A group of friends tries to piece itself back together after losing its glue.
*****
It's a quiet October morning in Palo Alto, California, when the news break out--June Beaumont was...
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GRACE
I was gracefully waiting for my impending doom, the emptying of my stomach all over my mother's brand new pair of Jimmy Choo pumps, and for the police to barge into the gym and handcuff me. It sounded a lot kinkier in my head than it actually was—and it was certainly inappropriate for the current circumstances—yet a voice in the back of my head laughed at that thought.
The floor swayed beneath my feet, and I instinctively reached out for Christina, the one person who had never let me fall, but the hands that grabbed me didn't belong to her. They were too harsh against my arms as they firmly gripped my wrists, instead of being comforting like I wanted—needed—and pulled me forward, not to the side.
"Grace, listen to me," my mother insisted, trying to pull me back to reality. My head spun and my brain kept coming up with new ways everything could go wrong—they had found out who the bicycle belonged to, they thought I had been at the motel the night June died even though I knew I hadn't, they thought I had killed my friend, and that I was trying to pass off as innocent. "Listen to me. You're zoning out."
I would much rather have a glass smoothie than listen to her, but everyone's eyes were on me—including Meridian's. Sofia hadn't left his side the entire day, afternoon, or evening, but even she was oblivious to what was going on with me. Meridian, on the other hand, had noticed the commotion.
Sometimes I wondered if he could read minds. His blue eyes drilled into mine, dark eyebrows furrowed, and I felt sweat run down the nape of my neck as I tried to remember if I had ever mentioned my bicycle around him during the past few days. If I had, I could kiss my freedom goodbye—both literally and figuratively, as he would never forgive me, and I was on my way to jail either way.
So. That's what I had going on for me.
My friend—if we could even call Meridian that—was probably pissed at me despite not knowing the full truth. My mother hadn't given a damn when I first started stressing out over my bicycle and, now that it was finally blowing up, she still kept a cold distance from me. My ankle was aching from all the pressure it was being put through, and scalding tears prickled the corners of my eyes; this could easily mean the end of my figure skating career.
Of course, neither that nor medicine could save me if I went to jail. That would end up on my record and would stay there until I turned eighteen, which wouldn't happen until after college acceptance letters were sent out, and Ivy League would know if I had gotten in trouble with the justice system.
Was there a fighting chance for me? Or should I just surrender willingly and have my entire life be torn into shreds over something I hadn't done?
