Page 33 of Beg, Borrow, or Steal

This can’t be right. It has to be a trick of the alcohol in my system. (Although even I don’t think I’m that drunk.)

Oh. My. God.

It seems I’ve mixed up the emails and somehow just sent myvery explicit romance novel that no one in the world knows I’ve written directly to the inbox of my school’s very, very conservative principal, Bart Killick. This simply can’t be true.

But itistrue. It’s there on the screen staring back at me as proof.

I have to fix this! I have to get it back. But how? I can’t even think straight through my tipsy brain. Is there a way to grab something from the Internet after it’s already shot through time and space? How does the Internet work and why don’t I know more about it?

I can barely breathe. What if I get fired for this? How could I have gone from triumphant to my life might be over in a matter of sixty seconds?

The only thought that crosses my mind is:Help.And there’s only one person that I really trust to fix it. For our feuds and faults through the years, there’s one thing I know without a doubt about Jackson—he is the most competent person I’ve ever met. That’s why he’s my greatest rival. If anyone can find a way to get my email back into my computer, it’s him.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

I slap my laptop shut and shoot up from the floor. The hollow wine bottle clanks against the hardwood, scaring Ducky in an unforgivable way. But there’s no time. I shove my feet down into my red cowboy boots and then hightail it outside. While sprinting across the lawn, I trip on a lump of dirt, and drop to my knees for one embarrassing moment. Every second counts, though, so I haul myself back to my feet and jog to Jack’s front door, ignoring my stinging knees.

“Jack! Open up!” I yell while pounding on the door.

Almost immediately I hear Jack’s thundering footsteps approach. The door swings open and there’s Jackson in his athletic shorts, tugging a navy T-shirt into place. “What the he—” His eyesdrop over me and he frowns, taking a hasty step closer to touch my elbow. “Emily.What’s wrong? What happened?” He’s lifting my arm to assess the mud clump I didn’t know was sticking to my elbow.

I pull my arm from his grasp and can only swim through the alcohol’s haze fast enough to blurt, “At my house! I need your help.”

He’s little more than a streak as he dashes from his porch, plowing across the yard. I follow after him, barely able to keep up.

Jack barrels into my house so aggressively I’m surprised the door is still on its hinges.

“Where is he?” Jack growls, looking around like a man possessed.

“What?Who?”

When he doesn’t immediately see anyone, he turns back to me. The room sways a little. “The intruder.”

“There’s no intruder. Why do you think there’s anintruder?” That word was difficult to get out the second time. I hold my wobbly head.

“Because you said…” Now he looks confounded. “Emily. You ran over to my house in whatever you call what you’re wearing—”

“PJs.”

“—frantic, with your knees and elbows caked in mud.”

“Because I tripped on the way over.”

“You saidhelp.I thought for sure someone was in your house.”

“I’m a little bit drunk.” I say this, and it sounds too close to tears for my taste.

Jack’s voice softens. “Which only adds to my panic. So tell me now—are you okay? Are you hurt in any way?”

I’m staring at him. Trying to get my hazy brain to make sense of his expression. The fear in his eyes and his racing breath. “You’re worried about me?”

A heavy breath drops from his mouth. “Yes! Of course. I mean,shit,what kind of monster do you think I am that I wouldn’t see you like this and immediately worry?” He gets closer to me. Tentatively. “Tell me you’re okay. I need to hear you say it.” His eyes run over me one more time but it’s more like the look a triage nurse would give you to see if you need to be admitted to the hospital or if you’re overreacting.

I cover my face with my hands. The shame of running across the yard, drunk and caked in dirt, has had a delayed response. It’s here now and brought all its baggage to stay a while. How could I be so irresponsible? How could I have made so many mistakes in one day? I want to crawl in a hole. I want to hide and never come out.

“Emily?”

“No one hurt me. I’m okay. But I’m just…tipsy.” I point to the empty wine bottle as evidence. “And I need you to hack into the Internet and bring my email back.”

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