Page 14 of Bad Moon Rising

“It’s good. I’m almost done.” I shove my chair away. “In fact, I should go and work on it now.”

Before they can stop me, I race for the stairs.

As I climb up to my room, I hear Dad say to Mom, “Do you remember that freshman party, where we first met? You were yelling at that football player about second-wave feminism in the sciences, the moonlight caught your hair, and I was smitten—”

Omigod, sometimes they’re so adorable they make me want to puke.

In my room, I close my door, move my bow and quiver off my chair, and put on my favorite playlist. Bad idea. The first song is Blue Oyster Cult, “Don’t Fear the Reaper”, and it’s one of Brooks’s favorites. Every word of our stupid verbal sparring match slams into me. I jab my fingers at my phone until the song stops and a new playlist starts. This is one Orion made me—it’s filled with weird German synth-pop that somehow helps me to focus.

I collapse into my desk chair and close my eyes. The screaming Germans are not having the desired effect. I can still see Brooks’s face on my eyelids, his beautiful mouth all twisted up with disdain.

How can he look at me like that?

Doesn’t he feel anything? Doesn’t he—

I sigh and open my eyes. Dwelling on it isn’t going to make it any better. I flip open my computer and stare at the college essay document open on my desktop.

It’s completely blank.

It remains completely blank for the next twenty minutes as I twirl in my chair, trying to figure out how I can write about my dream of being a biologist and getting far, far away from Haddenwood when I really don’t know if that is my dream.

My phone lights up with a message.

Hey, Lily! What’s up?

My heart skips as I think it might be one of the Bellua twins…but it’s not. It’s Chase Howards. He’s in my class, and he’s kind of a nerd. We know each other because we always end up in the nurse’s station together—him because of his allergies and me because I’m always crashing into things or falling over my own feet. We got to talking and discovered we had quite a bit in common—a love of spicy Mexican food and horror films, Terry Pratchett books, and parents that put us under an insane amount of pressure to get into a good college. We have a friendship forged amongst the antiseptic creams and ‘grab a condom’ basket.

Lily: Not much. I’m trying to write my college essays. I have no idea what to write.

Three dots appear. Chase is typing. Then his message appears.

You’ll think of something. You always do. Remember when you pulled the fire alarm so I didn’t have to take Feldman’s test?

I smile at the memory. Chase and I were in the nurse’s office—I had a disagreement with a gym mat and he had an asthma attack brought on by stress over one of Mr. Feldman’s notoriously difficult history tests. Chase was trying to get into MIT, so in between his gazillion extracurriculars and solving global warming, he wrote the date of the test down wrong and didn’t study.

“I’m not ready for this test,” he moaned, throwing his head back against the uncomfortable plastic chair and squeezing his eyes shut.

I offered him a small smile from where I sat beside him holding an ice pack to my head. “You’ll be fine. You take more notes than anyone. You’ll remember enough to pass.”

“I don’t know nearly enough for a test that’s fifty percent of my grade. I’m going to fail History, and my parents will flay me alive.” He groaned and threw his head back a second time. The nurse on duty gave us a curious look, but I waved her away with a tiny smile.

“I promise you that no medieval torture will befall you,” I said, my eyes flickering to the fire alarm switch hidden behind the medicine cabinet.

Did I pull the alarm?

Hell yeah, I did.

The entire school evacuated, and Mr. Feldman had to reschedule the test for the next week. Chase got an A, and he’s been so cool to me ever since.

If you want, we could get together after school one day and I could go crazy with my red pen, help you whip that essay into shape. It’s the least I can do for your fire alarm stunt.

I’d have to actually have an essay written to do that, but sure.

I smile. Chase is a good friend, and he got into MIT, so he can’t be terrible at essay writing.

I’m usually busy with archery after school, but I can make an exception if it means eviscerating your prose.

Hey! I thought you said no medieval torture.

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