Killshot (Icarus Series Book 1) Page 2

  The stress of it all was beginning to take a toll on me; mentally and physically. I rarely looked rested, because I barely slept, and I had essentially given up on my outward appearances. Between my punkish outfit and my trusty mid-calf combat boots; I looked every bit the part of your typical teenage misanthrope.

  I used to worry and fuss over my looks and what I wore. With my simple fashion sense, I never felt quite as pretty as my friends. I had real problems now, and all my petty teenage worries seemed so unimportant.

  It was early April, so it was still a bit chilly for bare arms. I threw on my dad's old black hoodie. The ratty old thing was about two sizes too big, and was worn threadbare in some spots, but I didn't care. It was all I had left of him. After the accident, I slept in that sweatshirt every night for a month. Even now, I could still smell that a faint combination of Old Spice and the outdoors that always reminded me of my dad.

  He used to take us on “rough-its,” nearly every weekend from spring through fall. That's what my dad called it when we disconnected and went off-the-grid camping. Every trip was different, but each time we would explore, build a fire, practice first aid, learn about our surroundings, and sleep out under the stars.

  He always said it was good for us; that it would help us appreciate what we really had. Despite his lessons, I had always assumed our rough-its were just a way for him to forget he spent five days a week in a six-by-six box. Mom would come along when she didn’t have to work at the hospital. Despite our seemingly endless complaints, Beans and I always managed to have fun.

  I rubbed desperately at my tired eyes. I may as well have ground sand into them. After a few quick eye drops, I smoothed back my hair and resigned myself to another day of high school drudgery. I shouldered my backpack and headed for the door.

  “Ugh,” I grumbled as I formed my first coherent thought. “I have to work today.”

  I scooped up my dirty half-apron from the floor where it had lain since my last shift and shoved it into my bag as I charged out of my room. I had nine hours of school drudgery and a five-hour shift at the diner waiting for me. I was dreading yet another long day of pretending to be “fine.”

  I did not relish the time I spent rushing around for my meager tips. The people in this town were pretty tight with their money, so tips were rarely something to get excited about. It was not easy being outwardly friendly to people who spent so much of their time shamelessly judging others.

  My hometown was pretty typical as far as small towns go. There were as many bars as there were churches and their primary attendance consisted of the same patrons. As with any small community, everyone knew everyone else’s business. Pretty much every customer I waited on, was aware of what had happened to my parents. They also knew that the state had seen fit to take my little brother away from me. As a result they either looked down on me, or worse, they pitied me.

  “Forty-two more days,” I said to myself, then rounded the corner to head downstairs.

  “Finally!” Riley said as she burst through the kitchen’s swinging shutter doors. “Jesus, Liv. I thought for sure I was going to have to mount a search party.”

  Mrs. Tate was muttering under her breath in the kitchen, no doubt incensed by Riley's most recent twisting dismount from her eighty-year-old, hand carved railing. Not to mention her use of the Lord’s name in vain. Riley rolled her eyes beneath her black framed glasses and cocked her head dismissively in our foster mother's direction

  “Your usual breakfast, Madame,” she said with a dramatic bow, and quite possibly the worst British accent I had ever heard. “I live to serve, your royal highness, her Majesty, the queen of Slumberland.”

  “Shut up,” I laughed, taking the bottle of water and a granny smith apple she held out to me.

  She grabbed her giant travel mug (it was more of a bucket, really) from the entryway table, and slid her backpack over her opposite shoulder. It was no wonder that girl weighed ninety pounds with boots on. She lived on caffeine and sarcasm. Mrs. Tate continued her muttering as she banged around in the kitchen making Mr. Tate’s breakfast.

  “Shall we?” Riley hooked her arm through mine and we headed out to the front porch to wait for Micah.

