Total pages in book: 148
Estimated words: 137572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 688(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 459(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 688(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 459(@300wpm)
I decide not to give two craps about any of that. “Get to your point, Nowak.”
“The point is Toby. It’s always been Toby.” He tries to look up at me, then changes his mind and keeps his eyes on the ground. “You make him so happy, Vann. Isn’t that obvious? I mean … he made me happy, too, but I don’t make him happy. I think it’s time I face some truths … and take hold of my own key for once.”
“What are you saying, Nowak?”
“I’m sayin’ I may not be ready to turn my key just yet, but …” Hoyt finally gets the courage to look at me. “But I’m gonna help you turn yours. You’re gonna get back together with your Toby, and damn it, Vann, I want to help you do it.”
21 | TOBY
When the alarm clock screams at 5:45 AM, my hand acts all on its own in whacking the innocent little thing off the nightstand, sending it flying halfway across the room.
I lift my head off the pillow, then find I don’t have the energy to apologize to it.
At least not this morning.
Mondays have always sucked. It’s a historical fact, nothing new. But after the way I’ve left things before Thanksgiving break with Vann and Hoyt, I’m not sure I can even bear stepping foot in Spruce High. It takes so much effort even to get dressed on this dreary morning, let alone look at myself in the mirror and wonder what the hell my hair is doing today. Six degrees of crazy, that’s what. This doesn’t bode well for my Monday at all.
When I’ve got my backpack on (magically dropped off to me Sunday morning at my front gate, likely by Hoyt himself if I had to guess—and with all my things miraculously intact), I head into the kitchen to fish through the fridge for a bite to eat before running off. A scuffling set of footsteps brings my groggy-eyed stepdad to the counter where he starts up a pot of coffee, then drops into a chair at the dining room table and cradles his head. He doesn’t say a word to me, and just as I did all Sunday, I ignore him in return. I pop two slices of bread into the toaster, then wait patiently.
And then the unthinkable happens. “Toby?”
I flinch at first. Then: “Yeah?”
“Do you think you’ll …” Carl’s voice is exceptionally deep and croaky this morning. He rubs his eyes, then finishes: “Do you think you’ll do the spring play?”
We’re not looking at each other when we talk. “No,” I answer as I pull out the jam from the fridge and a knife from the drawer.
“Oh.” He rubs his head, clearly nursing a hangover. “I was just thinking I would’ve—thinking maybe I’d—” He sighs. “I should’ve just gone to your dang play.” My toast pops out. I lay them on a plate and start spreading jam on them. “I went to some of your plays,” he adds groggily as he stares at the coffeemaker from the table. “Back in … shoot, sixth grade, was it? Was it in sixth grade that you played a tree?”
“Seventh.” I lick off my knife and toss it into the dishwasher. “During my first year of seventh grade,” I then amend as I start to eat my toast. “Second year, I did nothing. Too much counseling.”
“Hmm.” I feel his eyes on me. Then he lets out a miserable sigh and turns in his chair, causing it to squeak. “Are you plannin’ on hatin’ me the rest of your adult life?”
After chewing and swallowing, I stare down at my toast and the mouth-shaped bite I just took out of it. “I don’t hate you.”
“Sure you do.”
“No. I really don’t.” I keep talking to my toast. “I think I pity you more than anything.”
He doesn’t respond to that. I’m pretty sure that’s not what he wanted to hear. Carl goes into these sudden changes of heart quite often, especially after a few months of being heinous with me. He then delves into a swamp of self-pitying sorrow. He just wants me to forgive him, to say I’m not upset, to give him permission to feel alright again and go about his day—especially after the explosive way we left things last week.
“I like it, by the way,” he tells me.
I take another bite. “You like what? My pitying you?”
“Nah. I mean your little Leonardo da Vinci in the garage. See?” He puffs up his chest. “I know the name of a painter.”
I smirk despite myself. “So it’s grown on you?”
“Yeah, sure. I like the beach. Always liked the beach. We all used to go down to that town by the Gulf. I remember.” He gets up from the table and fusses with the coffeemaker. “Damn thing.”
I finish my toast as quickly as I can manage, then gulp down a glass of orange juice from the fridge as Carl continues to negotiate a peace treaty with the coffeemaker. When he notices me leaving, he looks up. “Hey, wait a sec.”