Wash Me Away by Wendy Owens Page A

slender frame.
    My mouth falls open, but only a croak creeps out from the depths of my throat.
    A grin splits his face, a deep laughter rising from his stomach. “Jeez, I’m kidding. Breathe, Buckley.”
    “I knew you were,” I snap, shoving him hard in the shoulder.
    “Sure you did.” He’s still laughing. “So no more dates planned with the illustrious dill-hole, Matt?”
    “Negative, Ghost Rider.”
    Leo clutches his chest, stumbles back, then catches himself, gasps for a breath, and moans, “Do my ears deceive me?”
    “Looks like you’re the one with the crush,” I taunt, happy to flaunt my recently acquired Top Gun knowledge.
    With a lopsided grin, he looks at me. “You might just be right about that.” His tone is so serious it’s no longer clear if he’s joking.
    He has a girlfriend. A girlfriend, with whom things are ‘fine’ now. “I forgot, I told Julia I would meet her after class.” I don’t wait for him to respond. He says something, and I nod as if I hear him, but I don’t. I’m back out in the courtyard. What the hell was that?

A LOCK OF JULIA’S HAIR falls over her eyes, and I watch as she reaches up and tucks it securely behind her ear. A hand drifts down to her cheek, and still nothing in her expression tells me the thoughts moving through her mind. She continues reading the paper I handed her moments ago. The class I loathe, but is a requirement for all Burton Academy students, is Public Speaking. This sheet of paper contains the words of what will be my very first attempt at speaking in this class. The idea of it makes me want to vomit. The instructor told us to try and interject humor into our talks. What if nobody laughs at my humor? Maybe I’m just not that funny. Based on Julia’s lack of facial expressions, I’m in fact nothing at all.
    The sheet falls, and her eyes shift up to me. She doesn’t speak, only stares at me with those almond-shaped eyes.
    “Well?” I feel like I might actually explode.
    “Was that really how it was for you?” she asks at last.
    I suck in a short and sharp breath. “What do you mean?” I hadn’t meant to expose anything profound in my talk. We were given the subject matter of what’s your favorite holiday and why.
    “He must have been a royal bastard.” Damn it, there’s that pity in her eyes.
    I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know. So there wasn’t anything funny?”
    “Yeah, I mean . . . it was good. It’s really good actually. I just didn’t know your dad was like that.”
    “I hardly said anything about him in it.” I don’t get how she figured that out from the words on the paper.
    Her head tilts. “Your favorite holiday is Thanksgiving because it is peak of hunting season.”
    “So . . .” I shrug.
    She rolls her eyes. “Whatever. If you don’t want to admit you hated him, what do I care? I’m just saying he must have been a real asshole, and that sucks.”
    “I just like being alone, so that’s why I liked the start of hunting season.”
    She looks back at the paper, reads aloud, “When others are gathered around the overstuffed turkey, mounds of mashed potatoes, and a steaming bowl of gravy, I’m giving thanks for the quiet. The peace that the start of hunting season brings me. A reprieve from the day to day.”
    I swipe the sheet from her hands, tossing my body back on the rug, “Ugh, you’re right, it sucks!”
    “I didn’t say that.” She laughs.
    “Whatever, I’m going to redo it. Christmas is my favorite because I get lots and lots of presents I will never use,” I say sarcastically, as I wad it up into a tight paper ball and toss it toward the wastebasket, missing completely.
    “There ya go. Now that will have you blending in more with the Burtonites,” she teases.
    I can see it in her eyes. She wants to question me more. Understand my past, understand him and what he did to me. That’s the last thing I ever want to discuss with her, or anyone for that matter. Change the subject. Say