  Soon enough, he would pull up in his miserable old mini-van. Despite the rusted edges, the peeling faux wood panel that ran the length of its ruddy blue body, and the driver side mirror that was currently held on by duct tape, Micah treated that van as though it were a brand new, cherry red mustang. Antagonizing Micah had proven a reliable source of entertainment on our daily ride to school. The poor guy was compulsive, neurotic, and quick to the trigger, and that made him an easy target.

  “And...3, 2, 1.” Riley gestured towards the driveway. We both laughed as Micah pulled into the drive and parked behind Mr. Tate’s baby-blue Honda Civic.

  Riley and Micah had been dating for almost a year. According to her, he was in the driveway, every school day, at exactly 7:40 am, rain or shine. Micah Houzenga was reliable to the point of being compulsive, which amused her to no end.

  It never ceased to amaze me how kids my age paired off. Riley was a petite little thing, with chocolate brown skin and a short saucy bob. Today she wore fake glasses, because they made her look “studious,” but she changed her look on an almost weekly basis. She was boisterous, confident, and unpredictable; the very definition of a free spirit.

  Micah, on the other hand, was tall, skinny, and what most would call anti-social. His pale skin and sandy blond hair hung loose around his sharply angled face, and bore striking contrast to Riley's every feature. Stares followed them wherever they went.

  Despite the fact that I was baffled by their attraction, Riley and Micah just made sense when they were together. He kept her grounded, and she kept him from disappearing inside himself. They were one of those couples. If I was being honest with myself, I sometimes felt a tiny pang of jealousy at their closeness.

  I had never met a guy I couldn’t imagine being without. I wondered what it would be like to have a bond like that with another person, but at this point, love was not even on my radar. Despite Riley's single-minded determination to integrate me back into the social hierarchy of high school, I no longer took part in sports, clubs, or dating— especially dating.

  Still, Riley was on a mission and devoted much of her free time to trying to fix my love life (or lack thereof). I simply reminded myself that high school romance was not on my to-do list and stuck with my plan.

  “Hey sweetie.” Riley sat down in the front seat, giggling softly as she bounced against the old springs. She plopped her bag into her lap and leaned in for a quick kiss.

  “Hey babe,” Micah said, meeting her half way. I settled into my usual seat behind Riley and slid the van door shut behind me. “Jesus, Liv. Easy on the merchandise!”

  “Good morning to you, too,” I said, struggling to hold in my laughter as he glared at me through the rear-view.

  “Maybe Stella likes it rough,” Riley snorted.

  “You know what? The last time I checked, neither of you has a car, so unless you want to hoof it the fifteen blocks to school every day, I suggest you treat Stella with a little freaking respect,” Micah huffed.

  Riley muttered a forced apology but grinned back at me while she reapplied her shiny pink lip gloss. The contrast was sharp against her smooth mocha skin, but she pulled it off easily, and made it look natural. She pushed up her glasses, checked her reflection one last time, and slapped her vanity mirror shut. Micah shot her an annoyed look, but Riley just smiled back at him. When she reached over to put her hand on his thigh his grumpy mood dissolved quickly, and soon we were on the road.

  Fulton High School had a grand total of five hundred and three students. It was small enough that everyone knew everyone else's business, but if you played it smart, you could fly below the radar. For the next forty-two days, that is exactly what I planned to do.

  Chapter 3

  Three’s Company

  According to my weather app, it w
as a balmy sixty-one degrees. That was oddly warm for early April, but I was grateful for the reprieve from what had felt like the longest winter of my life. I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the window, soaking up the warmth on my face for a moment, before opening them again. I marveled at the way the morning sun glinted off the last few random patches of snow that were resisting the changing season. Slender shafts of ice clung, desperately, to the tiny spikes of pale yellow-green that emerged in early spring.

  Kids my age walked together in small groups, laughing and flirting as they headed off to fake their way through the nine hours of “education.” They all seemed so happy; so carefree. Once upon a time, I had been just like them, but that seemed like a distant memory, now.

