Aveena
“Aveena Harper D’Amour?” Mr. Lowen, my sixty-year-old math teacher, shouts over complete chaos, and I feel a twinge of pity for him—no one ever said taking attendance in the middle of a raging thunderstorm was easy.
“Here!” I yell once.
Twice.
Three times.
No luck.
Mr. Lowen spots me in the crowd a minute later, bows his head in acknowledgement, and inches his list closer to mark me down as present. How did I get here, you ask? Out in the pouring rain? Freezing my ass off on my school’s front lawn with Easton High’s entire student body?
Not. A. Fucking. Clue.
“Vee, thank God!” Someone yanks on my sleeve, spinning me around so fast that I lose my footing. It takes me a solid second to steady myself and recognize my best friend, Diamond, through the torrent. She’s completely soaked, her signature black curls now straight as an arrow.
“I’ve been looking all over for you!” Dia blurts as she traps me into a hug so tight the oxygen is squeezed out of me. The only class Dia and I don’t have together is math, so, of course,that’s when the whole school had to be evacuated.
“What on earth is going on? Teachers won’t tell us anything.” I break away from her. “Is there really a fire?”
“Has to be.” She shrugs. “Why else would the fire alarm go off?”
I give her a slight nod, scanning the small building that’s Easton High School for a sign of a fire. I’ve got zilch to go on here—no smoke, no fire smell, absolutely nothing to pin to blame on.
Thunder booms in the distance, and I yelp, gripping my best friend’s arm like a wuss. The sky is a dark, cloudy nightmare, Mother Nature’s way of letting us know she’s just getting started.
“You think it’s a drill?” I ask Dia.
A mocking scoff keeps her from answering. We flip our heads to see a messy-haired, drenched Theodore Cox. He goes by Theo, and, piece of advice, don’t ever call him by his full name.
He bites.
Theo, like many of his basketball teammates, is your typical quick-witted, popular asshole. You know, the “more handsome than he deserves” type. He’s tall, arrogant, unfamiliar with the concept of being wrong, and to my great misery…
Someone I have to hang out with on a daily basis.
“Something you want to share with the class, Cox?” Dia sighs.
“’No fucking way that’s a drill,” Theo scoffs. “We already had one this year. Plus, they wouldn’t do it during this end-of-the-world shit.” Theo gestures to take a look around.
So, I do.
The school’s front lawn is damn near bursting with students.
We’re all freezing.
Soaked from head to toe.
The idiot has a point.
They wouldn’t just throw a fire drill smack-dab in the middle of the apocalypse. And, as crazy as it might sound, Theodore Cox isn’t completely deprived of brain functions.
You see, I went years assuming jocks had the intelligence of a doormat, and was perfectly content adhering to the stereotype. Then my best friend had to go and fall for one of the cool kids…
Finley Richards. Star basketball player, notorious flirt, and, as of late, Dia’s favorite bad decision. Bottom line: we hang out with Finn’s crowd this year. What? Dia’s my only friend, so it’s either that or I eat alone until graduation.
It all started last summer when Dia got herself a job as the Richardses’ house sitter. Finn’s filthy-rich father spends every summer up in Santa Monica and didn’t trust his son to take care of the house one bit—did I say house? I meant mansion.