Page 8 of Collided

When I got home, Mom spent an hour scolding me. That day I swore to never go to school on an empty stomach. Not only to avoid a lecture from her but also because it’s embarrassing.Luckily the hallway was empty, and no one witnessed anything, otherwise, I’d become a joke over something normal.

“I won't be home tonight. I have to do this extra shift,” she informs me with a grimace.

The money must be running low again which sucks.

So, I say, “You could go to the city. I bet the pay will be more and you won’t have to work so hard.”

Mom sighs heavily as she cleans up. “The commute alone would cost me half the paycheck. It’s two hours away from here.”

I gather the courage to bring up the topic for the hundredth time. “I could work at a diner and help you out.”

Anger flashes across her face as she fixes me with a stern look. “Absolutely not! Focus on your studies and work hard because you’ll be going to med school. You don’t need distractions.” The finality in her tone is like thorns being pressed against my skin.

Since I was little, she’s decided for me that I’d go to Med School because I’m good at science. I admit I enjoy studying those subjects, but becoming a doctor isn’t something I want to do for the rest of my life. I’m uncertain about what path I want to embark on, though I’m certain medicine isn’t it. I want to do good, but not by becoming a doctor.

No one talks about how hard it is to choose a career path this early in life when you’ve experienced nothing. It’s this one thing you have to do for the rest of your life. So, you don’t want to choose something you hateanddo it for the rest of your life. What a nightmare that would be.

“I don’t think I want to do that.” My voice crumbles when she cuts me with her piercing eyes.

“You sound unsure because you don’t know. ButIknow, and I’m telling you. Getting into medicine is the right thing for you. You’re brilliant. Why waste your intelligence on doing something mediocre?” She sends a pointed glare at my novel. Her disdain for my hobby often pops up in arguments, butsince I keep my grades perfect it leaves little room for her to reprimand me. I do not doubt if I messed up one test she’d put a permanent stop to it.

I can’t imagine not reading books. They’re like oxygen to me. I won’t survive without them.

I wish she understood me.

“You’re right.” I plaster on a fake smile while my heart sinks.

My feelings are invalid. They don’t matter.

“I always am, because I’m your mother.”

The school is a twenty-minute walk from my house and no bus goes through my neighborhood. There is a bus stop three blocks away and it crosses the route to school. I take it on days when it’s raining or I’m not feeling well. With little money in my pocket, I think twice. I could be saving that to buy a book.

I’m afraid it’s too late to realize that I’m addicted to books. Is that considered a certified addiction? I hope not. If so, I don’t care. I’m not giving it up.

I better not say it at school or people will think of me as a freak.

The white school building appears, and I hurry toward it.

I’m crossing the parking lot when the loud rumble of the engine fills the air. A black luxurious car pulls up. I can’t help but stare at it as the sunlight reflects off of it.

The door opens and Heath steps out. Grabbing his backpack, he slings the strap over his shoulder, locks his car, and strides toward the building, ignoring all the eyes that are locked on him. His black T-shirt hides his lean body that is packed with muscle, paired with black jeans and black and white trainers. It’sthe same attire from yesterday, but he pulls it off effortlessly. I notice a bruise on his left cheek that needs care.

Heath stops, turns his head, and looks straight at me. His intense gaze disrupts the rhythm of my heart, making it skip a few beats.

My cheeks burn with heat. I quickly avert my gaze to my book—to not look like a creep who was staring at him because he’s handsome.

God. Twice now. I need to find other things—guys—to look at. However, I don’t think I’ll find a guy as impressively good-looking as him.

After a minute, I take a peek and he’s nowhere to be found.

Since yesterday, I haven’t been able to kick him out of my mind. There’s so little known about him around the school. People have all these strange theories about him that sound baffling. Some say he’s in a criminal gang, while others think he lives on the streets and steals money. All of it sounds absurd. Seriously, who comes up with this nonsense?

I force myself to not do anything about my curiosity. It’ll only get me into trouble. Besides, I have to stay focused and get into med school. If I don’t, my mother will rain hell on me.

Pushing the doors, I study the hallway that’s buzzing with groups of friends.

I’m reminded once again that I have to go to classes alone. I pace like a ghost in the school. Nobody talks to me unless they need my help—which I don’t mind, I rather enjoy helping others—but I do feel used because my help is all they need, not me. It’s almost like being a tissue. Used then discarded.

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