacy is to everyone’s mutual benefit. A small reward for my forced relocation.

  Mom frowns. “It’s not like that, Mel. He loves the idea of having you around. He likes to hear about all the fun you’re having in high school. Makes him feel younger.”

  “Sure he does,” I say, letting the conversation trail off. Evasiveness works. Mom runs her hand along the top of my bed on her way out of my room. Her activity tracker with built-in messaging vibrates and she glances at her wrist.

  “Brian’s on his way home. Plan for dinner in an hour, okay?” The door creaks closed behind her.

  I click the lock and plug my iPhone into my speaker, blasting my favorite girl-power playlist. Right now, I have no desire to listen to more of Mom’s chattering. She’s been nonstop happy since the wedding, mostly gushing about her new husband.

  It’s not that I feel replaced.

  Pushed aside, maybe. But, really, it’s fine. I have a busy junior year to look forward to.

  ***

  “Mel! Dinner time.” Exactly sixty minutes later, Mom calls to me from the terrace, her voice rising over the hum of Brian’s dueling air conditioners. Outside my window, the backyard stretches the length of a football field before sloping down into dense woods. Brian’s land is open, but most of the neighboring yards are lined with miles of black wrought-iron bars, enclosing their houses in virtual jail cells.

  When I step onto the terrace, Mom and Brian glance up from their peachy cocktails. Moody jazz music drifts from speakers hidden in the flower beds.

  “Welcome, Melinda.” Brian stands and opens his arms. We exchange a stiff hug, my face mashed against his extra starched polo shirt. “Drinks are in the fridge. Help yourself.”

  He gestures to the tiki bar in the far corner of the terrace before returning his attention to his personal paradise. His deep brown eyes are shielded by a blue golf visor, a fixture on top of his head when he’s in weekend mode. A few years older than Mom, surprisingly Brian didn’t go for a trophy wife. Although, she looks the part–Mom still gets carded in the liquor store and pretends to be upset about it.

  As for me, I’ve been told I look like my mother, though I fail to see much of a resemblance. Sure, I have her auburn hair, with a touch more red than brown, and bluish-green eyes that change color in the light. But Mom is petite and compact, while I’m long and lean. Dad lent me his tall genes.

  “So, how do you like the house?” Brian asks, eyeing me between swigs of his drink.

  “It’s beautiful. And, um, the peace and quiet is a little disturbing.” I fetch myself a cherry Coke and sink into a cushioned chair.

  “We’ve only moved a few miles, Melinda,” Mom says.

  “True, but our old house was … ” Smaller. The neighborhood was congested. People were always outside, talking, laughing, chasing kids on bikes. I wonder if Brian has ever met his neighbors.

  Brian’s phone buzzes, ending our weak attempt at conversation. “Dinner’s here. I hope you’re hungry, Melinda.”

  The three of us split a veggie pizza, delivered to our table on the terrace by a sulky college-aged guy with long hair sticking out from under his red-and-white cap. While Brian and Mom playfully argue over the last slice, I pick up my leftover crust and toss it in the garbage. My night is completely free, but I don’t feel like calling my friends. The girls will pester me to go out. To be honest, I’m exhausted from the nonstop week of packing leading up to our big move.

  “I think I’ll go for a walk,” I announce, though no one’s listening. I wander toward the woods, following a small dirt path leading between the tree line and the back of the neighbors’ fences. Eventually this trail should take me to the stables where we keep Truffle. One good thing about my new address is that my horse is now within walking distance.

  I follow the path as it bends and begin to pick up waves of static booming from a microphone. Someone’s giving a speech, followed by a smattering of applause. An artificial glow illuminates the trail ahead. Thousands of fairy lights twinkle from tree branches, shining around a circus-sized tent pitched in the center of a perfectly manicured backyard. My foot hits a tree root, and I pause to catch myself. When I look up again, girls in flowery sundresses mingle with guys wearing khaki shorts and polos. Light orchestra music and high-pitched laughter float in the air.

  Late-summer humidity beads on my skin as the last remnants of daylight dissipate, giving way to a bright silver moon. I drink in the scent of wildflowers along with the hum of voices mixing with a choir of cicadas in the woods behind me. When I turn to continue on toward the stables, I sense a swift movement in the overgrown brush to my left. A branch snaps.

  “Who’s there?” My heart ricochets around my chest. I tense my legs, prepped to run at the first sign of danger while my eyes dart along the bottom of the thicket, hoping to find a small animal. Very small. Preferably not a skunk, though.

