Good Read online

  a novel

  S. Walden

  Copyright 2013, S. Walden

  Publisher: Penny Press

  This work and all rights of the author S. Walden to this work are protected under U.S. copyright law, Title 17 of the United States Code. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, photocopied, recorded or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. This ebook may not be circulated in any format, resold, or given away. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  Cover by Robin Ludwig Design, Inc.

  www.gobookcoverdesign.com

  Editor: Julie Lindy

  [email protected]

  Special thanks to the beta readers who reviewed this work and gave me invaluable feedback.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real persons, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  To lovers who fought the odds. And won.

  prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  about the author

  I pounded the door. I knew I’d wake the neighbors, but I didn’t care. I waited impatiently, looking over my shoulder constantly, afraid he would appear out of nowhere and snatch me before I had a chance to escape inside.

  “Let me in, let me in, let me in,” I whispered frantically, and pounded the door once more.

  It opened. Instant relief.

  “Cadence?” Mark asked, looking at me through squinted eyes. His voice was thick with sleep.

  I pushed past him, dragging my luggage behind me.

  “Close the door,” I ordered.

  “Cadence, what are you doing here? It’s three in the morning.”

  “Close the door!”

  Mark closed the door and locked it.

  “He’s gonna come for me,” I said to Mark’s back. I shuddered.

  He turned around and only then noticed the bruise. His entire demeanor changed. Suddenly he was alert and alarmed.

  “Cadence, what happened to your face?” he asked, hurrying over to me and cupping my cheeks.

  I shook my head, swallowing the lump in my throat. I wouldn’t cry, even though I wanted to, especially when Mark wrapped me gently in his arms, holding me protectively, whispering encouraging words into my ear.

  “I didn’t know where else to go,” I said.

  “It’s okay, Cadence. I’m glad you came here,” Mark replied.

  And then the anxiety and fear burst in my chest. “I’m scared!”

  “You don’t have to be scared. You’re with me now,” Mark said. He loosened his hold and gently pulled me away. “Cadence? What happened to your eye?” He reached out tentatively and traced his finger lightly over the bruise.

  I winced.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  I shook my head. I hadn’t noticed the aching in my face while I made my escape, but now I did, and it throbbed.

  “I can’t go home, Mark.”

  He nodded. “What happened to your eye?”

  “Will you let me stay?”

  “Cadence, of course you can stay. What happened to your eye?”

  “I don’t wanna be a burden . . .”

  Mark grabbed my hands and clasped them hard.

  “Cadence? Listen to me. You’re not a burden. And you can stay here as long as you want. Now please answer me. What happened to your eye?”

  I didn’t want to tell him. It would just be more drama. I thought back to the first day I showed up at his door—the moment I watched my hand curl into a fist and knock. I thought I didn’t have a choice then. That I had turned into compulsion absent of conscious thought. I believed the pull was too strong, and there was nothing I could do but go to him. Now I knew better. I knew I had the choice, and for a moment, my heart filled with regret. Not because I didn’t love him and want to be with him, but because I had complicated his life. I could have walked away then, but I didn’t. And I couldn’t take it back.

  “Cadence?”

  I looked him square in the face.

  “They know.”

  Nine months earlier

  They couldn’t pick a busier road? Let’s just broadcast to the world what pathetic criminals we are.

  I was out on Highway 28 dressed in my juvie garb finest—orange jumpsuit with bright yellow vest—walking along the shoulder picking up garbage tossed out of the car windows of other lawbreakers. I’d been assigned to a community service-based juvenile detention center. I guess I wasn’t hardcore enough to make it into the locked-down facilities. And I should have counted myself lucky: I actually got to leave the building on work assignments.

  Yeah . . . whatever. I was freaking embarrassed. I was embarrassed every time they dumped me on the side of some road to pick up trash. My long blond hair was pulled up in a required ponytail highlighting flushed cheeks that turned a darker shade of red when a truck passed by slowly, honking obnoxiously, its passengers hanging out of the windows yelling at me.

  “Cadence!” one shouted. “Nice outfit!”

  I looked down at my jumpsuit. It was unflattering, clinging to my petite body like a baby onesie, but I could get over that. What I couldn’t get over was the hideous color that washed out my fair skin.

  “Do not respond,” Officer Clements ordered.

  “I wasn’t going to,” I mumbled, stabbing a Styrofoam cup with my trash stick.

  “What was that?” Officer Clements asked, towering over me.

  “Nothing, ma’am,” I replied, and continued my work. Just one more month, I thought, walking and jabbing, walking and jabbing.

  I didn’t realize I had walked and jabbed my way down the road next to a car parked on the side, hoisted up on a jack. It was an old black Volkswagen, its owner a young man bent over changing a flat tire. Trash was littered about his work area, and I wasn’t sure if I should pick it up. But he seemed so wholly concentrated on screwing in the bolts that I was positive he’d take no notice of me.