  “Um, Liv?” Riley was waving her hand in front of my face. “Hellooooo...Earth to Liv!”

  “Huh,” I said, pulling out of my daydream. “Sorry, what?”

  “I asked if you were still coming tonight.” She eyed me expectantly, her face peeking back at me through the gap between the front seats.

  “Coming tonight?” I repeated, completely lost.

  “Seriously, Liv,” Riley said in a huff.

  “Wow,” Micah laughed. “She has only been going on and on about this every day for, like, the last month?”

  “You shut up, mister,” Riley said, smacking him playfully on the shoulder. “Tonight is the rooftop party for Icarus, remember?”

  “Icarus, as in the idiot that flew into the sun, Icarus?” I asked.

  “Kind of. Okay, Icarus is the name of the solar flare that is supposed to happen tonight,” Riley smiled. “It’s the first notable solar event since the Carrington Super Flare of 1859. It is supposed to be an epic light display, like even better the Aurora Borealis. Anyways, it’s pretty much the coolest thing that will ever happen in this shit-hole town, and I have been planning this for months. And, since you are my bestest best friend in the whole wide world, you basically have to go.”

  “I'd love to, Ry,” I lied, “but I have to work until eleven.”

  “That is actually kind of perfect,” Riley said, clapping her hands excitedly. “It isn't supposed to start until just after midnight anyway, so you can just meet us at the south gym doors when you get off.”

  I should have known I would not get off that easy. Riley pretty much always got what she wanted. As time went by, I found it increasingly difficult to disappoint her. When she shot me her famous thousand-watt smile, I knew my fate was sealed.

  “Fine,” I conceded. “I guess I could stop by for a few minutes.”

  Riley bounced in her seat, as Micah pulled into our usual parking spot by the old gym. I didn't have the energy to fight with my best friend today, or any day for that matter. If all else failed she would simply talk me into submission. I slid the van door open and climbed out. I walked behind them in silence as my pride settled into the pit of my stomach.

  Another re-run of Three's Company, starring yours truly. Awesome.

  I shouldered my backpack and walked in silence as we entered the building. My locker was just inside the door so, thankfully, our walk together was short.

  “See you at lunch?” I asked, stopping in front of my locker.

  “Duh. But let’s eat out in the courtyard, today. It’s freaking gorge out here,” Riley said. “Micah and I are going to hang some fliers for the rooftop party right after lunch bell, but we’ll meet you as soon as we are done, ‘kay?”

  “Okay,” I said, dialing in the first number of my combination.

  “Feel free to take a nap while you wait,” Micah said. “You look like hell.”

  “Oh, and Liv,” Riley said, slowly backing away.

  “Yeah,” I said, sensing she was about to drop a bomb.

  “Make sure you get cleaned up after work. Micah's cousin Zander is coming tonight,” Riley took another step back. “Actually, I told him to go ahead and pick you up at the restaurant when you get off. You know, so you wouldn’t have to walk.”

  “Riley,” I snapped, feeling my face heat.

  “It’s all good, Liv. It’ll be fine, I promise. Anyways, you guys can just meet us there, 'kay? Awesome,” she smiled and disappeared into a passing throng of kids.

  She was gone before I could even formulate a reasonable argument. I was left standing there in shock, with my mouth gaping open. My best friend, the only person in my life I trusted, had just conned me into a blind date...with Micah's cousin.

  This was going to be a disaster.

  “Great,” I said. I closed my eyes in frustration and I slammed my forehead down against locker, a little harder than I had intended. “Oww, damn it!”

  I felt eyes on me and looked up to see Tara Clemmens and her army of brain-dead cronies staring over at me. She was whispering and laughing along with the group of minions that were currently trapped in the gravitational pull of her enormous ego.

