Six Months Later Part 35

The reporter's face on the screen is full of concern. "How do you feel about the school board's voluntary retesting invitation?"

I bite my lip. I wish I hadn't. It's not pretty in person, but with my head filling up the entire television screen-remind me to thank the cameraman for that one-I look like a nervous wreck. But, then again, I was a nervous wreck.

"I haven't thought much about it."

"So you haven't made a decision on how you'll proceed?"

"Oh, no. I've decided. I'm retaking the test."

The reporter tips her head in that way reporters do when the answer they receive isn't quite what they expect. "Like many of the other students involved in this scandal, your SAT scores were exceptional, correct? Some have suggested it might be the one benefit to your suffering."

On screen, I shake my head. I look revolted. "I guess I don't think there were any benefits. There's really no silver lining here. Not for me."

"Do you find some satisfaction in being the one to bring him to justice? Your courage to come forward with this story has given other victims the strength to speak out as well."

She lays eight pictures on the table between us. It's all a concoction for the segment-a news trick to visualize the magnitude of Daniel's impact. As if somehow the number of pictures on that table is directly proportionate to how big a hero I am.

But I'm not a hero at all.

"You gave these students a voice. That's something."

They were my friends then. And we are something different than friends now, tied together in a way we can never unravel.

On the screen, I close my eyes and take a breath. In the here and now, I feel Adam's hand reach across the couch for mine, his fingers lending me strength.

"It isn't nearly enough. But it's all I could do."

The reporter closes with a reminder of the upcoming trial for Daniel and the investigation that's still underway on two unnamed, involved minors. The minors have names: Blake Tanner and Adam Reed.

I still don't know what will happen to them.

"Don't start worrying about that," Adam says, reading my mind.

Maggie, who's curled up on the other side of me, turns off the television. "She's n-not the only one who's worried about it."

"Coming from my fan club, I'll take that as a compliment," Adam says, but he's mostly teasing. The two of them probably aren't going to start trading secrets or braiding each other's hair. But they love me. And that seems to be enough for both of them.

"Well, I, for one, am proud of you," my mom says from the love seat. Her smile wavers a little, which tells me that's not all she wants to say. "I still wish you'd reconsider the test. There's no harm in you keeping that score-"

I roll my eyes. "Mom. We've been over this."

She relents with a sigh. It's almost like she's letting it go, but we both know better than that. Beside her, my dad makes a cuckoo sign with his hand. "Don't listen to her. You'll probably get even better scores."

"I doubt that," I say.

"I don't," my dad says. "And, as you know, I'm always right."

I laugh. "Well, brace yourself for reality."

"One of these days you're going to figure out how smart you actually are," Adam says quietly. "Then you'll be the one bracing."

My dad notices. He's been doing that with Adam. Noticing things.

It's kind of weird, still, me dating this guy with a record. Not exactly everything they'd dreamed, and I get that. h.e.l.l, Adam's worse than them. He wouldn't even come in the house at first. But one day, Maggie and I dragged him inside, and we forced the elephant out from under the carpet.

Awkward does not begin to cover it. But here we are. And it's okay.

Good even.

"When's your next meeting with the detective?" my dad asks.

Maggie looks right at me, her brows arched. I force myself to close my mouth and watch as Adam looks down. He takes a breath before he answers.

"Friday."

"Will your grandmother be there?"

"She's not...well," he says, and I squeeze his hand. He's barely comfortable having a soda from the fridge. Dragging his senile, alcoholic grandmother into the mix is probably somewhere he doesn't want to go.

"If it's all right with you, I might give him a call," Dad says.

Maggie and I both whip our heads to stare at him. Mom's gaping too.

"What?" he says, looking at us like we're crazy. "Is it so strange that I want to put in a good word for the guy?"

Um, yes, it's strange. My dad defending a boy I'm making out with on a regular basis is pretty much a portent of impending apocalypse.

"You don't have-" I cut Adam off with a hard squeeze to his fingers and a very pointed look. His eyes soften and he tries again. "If you'd like, that would be great. Thank you."

Mom claps her hands together and offers pizza, and my dad joins her as she heads into the kitchen talking toppings and pickup versus delivery.

Maggie pulls out at least four stacks of flash cards, thumping them on the table in a line. "Now that that's out of the way, we need t-to get down to business. Where are your highlighters?"

I stare at the mountain of work on the coffee table with a frown. "They're in my backpack. Tucked in beside the last shred of hope for a fun weekend."

Adam laughs.

His laugh was the first thing I remembered all those months ago. It's still one of my favorite sounds on earth.

Six minutes. In six minutes I will walk through those double doors and sit down at a desk, and it will change my future.