  I speared a burger wrapper near the back of the tire, and his face shot up.

  My immediate reaction was to turn and run. I was afraid. I remembered a discussion in youth group a while back about angels and how every time they’re mentioned in the Bible, the first thing they say is, “Do not be afraid.” My youth pastor said that this was because angels were scary looking—eyes all over their bodies and under their wings. First of all, how did he know what an angel looked like? And second, why would God make his angels look like a bunch of freaks?

  No. I didn’t think angels looked like that at all. I thought they looked like perfect symmetry, and that’s what scared the hell out of people. A form too beautiful to look upon. Like this young man bent over his tire, staring at my orange jumpsuit and trash stick, wondering what a little girl like me could have done to land in juvenile hall. Because I was little, after all. I stood at 5-foot-2 and weighed 100 pounds.

  “I’ll be out of your way in a minute,” he said, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

  I nodded and watched him finish tightening the bolts, then stand and stretch his back. He wore the male version of skinny jeans and a black T-shirt that read “Midnight in a Perfect World” across the front in stark white letters. He sported red Conver
se All Stars, and a bunch of braided bands of various colors were wrapped around his left wrist. His black wavy hair stuck out in all directions, and I couldn’t tell if it was by nature’s blessing or hair product. I hoped it was natural. I didn’t want to think he spent a lot of time styling his hair.

  He smiled at me, revealing soft dimples on both cheeks. I smiled back. His eyes were light. Good combination, I thought. Dark hair, light eyes. He was sexy. No doubt about that. Tall and lean. He looked like an intellectual. I figured he was some scholarly Emory University boy. Probably a philosophy major, I thought, smirking. I imagined he sat around chatting about existentialism with his hipster friends in some dive coffee shop (never Starbucks) sipping cappuccinos.

  I giggled.

  He stood at the trunk of his car putting away his tools and turned around when he heard me.

  “What’s funny?” he asked. The smile still lingered on his mouth. “Did I split my pants or something?” He strained his head to look behind him at the butt of his jeans.

  I laughed harder. “No. You didn’t split your pants.” I tried not to look at his butt.

  “Phew!” he replied. “You know, I’ve done that in the past. Squatted on the ground to change a tire, and rip! Right down the middle. I happened to be on a date at the time.”

  “No!” I cried, feeling just the slightest bit sorry for this stranger.

  “Well, the date was on shaky ground once the tire popped. The pants-splitting sealed the deal, though. I guess she equated both of those things with ‘loser’ or ‘no money’,” he said.

  “That’s awful,” I replied.

  “Atlanta women are tough,” he went on, leaning against the trunk of his car. He looked me over and grinned.

  “No, I’m not tough,” I replied to his unspoken question. “Don’t let the jumpsuit fool you.”

  He shook his head. “What in God’s name could a little thing like you have done to wind up in juvie?”

  I tensed. His demeanor. The way he talked to me. Like he’d known me for years. And he used “little thing” like a term of endearment. I knew I wasn’t imagining it. He did.

  I opened my mouth to reply then shuddered at the sound of my name.

  “Cadence Miller!” Officer Clements yelled.

  “Shit,” I whispered, and turned around.

  She was coming right at me, her formidable frame swinging side to side, and I had an instant vision of her pulling her nightstick out of its holder and beating me to death on the side of the road.

  “Get back to work! What do you think this is? Social hour?” And then she turned to the man. “Sorry, sir. These girls aren’t supposed to bother anyone,” she said. She addressed me again. “Somebody must not be hungry for lunch.”

  I reared back in indignation. They can’t not feed me, can they?

  “It’s my fault,” the man said. “I spoke to her first. She said she wasn’t allowed to talk to me, but I pressed her. Completely my fault.”

  Officer Clements pursed her lips. I don’t think she believed him, but she nodded anyway.

  “You’re cleaning the courthouse bathrooms this afternoon,” she huffed at me.

  Of course I was cleaning the courthouse bathrooms. I always cleaned them.

  “Midnight in a Perfect World” turned his face. I think he was embarrassed for me. I was mortified and outraged, and picked the wrong time to roll my eyes.

  “Are you rolling your eyes at me?” Officer Clements demanded.

  “No, ma’am!” I said.

  “Then why were you rolling your eyes?” she pressed.

  “I was just thinking about something,” I said.

  “Were you thinking about the bad choices you made that landed you in juvie?” Officer Clements asked.

  I shook my head and thought quickly. “I was thinking about a Bible verse.”

  “Are you trying to be a smartass?” the officer asked.

  “No ma’am,” I replied, bristling. “I really was thinking about a Bible verse.” Total lie.

  “Which one?”

  I took a deep breath and flipped through the index of verses I’d memorized. I admit I was pretty rusty. Normally I could spit them out in seconds flat—always some words of wisdom or encouragement. It was ingrained in me: I was the clichéd product of a girl who grew up in the church, who went to vacation Bible school every summer until sixth grade, who attended youth group in high school and sang solos on Sunday mornings.