  The only thing Tara and I had in common these days, was our mutual disgust for one another. We used to run track together, but had been team-mates in name only. Until recently, Tara always came in second to me—in every sense of the word. She challenged me nearly every week for last leg in the four-hundred relay, and never once did she beat me. When I quit the team, she lost her chance to prove she was better than me. I suppose part of me knew that made her crazy. Even still, we had always had a sort of uneasy truce. Until a couple months ago, that is.

  Despite our many fevered protests, Mr. Krumbine, our honors English teacher, had partnered together on a presentation. We were supposed to create a visual aid demonstrating the relationship between society and religion. Sounds simple enough, right?

  It probably would have been, had we not spent the entire two weeks of class time arguing about the merits of organized religion; i.e. her forceful approach to cram the word of the Lord down my throat and my lack of interest in a God that would take both of my parents from me. By the time we turned in our final project, we had definitively established that neither our personalities nor our belief systems were compatible. The end result of our horrendous collaboration was a horribly constructed collage, a collective C-, and the last nail in the coffin for Tara officially hating my guts.

  I pressed my head against the cold metal, refusing to make eye contact with the group of girls currently sharing a laugh at my expense. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to wait this one out or I was going to be late for class again. I swallowed my pride, stared at the floor, and dragged myself off to class.

  “Forty-two days,” I muttered to myself. “Forty-two days.”

  Chapter 4

  The Writing on the Wall

  My home town was like most small towns in America. Football was a religion, religion was a status symbol, and the arts were not widely appreciated. So, every year when it came time to choose elective classes, most kids took classes like wood-shop, home economics, or media writing. The teachers that signed on for these classes were more than happy to cater to the minimal effort crowd and matched it skillfully with their own motivation level. It was a long-standing, silent agreement—the students got their easy A, and the teachers got a much needed free period.

  One class on the elective roster was the exception, however. After thirty years at FHS, the art teacher had never offered such accord to her students. Mrs. Proud expected anyone within the walls of her classroom to try, and would not hesitate to fail those who refused.

  Technically, I had already taken all of the art classes in the catalog, but I begged Mrs. Proud to find a way for me to stay in her class till graduation. She and I had worked together last year to find a way to make that happen. As a condition of her new course proposal (she called it “Independent Art Study”), she and I had invented a laundry list of potential projects. With a price tag of zero dollars, the school board approved the new class without much thought.

  Every other day I would report to her classroom during the time she normally taught Art101. While the first-year art students learned to draw their own hand with charcoal or
copied “Starry Night” in oil pastels, I pretty much had the run of the place. She trusted me to stay focused and on task, and I had to admit, I liked the freedom.

  At the beginning of the year, I printed off a generic college preparedness list, then bounced from project to project, checking them off as I went. The closer I got to the end of my checklist, the more Mrs. Proud urged me to toss it out altogether, in favor of creating something “real.”

  I shrugged her off at first, but she was a stubborn woman. I knew she would not just let it go. A few weeks later, she cornered me by the paint cabinet refusing to be dismissed. She practically begged me to do a mural on the wall in her art room— said it would give me direction and purpose, something I had lacked even then.

  “As an artist…no, as a human being, there is no greater power than to leave your mark on this Earth.” She had said, “A lasting impression is bested only by immortality, Miss Larson.”

  Still, I refused, insisting I was more than content with completing my to-do list. I could tell she was frustrated with my resistance, but as always her patience won out. Instead of badgering me she bided her time, waiting for the perfect moment to encourage my drive.

  “You remind me so much of your father, Miss Larson,” Mrs. Proud said, looking up from the sculpture she was painting.

  “No way, you taught my dad?” I laughed.

  “Oh yes and he was quite talented, too. But, like someone else I know, he was also very stubborn. That boy was so focused on what lay directly in front of him, that he often missed out on the beauty around him. I swear to you, had a scheduling mix-up not landed your mother in my class, I am not sure you would even be here, young lady.” She playfully jabbed her finger at me. When she laughed, a silver-white hair fell from the loose pile atop her head.