Wilcrest Girls Academy is an all-girls private school - or it was, until Jack Moody entered the halls.
8:35 the first bell rings.
8:47 Molly Clark stumbles in late to class
9:00 Jack Moody enters the room
9:01 Molly falls head over heels
Molly's ne...
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♫ Forever Drunk - Peach PRC
The last day of my suspension, and the isolation is starting to gnaw at me. Seated behind the white wooden desk in my bedroom, I tap on my phone screen.
It lights up with a picture of me and my old friends smiling widely, arms thrown around each other.
I miss them.
Sometimes it takes losing something to realize what you had. And I had the best friends a girl could ask for. But I ruined it—being a self-centered jackass.
With a groan, I drop my head into my hands. The warm sunlight flooding in from the window beats onto the back of my neck.
Right now, I could really use them to brainstorm. Since my tussle with Tina Parker, I've been riddled with guilt. Jack's about to be expelled at the PTA meeting tomorrow night over a rumor he didn't even start.
There has to be something I can do to stop it.
Popping my head back up, I swipe up on my home screen before clicking onto the Find My Friends app—only checking on my friends' location for the twentieth time in two days.
But they should be home from school by now; I just want to make sure they've made it home safe...
To my surprise, I see the two of them—Jade and Naila, together in the same place. The jealousy burns at my cheeks. They're hanging out at Jade's house down the street, and they can't even be bothered to answer a text from me.
With a heavy sigh, I clatter the phone to the desk top.
I can't live like this anymore—I need my friends back.
I messed up, I understand that. But there has to be something I can do to win them over.
After a moment, a little idea pops into my head. Jumping to my feet, I run over to the small white nightstand beside my bed. Pulling open the bottom drawer, I sort through old memories until I locate my target: an old CD labeled, One Direction Take Me Home.
With sparkling eyes, I shove it inside the large pocket of my oversized hoodie before skipping out of the room.
"Dad!" I shout bopping down the stairs.
A mess of brown and gray speckled hair peeks around the corner, dark glasses perched upon his nose. "Yes, Freckles?"
"Can I borrow your old busted boombox from the garage?" I ask him.
Stepping inside the entry way with me, my dad reveals a green plastic watering can in his hand. I've clearly interrupted his daily routine, watering and pruning the dozens of houseplants that litter our home.
Scratching his head, he replies, "Uh—sure thing, kid." He turns on his bare feet, but then pauses. "But bring it back in one piece. That thing's an antique!"