  Another snap, followed by footsteps.

  “Just me,” says a male voice. Someone about my size steps out from behind a wide oak tree, hands raised. I give him the once-over, covertly searching for weapons. Dark hair, faded jeans, ratty gray T-shirt, and lace-up combat-style boots. He takes a step forward. We exchange suspicious glances.

  “Thinking about calling the cops?” he asks in a low voice.

  “Why? Are you a criminal?”

  With a shrug, he turns his attention toward the backyard party. “Huh. Another big bash at the Martins. They hire a ten-piece band just for cocktails.”

  I scoff. “Why not hook up an iPod and some speakers?”

  A smile appears on his moonlit face. “Wireless speakers don’t have enough juice for a yard that size. Plus, nothing’s better than live music when you’re schmoozing with the rich and famous. Do you come here often?” He grimaces. “Man, that sounded cheesy.”

  Admittedly, this is an odd time and place for pickup lines. “Actually, I’m a first-time offender. I’m the new kid on this enormous block, which is more like a small city. My mother married Brian Welsh.”

  His expression blanks. “Oh.”

  “I live about four houses down.” I point in the general direction. Then I second-guess myself. Should I have given this random guy in the woods so much information? He looks about my age, but all sorts of scary. And from the smell of him, he could use a long, hot shower.

  He sticks out his hand. “Welcome to the neighborhood. I’m Connor.”

  “Mel.” I keep my hands at my sides.

  His arm remains extended. “Nice to meet you.” Our eyes meet and hold. Against my better judgment, I offer my hand, allowing his warm fingers to wrap around mine. A crash of drums, followed by laughter, directs our attention back to the party.

  “Do you know them?” Connor asks.

  “Just by name. Maddie Martin is in college now. Her family is tons of rich. The front of their house is hidden by trees and a high fence. I didn’t know about this secret path.” My mind starts clicking, thinking of all the scoop I could find out by covertly observing a few of the Martins’ parties. Works for the paparazzi, doesn’t it? Out of Tune might be nominated for High School Newspaper of the Year. If I wanted to delve into sensationalism, that is.

  Connor steps closer, and I immediately flinch back, conscious of his heavy footwear inches away from my thin Converse. The beginnings of a dark beard sprout from his chin, and I wonder if he’s gone AWOL from some military academy.

  “Watch and learn,” Connor says, cocking his head toward the iron fence. The music restarts at a faster, modern beat. Guests shift aw
ay from calm conversation to drunken antics of the rich and stylish. Apparently, alcohol has the same effect on everyone, even millionaires.

  Left standing with this strange boy in the dark, my heart continues to race. I want to leave, to run back along the path, but I’m not sure how to sneak away. He could easily pounce on me right now. I reach in my pocket and wrap my hand around my phone. He’s so caught up watching the backyard scene that he doesn’t notice my slow retreat. When I put enough distance between us to give myself a solid head start, I speak again.

  “Wow, look at the time. I need to get home before my mom sends out a search party.”

  “I can walk with you,” he offers, swinging his attention back to me.

  “Thanks, but I’m only a few houses away,” I say.

  He nods. “Your call. Maybe we’ll meet again—in the daylight if you prefer.”

  With a quick wave, I disappear, reversing my steps on the trail.

  Chapter Two

  The next morning, my mother proves how a new marriage changes people in unexpected ways.

  “Whoa, what’s going on here?” I pretend to faint at the sight of Mom in the kitchen.

  She adjusts the apron tied around her waist and proceeds to whip up pancake batter, brandishing a wire whisk about the size of a baseball bat.

  “Do you want to eat breakfast or not?” she asks, her eyes never leaving the bowl.

  “Yes. Eating is fabulous.” I perch on a stool at the high pub table, coiling my hair into a neat ballerina bun. Mom clicks on the cooktop and then jumps back with a squeal when the gas ignites.

  I take a long sip of orange juice. Busting on her is way too easy right now. “So, how long are we keeping up this charade for Brian?” Our previous lifestyle involved a lot of take-out.

  Mom presses her lips together. “Brian and I agreed to full disclosure before we tied the knot. He’s aware of my lack of culinary skills. But, with this kitchen, how can I not at least make an attempt?” She slides her spatula under a pancake and flips it in the air. It lands with a thunk, missing the griddle by a wide margin, sliding off the counter and plopping onto the floor.