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Eighteen-year-old hockey prodigy Elliot Wexler has three goals for senior year. One: somehow graduate with a 3.5 GPA. Two: hide his bipolar disorder from his peers. And three: make it in...
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AFTER SCHOOL, I sit with my head resting on my desk and mindlessly bounce from Sudoku to YouTube to Instagram on my phone. Katie's Instagram is lit up with pictures of her and Luke drinking in Eric's basement, and the other guys play beer pong in the background. Obviously I didn't get an invite. I'm alone on yet another Friday.
So I might as well embrace it. I'm burning out, though, and I need another hit. If I get high enough, I'll forget about school, Katie, Luke, everyone. But there's one person I don't want to forget: Lucy. Wherever she is, whatever she's doing, I hope she's okay.
I've never met someone like her. All my friends have always had two-story houses and big backyards. Katie has a swimming pool with a hot tub attached, and we used to bounce off her trampoline into the water every year at pool parties. But Lucy wasn't born in the attic of an abandoned building—she must have a family, an old house, a life. I can't stop wondering where she came from, and what led her to being homeless.
With a flick of my thumb, my feed refreshes again. A few new random profiles just followed me. I've been getting more media coverage lately so I actually have a couple thousand followers now, and my name shows up on Google, which I'll never get used to. I've always been anxious in the limelight, but it got a billion times worse after what happened last year. I love hockey, but I cringe at the idea of so many strangers being invested in my life. It's all starting to get so real.
Through the window, I see someone walk up our driveway. Shit, my family was supposed to be gone for hours, they can't be home already. Eye drops in my hand, I peek outside, where a girl stands on the porch. Lucy.
Maybe I'm still stoned, but I smile like an idiot. Just yesterday, she basically said she wants nothing to do with me, yet here she is.
I open the window. "Hey, thief girl!"
Her head snaps up, but when she sees me, her shoulders relax. "Hey."
"Couldn't stay away, could you?"
"No, I'm returning this." She holds up my coat. "I was going to just leave it, but since you're here, come get it."
"I'll be there in a second—don't run away!" I race downstairs and whip open the front door. It's still light outside, and snowflakes rest on her faded leather jacket with studs missing along the shoulders. Her bangs are stuffed in a black beanie and the violin is at her side, that flimsy denim backpack on her shoulders.
"Here," she says, "take this back."
The porch is cold on my feet as I step outside, and the air smells crisp. "It's yours. I gave it to you."
"I don't need your pity coat, Elliot. It will only draw attention to me, and someone will steal it." She averts her eyes. "It's a nice coat... miracle I was able to keep it for this long."
