Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(4)
“Unbelievable,” I whisper to myself as I stand with only half of my things, relenting the fact that I’m now going to have to make two trips. My red sweater is barely clinging to my grip, one sleeve dragging along the ground as I cross the driveway to my backdoor. My new neighbor keeps his back to me the entire time, his focus on the slow dribble of his ball. I give him a good long stare as I push my ass into the door a few times, my free fingers fumbling for the handle, desperate to get it open.
“Thanks for helping,” I whisper again, following it up with the word * in my head.
Suddenly, his dark eyes are on mine, and I would swear he heard me with the smug smirk that creeps into one cheek. The ball never stops moving. His hand never stops moving. He’s operating completely independent of the hypnosis he’s attempting to put me under—the soft squint to his eyes somehow making them more ominous. I’m not quite sure he isn’t evil. And I’m also not quite sure that this hypnosis isn’t working.
A gift, the door behind me unhinges and I stumble backward inside, somehow catching my balance so I don’t make a complete ass out of myself in front of mister darkness.
I race upstairs quickly, tossing my pile of things on my bed without care, hurrying to the window to orient myself with exactly what my view is in relationship to the driveway. With one push of the curtain, I know.
His eyes are right back to me, almost as if he were expecting me to look—expecting me to find him. The damned smirk on his face is still there, and my heart is thumping away at my stomach, not so much from flutters…as panic. The ball is still in motion, and I can’t help but beg myself to remember the sight of him, so I can think about it later and decide if he’s really as scary as my instincts tell me he is.
His white T-shirt V-necks, and the sleeves hug his biceps. He’s wearing long black basketball shorts, and his hair is short, but long enough on top for the strands to twist in various directions. From a distance, he’s a really good-looking guy. But I have a feeling—and a fear—that it’s his eyes that hold the power. From fifteen feet up and fifty feet away, they literally smolder. If I weren’t such a social pariah, I would march back down the stairs and introduce myself. I’d ask him why he’s dribbling a ball in my driveway, using the hoop bolted to the eave of our garage. But my feet are stuck to the carpet of my new bedroom, and my hands are burning from the roughness of the curtains my hand is now squeezing.
When I think I can’t handle much more, his lip twitches, and then he blows me a kiss and turns around to shoot the ball into the hoop.
What. The. Hell. Was. That?
I let go of my grip on the curtain and fall to my knees, wishing there was some way I could erase the last five minutes of my life. Instead, I slide so my back is against the window’s wall, so I can’t see him, only hear the rhythmic thump of the basketball for the next twenty minutes.
When I feel safe enough to look again, I crawl to my knees and peel the curtain fabric back an inch. The hoop is quiet. The driveway is quiet. Now is my chance.
Racing to the driveway, I scoop up the remaining things that I left there before and close the hatch to the car. I don’t glance at his house, and I don’t dwell long enough to know anything for certain. But I am positive that the front door was open—the inside of the house barely hidden behind a thin porch screen.
And I’m pretty sure my mystery neighbor from hell was standing there…watching.
Chapter 2
Yesterday was registration. I missed it. Too busy with the move for my mom to find the time to drive the two point five miles to Woodstock South. I don’t have a car. I barely have a license, so borrowing a car without one of my parents in the passenger seat is out of the picture too. And two point five miles—while not far with wheels—is a hell of a long way by foot.
So I begin Woodstock South High School today—completely and utterly lost.
Dad dropped me off on his way to Milwaukee. It was early enough that I was able to get the printout of my schedule from the front office and find my way to the music room. My first two periods are music—the first one with the band as a whole, and the second one is independent study. This is the only part my father made sure of. The rest, me getting into honors English and math, was all my doing, all the result of my persistent emailing to my guidance counselor to ensure I was not trapped in a public school classroom with burnouts.
This is the first year I’ve gone to school without a uniform. I know most girls my age would love the rebellion of this, the freedom to choose, to find a look all their own.
I miss my uniform.
Uniforms are easy. No decisions to make. Instead, I spent the first half hour of my morning switching from jeans to leggings and back to jeans again. It’s fall in Illinois, the leaves are changing, and the winds come and go.
I’m glad I settled on the jeans now as I stand outside the band room door, my knuckles pink and tender from rapping on it repeatedly, hoping someone will let me inside.
“You in, Harper?” I hear a male’s voice behind me, rounding the corner. I’m unable to stop myself from turning to see who it is. Soon I’m looking right into the eyes of my mysterious neighbor, the one I named Demon Spawn last night as I worked myself up over how cocky and rude he was in the driveway. His lip ticks up, and his eyes squint when he notices me, but he looks away fast.