Rollins chuckles.
“So would you be willing to play chaperone with me on Saturday? I know you wanted to see Scar , so we can kill two birds with one stone.”
Rollins sighs. “I guess so, but I’m not going to lie—I’m not all that psyched about spending another Saturday night babysitting your sister.”
“We won’t have to babysit her,” I say, slightly irritated. “We can sit in the back and whisper snarky things during the stupid parts, like always. I just need to be in the general vicinity.”
Rollins must sense my annoyance because he reaches over and grabs my shoulder. “Hey, of course I’m in. Friends?”
I take a deep breath. This is what I want, isn’t it?
“Friends.”
Chapter Eleven
I nstead of heading to my afternoon gym class, I duck into the computer lab. I’m not too worried about getting into trouble. The teacher forgets to take attendance half of the time, and even if he does mark me as absent, I can make something up about having a narcoleptic episode.
There are only a few kids in the lab. One appears to be watching music videos on YouTube. He has headphones on and doesn’t notice me drop into the chair next to him.
My curiosity about Aunt Lydia has gotten the best of me. Maybe Rollins is right and she is just a lonely woman seeking out the family she left behind so long ago, but I can’t help wondering if there was some sort of impetus that brought her to us.
The school’s home page pops up, and I highlight the URL and type in Google. In the search field, I type in “Lydia Homer.” Homer was my mother’s maiden name. Since Lydia isn’t married (that I know of), I’m guessing that’s the name she went by in California. Millions of results pop up. I sift through them, not finding anything especially helpful. There’s a woman living in Missouri by that name, but when I click on her Facebook page, the picture doesn’t look anything like Lydia. Another woman in Idaho. I go back up to the top of the page and narrow my results to California. This leads me to the website of a dog trainer living in San Francisco, but again, the picture looks nothing like my aunt.
Twenty minutes go by, and I find nothing about my aunt. It seems odd that someone could live in today’s world without leaving any tracks on Google. I drum my fingers on the desk in frustration. Finally, the bell rings, and I log off the computer, thinking about how much I’d suck as a private investigator.
After school, I’m standing at my locker, contemplating which books I need to take home with me. Samantha Phillips stands nearby, gazing at herself in her locker mirror with a tube of lip gloss in her hand.
A few feet away, a couple of sophomore football players are huddled together. They keep looking over at Samantha and laughing. When she notices them, she slams her locker shut and strides across the hall to face them. “What the hell are you laughing at?”
I expect the sophomores to cower before her, but one of them looks her right in the eye and says, “Did you have a good time with Scotch on Thursday night? Because I heard you did. In fact, I saw evidence that you had a really good time.” The guy’s friend cracks up.
Samantha turns white. She backs away from the guys, who are now slapping each other on the back and roaring with laughter. Then she turns and runs down the hallway before ducking into the girls’ bathroom.
A debate rages within me. If Samantha and I were still best friends, I would immediately chase after her and make sure she was okay. Now we have this chasm between us. But I have to admit there’s a part of me that still cares about her. Plus, I’m curious about the evidence the guy was alluding to. Finally, I decide to go after her, even though she’ll probably brush me off like she did last week.
I take a deep breath and fight my way down the hall, through the crowd of students all anxious to get to their after-school activities or to just go home. I push the bathroom door
“So would you be willing to play chaperone with me on Saturday? I know you wanted to see Scar , so we can kill two birds with one stone.”
Rollins sighs. “I guess so, but I’m not going to lie—I’m not all that psyched about spending another Saturday night babysitting your sister.”
“We won’t have to babysit her,” I say, slightly irritated. “We can sit in the back and whisper snarky things during the stupid parts, like always. I just need to be in the general vicinity.”
Rollins must sense my annoyance because he reaches over and grabs my shoulder. “Hey, of course I’m in. Friends?”
I take a deep breath. This is what I want, isn’t it?
“Friends.”
Chapter Eleven
I nstead of heading to my afternoon gym class, I duck into the computer lab. I’m not too worried about getting into trouble. The teacher forgets to take attendance half of the time, and even if he does mark me as absent, I can make something up about having a narcoleptic episode.
There are only a few kids in the lab. One appears to be watching music videos on YouTube. He has headphones on and doesn’t notice me drop into the chair next to him.
My curiosity about Aunt Lydia has gotten the best of me. Maybe Rollins is right and she is just a lonely woman seeking out the family she left behind so long ago, but I can’t help wondering if there was some sort of impetus that brought her to us.
The school’s home page pops up, and I highlight the URL and type in Google. In the search field, I type in “Lydia Homer.” Homer was my mother’s maiden name. Since Lydia isn’t married (that I know of), I’m guessing that’s the name she went by in California. Millions of results pop up. I sift through them, not finding anything especially helpful. There’s a woman living in Missouri by that name, but when I click on her Facebook page, the picture doesn’t look anything like Lydia. Another woman in Idaho. I go back up to the top of the page and narrow my results to California. This leads me to the website of a dog trainer living in San Francisco, but again, the picture looks nothing like my aunt.
Twenty minutes go by, and I find nothing about my aunt. It seems odd that someone could live in today’s world without leaving any tracks on Google. I drum my fingers on the desk in frustration. Finally, the bell rings, and I log off the computer, thinking about how much I’d suck as a private investigator.
After school, I’m standing at my locker, contemplating which books I need to take home with me. Samantha Phillips stands nearby, gazing at herself in her locker mirror with a tube of lip gloss in her hand.
A few feet away, a couple of sophomore football players are huddled together. They keep looking over at Samantha and laughing. When she notices them, she slams her locker shut and strides across the hall to face them. “What the hell are you laughing at?”
I expect the sophomores to cower before her, but one of them looks her right in the eye and says, “Did you have a good time with Scotch on Thursday night? Because I heard you did. In fact, I saw evidence that you had a really good time.” The guy’s friend cracks up.
Samantha turns white. She backs away from the guys, who are now slapping each other on the back and roaring with laughter. Then she turns and runs down the hallway before ducking into the girls’ bathroom.
A debate rages within me. If Samantha and I were still best friends, I would immediately chase after her and make sure she was okay. Now we have this chasm between us. But I have to admit there’s a part of me that still cares about her. Plus, I’m curious about the evidence the guy was alluding to. Finally, I decide to go after her, even though she’ll probably brush me off like she did last week.
I take a deep breath and fight my way down the hall, through the crowd of students all anxious to get to their after-school activities or to just go home. I push the bathroom door
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