Page 56 of Finding Delaware

“After winning the race, Mr. Huckslee informed us that he already had a scholarship and that he wished to transfer this one to someone else. That someone else, namely, being you.”

What the fuck?!

My foot comes down on the break, tires smoking to a halt as my phone flies off the seat.

No, this can’t be happening.

“So, will tomorrow work for you? I’ll be out at the track, say, bout eleven?”

Guilt tears a hole inside of me so vast it’s physically painful. I feel my throat swell, shame burning my stinging eyes.

God, what have I done?

“Taylor? You still there, son?”

“Yeah.” My voice comes out in a ragged whisper, and I clear my throat, wiping away tears. “Yeah, eleven works fine.”

“Super. See you in the morning, kiddo.”

The line goes dead, and I grab my phone off the floor to call Huck. Putting the Bronco back into gear, I floor it toward his house as his phone rings and rings.

And goes to voicemail.

“Fuck.” Hitting the call button again, I struggle to focus on the road as a wave of nausea barrels into me. “Come on, come on. Pick up the phone, goddammit.”

But it only ever rings.

I don’t even turn off the car when I pull into the driveway. I just pull the parking brake before flinging myself out, not even bothering to close the door as I bolt up the porch and into the house.

“HUCK!”

There’s no response. It’s quiet, almost eerily so, and that voice in my head is screaming at me louder as I run up the stairs.

Something isn’t right. Something is off.

“Huckslee?!”

His bedroom is empty, and I notice the light on beneath the bathroom door.

“Hey, Huck, can we talk?” I knock, waiting for his usual biting response to greet me.

But it doesn’t come.

“Open up, man.” My fist pounds on the door. “Please. I’m so sorry.”

Still, no response. Trying the handle, I find it locked.

An awareness prickles my scalp, like a sixth sense telling me that I need to get into the bathroom nownowNOW.

“Huck, I’m coming in.”

My shoulder rams into the door, but it doesn’t budge. It’s not some flimsy wooden slab like the ones in my father’s trailer—this door is solidly thick. So I go again, over and over, until I feel my collarbone snap, burning pain shooting downmy arm. But I don’t stop. Not until the door is almost hanging off its hinges from being battered by my six-foot-two body.

Glancing through the cracks, all I see is blood. Adrenaline makes me dizzy, and when my arm is dead weight at my side, I kick until the door finally splinters off its hinges.

“Huckslee?”

No. No, this cannot be happening.

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