Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
I’m at the far end of the yard, near the edge of our wooded lot. Behind our house is the football field of Parker Lane Prep—as close a rival school as we can get for simple proximity and the fact that they’re in our conference even though they’re private and we are public.
Which creates even more tension.
When I was a kid, I loved playing on their gym equipment when students weren’t using it—it felt taboo. And illegal. As if I were committing a crime by swinging on their swings or using their slides.
I wasn’t, obviously, though technically was I trespassing?
I still get a rush seeing the white lights of the football field shining bright, glowing through the tree in my backyard on Friday nights. Hearing their fans cheer.
We are rivals—but that never stops me from sitting in their stands on the nights our Lancer Knights aren’t playing the Rhinos (that’s Parker Lane’s mascot), cheering them on, eating nachos from the concession stand with extra cheese finagled from my neighbor Gwen, who manages their pep squad.
One of the perks of living behind a high school.
At once, a wave of nostalgia hits me. Instead of continuing my task like I’m supposed to, I abandon the rake to lie in our hammock, shining my flashlight on the new paperback I stuffed down the back of my leggings. Some might say I’m shirking my duties, others that I’m taking a union break…
I settle in, hammock swinging on its frame in the subtle breeze, rake leaning against a tall oak tree; I keep it handy on the off chance Mom—or Dad—decides to check my progress.
I lift my head and glance toward the house.
Naw.
Mom is busy clearing the kitchen table. I can see her moving around the counter, probably wiping it down with a rag, probably listening to a podcast as she does it, blissfully unaware of my lack of choring.
I rock the hammock, enjoying its sway.
Behind me, a branch snaps.
Leaves crunch.
A squirrel? Chipmunk?
Could be a raccoon. The sun is starting to set and daylight is disappearing over the rise, making it increasingly hard to see, minute by minute. Animals are normal around here—sometimes we have deer in the backyard as they find their way back to the woods.
Snap.
I lay the book on my chest, alert, raising my head again to scan the yard, eyes straining in the near darkness.
Then…
I see it.
A scream lodges in my throat as a creature darts across my yard, skirting the fence line before leaping over it like a hurdler on the track team. One second I’m clutching my heart with fear, the next there is a thud, followed by cursing.
There, lying along the fence in my mother’s flower bed, someone wearing a disguise—a costume?—has gotten their foot caught, and now they’re flat on their back in the dirt. Marigolds. Pansies.
Holy. Ship.
DO SOMETHING, HARPER.
It all happened so fast!
“Oh my god oh my god oh my god,” I frantically mumble, wondering why the heck I’m not hollering for help. Call for help, Harp. This person could be a criminal!
A thief!
A cold-blooded killer!
I almost topple over as I rise from the hammock, letting my book fall to the ground, my heart racing a thousand million beats per second, ohmygodohmygodohmygod…
WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME?
What am I still doing standing here? What the hell am I doing walking over to…it?
Run.
No, wrong direction. You’re going in the wrong direction!
Go to the house.
Go. To. The. House.
I do not, in fact, go to the house.
“Hey. You!” I shout boldly, not backing down or crumbling with the fear I feel in my gut.
Hey, you? Real scary and threatening.
Instincts kick in. I bend at the waist and grab the largest rock I can lift with one hand, prepared to lob it into the face of danger. This is my lawn! I must defend it!
I pull my hand back.
Get ready to throw…
A litany of expletives comes from inside the head this person is wearing: loud, muffled cursing. Deep voice. Definitely a dude. At least, I think it’s a guy? I do a quick scan of the outfit: Athletic pants. Running shoes.
One sneaker has landed on one of my mother’s cement garden gnomes. She got the set from a sorority sister as a wedding present and considers it sentimental.
The person moves, shifting his weight under that massive head.
I approach and lean down to get a better look.
It’s a Rhino.
As in: the Parker Lane Rhino mascot, one that I’m quite certain is usually locked up safe and sound in an equipment room, to be worn only during official school events. This…whatever this guy is doing? Is not a Parker Lane Prep–sanctioned event.
I click my tongue.
“Take that stupid thing off your head so I can see your face,” I demand, braver now. I’ve assessed the situation and determined there to be no threat. I don’t think.