  “Well?” Officer Clements prodded.

  I panicked. “‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’” Out of all the Bible verses I’d stored away, that’s what came to mind?

  Officer Clements grinned maliciously. She leaned over, her fat, glistening face inches from my own. She whispered so that the young man couldn’t hear. “Because you’re rotten. That’s why.”

  I looked over at Converse All Stars. He heard, a helpless expression painted on his face.

  “I guess Atlanta women are tough,” I said, and headed for the group of girls congregated around the door to the bus. It was time to leave for lunch. I wasn’t even hungry. If Officer Clements really did mean to deny me food, I wouldn’t care. I was too humiliated and beaten down.

  I realized the end of my juvie sentence didn’t mark a turning point in my life where things would get better. There was no “light at the end of the tunnel” for me. The next phase was school, and while I no longer wanted to be locked away in juvie, I wouldn’t mind picking up garbage on the side of the road for the rest of my life to avoid stepping foot inside Crestview High.

  But as it stood now, there was nowhere to run, no means of escape, so I boarded the bus with all the other girls.

  School Survival Rules:

  1. Do not cry under any circumstances.

  2. Do not physically attack anyone (even if they totally deserve it).

  3. Smile and act like nothing bothers you.

  4. Try to exude Christian virtues like patience, love, and forgiveness.

  5. When all else fails, use sarcasm as your defense mechanism.

  I stood at the bus stop a few feet away from my fifteen-year-old brother, playing with my sweaty fingers and practicing those breathing techniques that are supposed to steady nerves. I couldn’t stand the anticipation. The looks. The laughs. The rude remarks. They were coming, and I couldn’t do a thing about it. Did I think the whole school was out to get me? Please. I’m not that self-absorbed. But I knew who the jerks were. And I knew they were waiting for me.

  “You know, we could totally be going to school in a car if you hadn’t screwed it all up,” Oliver whined. “Buses are lame.”

  I shrugged and rolled my eyes. Transportation was the least of my worries. I was about to walk into Bully Central, and I was trying to get mentally prepared. I wasn’t naturally tough, and I certainly didn’t have thick skin, but I knew that if I had any chance of surviving, I’d have to fake it. I kept repeating my survival rules over and over in my head, committing them to memory.

  “When do you think Mom and Dad will let you drive again?” Oliver asked, kicking a pinecone.

  “I don’t know. I thought they’d have at least let me drive us to school,” I said.

  Just another one of my many punishments for landing in juvie. Dad took away my car and told me I wasn’t getting it back for several months. He also told me that I had to get a part-time job. I was fine with the part-time job and wanted to start one immediately. The more I was at work, the less I was at home.

  The bus pulled up right on schedule, and the doors swung open with a loud creak. It was a familiar sound, one I’d become accustomed to for the past ten months. I drew in my breath and followed my brother up the steps, acknowledging the bus driver with a nod before scanning for empty seats. It was already crowded. We were the last stop on the bus route, and I realized I’d have to share a bench with someone.

  I walked cautiously down the aisle, catching sight of faces that told me in no uncertain terms that I was not allowed to sit beside them.
Okay. Apparently everyone on this bus was part of the jerk group. I made mental notes.

  I stood in the middle of the bus until the driver yelled, “Sit down!”

  I quickly slid into a bench occupied by a young girl who huffed and smashed herself against the window.

  “That’s probably a good idea,” I said to her. “Bad decisions tend to be contagious.”

  “Whatever,” she snapped. “Don’t talk to me.”

  “All right then,” I replied, pulling my bag close to my chest and staring at the tops of my thighs for the rest of the trip.

  ***

  “Nice.”

  I pulled the orange jumpsuit from my locker and held it up, letting the arms and legs unfold with gravity. Whoever gave me the suit used stencils to spray paint a jailhouse ID number in the top left corner on the front. They even got my size right, I realized, holding the suit up to my body and testing the length of the arms and legs. I silently praised them for the effort they put into my welcome-back-to-school outfit. I didn’t want to disappoint, so I dropped my books on the floor with a loud thud and slipped into the get-up.

  It felt oddly familiar and not the least bit frightening. I was a grown-up baby all over again, sporting an unflattering onesie that screamed, “Criminal!” A few students still lingered in the hallway and watched me with uncertain fascination. I bent down to retrieve my books and headed to calculus, my first class of the day.

  The tardy bell rang just as I entered the room, and all eyes shifted from the teacher to the doorway where I stood scanning the space for an available seat. Two left. Both up front. I sighed and made my way to the first seat, front and center, feeling the heat creep up my neck for the first time since suiting up. I shouldn’t have put it on. I knew better.

  A few girls burst into a fit of giggles, and I obliged them with a slight nod of my head. When I finally focused my attention to the front of the room, I wanted to die. Simply die right there. Melt into my orange suit and disappear for eternity.