I wait in a row of orange plastic chairs with Adam and three dozen juniors I don't really know. Everybody else kept their scores.

The other kids here look like they've had three cups of coffee with a Red Bull shooter. They're twitchy and sweaty, s.h.i.+fting in their seats and watching the clock with dread etched in their faces.

"I thought I was the calm, cool, collected one," Adam comments.

I shake my head. "No, you're the smoking-hot, irresistible one."

"Am I?" The smile he gives me is probably illegal in four states. Sadly, even the promise of an impromptu make-out session wouldn't outrank what we're waiting on. Not for him, at any rate.

Not for me either, really. Maybe once. But things are different now. I look at the closed double doors on the south wall. White SAT testing signs are taped to both doors. Maybe I'm crazy, but the sight of them makes me grin.

"You're scaring the natives," Adam says.

I kiss him, and he makes a humming noise in the back of his throat when I pull back. "Hey, don't stop on my account."

"Oh, that's not for you. I need a clear head."

"Right. Clear heads." He shakes his head and straightens up in his chair, looking grave. Like he needs to bother. He'll walk out with a score that should land him in any school he wants.

Should but probably won't.

And as for me- "So what's your goal?"

I think about it. About the 2155 that was framed on my fridge. The score I probably don't have a snail's chance of getting again.

"Don't think negative," Adam says. "You've studied your a.s.s off."

"I know, and I'm good with it. No matter what it is, it'll be mine."

"It'll be good enough for Brown," he says with absolute conviction.

I take a breath and hold it in because it might not be. The truth sits low in my chest. It's solid and ugly, but I can swallow it. I can keep breathing.

"Maybe. Maybe not." I shrug. "It doesn't matter. I know what I want. And I'll find a way to get it."

He gives me a pointed look. "Well, G.o.d knows that's the truth."

My too-loud laugh earns a stern frown from the proctor. I'm never going to be the teacher's pet. Or the top of the cla.s.s. It's fine. I kind of like the view from where I'm standing.

"When the doors open, please find an open desk and be seated," the proctor says.

The doors swing wide open. Just like my future.

Acknowledgments.

This is harder than I thought it would be. I want to thank everyone I've ever met and maybe a few random strangers-and it probably looks like I have. But truthfully, I know I will think of others later and wish I'd mentioned them too. I hope they'll have the grace to forgive me.

My first thanks is to G.o.d, for planting this dream and giving me parents that would let me chase it. To my mother, who I hope is looking down with pride, and to my father, who teaches me every day what the word perseverance actually means.

Six Months Later was championed by an unbeatable publis.h.i.+ng team at Sourcebooks Fire. Kim Manley, Cat Clyne, Jillian Bergsma, Derry Wilkens, and, most of all, Leah Hultenschmidt, thank you so much for believing in me and in this book. You have made every part of this process lovely.

I wouldn't be where I am today without the hard work of my agent, whose wisdom and kindness are unmatched. Cori Deyoe, as always, thank you so much for being in my corner.

I am blessed with an amazing group of supporters, some friends, some relatives-all family to me. Angela, Debbie, Tori, Tiffany, Leigh Anne, Sharon, Christy, Esther, Jon, Melissa, Kathy, Paul, my cousin Jennifer (who just "knew" this book would sell), and my stepmom Karen (who read this long before it was actually good)-I'm more grateful than you know for your encouragement.

A special thanks to some of my writer friends, my awesome fellow Doomsdaisies and my chapter mates at COFW. In particular, I'd like to thank Karin, Susan, and Margs, who've taught me so much and been such good friends. Also, to Robin, for sound advice, homemade meatb.a.l.l.s, and thirty-five visits to the Disney store in forty-eight hours. Last but certainly not least, I'd like to thank Sheri, who's probably spent a year of her life on the phone with me dissecting one story issue or another. I have no idea why you still pick up the phone, Sheri, but I'm so grateful.

Of course, writing with three young children would be impossible without the unfailing support of my wonderful husband. David, you never, ever doubted. I love you for that and for so much more.

In closing, I'd like to thank my three children who make my world brighter and more beautiful. Ian, Adrienne, and Lydia, I love you to the moon and back times infinity. You are the magic in every one of my stories.

About The Author.

At seven, Natalie D. Richards wrote about Barbara Frances Bizzlefishes (who wouldn't dare do the dishes). Now she writes about awesome girls, broody boys, and all things dark and creepy. Natalie lives in Ohio (Go Bucks!) with her husband, three kids, and a seventy-pound dust mop who swears he's the family dog. You can visit her at www.nataliedrichards.com or follow her on Twitter @NatDRichards.

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