Not Our Summer by Casie Bazay (best ebook reader for ubuntu .TXT) 📕

sees me. “What’s wrong? You look sick.” She reaches to feel my forehead with the back of her hand, and it stirs up distant memories of her doing the same when I was little. She used to say her hand was just as good as those expensive thermometers. “You better not be coming down with something. Not right now.”

I pull away from her and walk toward the exit door and she hurries to follow behind me. “You don’t have a fever. What’s going on?”

“God, Mom, nothing. I’m just nervous. I’ve never flown before.”

“Oh!” She gives a little laugh. “I’ll give you one of my Xanax. You’ll be fine.” The concern in her voice is gone now.

“Can you give it to me now?” I ask a little more aggressively than I mean to. “Please,” I tack on, holding out my hand.

She digs through her purse as we cross the parking lot and finds the bottle by the time we make it to the car. I heave open the door and sink into the passenger seat, my stomach still bubbling like a cauldron full of something vile.

Mom climbs in on her side and presses the pills into my hand. “Here, you better take two, just in case.” I tilt my head back and pop them into my mouth, grabbing a half-empty bottle of water from the cup holder to chase them down. “I got your bag in the back.”

“Thanks.” I lean my head against the seat, closing my eyes. And hoping the Xanax kicks in soon.

Thankfully, by the time we get to the airport a little less than an hour later, I’m feeling much better about things. Sleepy, but better.

“Just don’t drink any alcohol,” Mom says when we pull up in front of the airport. “It doesn’t mix well with Xanax.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Wasn’t planning on it, but thanks for the tip.” I grab my bag and climb out of the car, stifling a yawn. “See ya.”

“Have fun!” she says, like I’m in the second grade and she’s dropping me off at summer camp.

“I’ll try,” I mumble under my breath before closing the door. Here goes nothing.

The airport is intimidating—lots of people, signs, and hallways—but I manage to get checked in and find my gate with thirty minutes to spare. No surprise that Little Miss Perfect is already here. Wearing orange athletic shorts that show off her toned legs and a gray T-shirt that says PLAY LIKE A GIRL, she looks like she could be on the cover of that sporty women’s magazine she’s flipping through. Her head nods to the beat of whatever music is streaming through her earbuds. Bubblegum pop, if I had to guess. I plop down in the seat beside her, which makes her jump. She pulls out her earbuds and shoots me a nasty look.

“What’s up, cuz?” I say. For some reason, this makes me laugh. I seem to find it way funnier than she does, at least.

She looks me over. “What’s wrong with you? Are you high?”

I laugh again. “I sure hope not.” Maybe I should have just stuck with the one Xanax, though.

She inspects my face for several seconds before shaking her head. If I wasn’t feeling so mellow right now, I might actually be offended. I blow out a long breath and pull out my ticket to look at the flight time again.

“Twenty-five minutes to go,” I say to no one in particular. “Glad I got here early. Not really sure how this works, with boarding and all.”

Becka doesn’t respond and it quickly becomes apparent she has no intention of making small talk with me. She stuffs her earbuds back in and resumes flipping through the magazine. I slump down in my seat, turning my attention to the people hurrying around the airport. It’s an interesting mix: an old lady with obvious dyed-brown hair hobbling along surprisingly fast with her cane. Two forty-something ladies wearing fur coats, high heels, and sunglasses like they’ve mistaken northwestern Arkansas for L.A. Then there’s a balding, middle-aged guy wearing a gray suit and red high-tops.

“Now boarding Group A for passengers heading to Denver,” a female voice says over a loudspeaker. Oh boy, that’s us. I glance at my ticket again. Group B for me.

Becka and I both stand and move toward the gate, neither one of us speaking. The voice over the intercom tells us to have our tickets ready. I yawn and shuffle along as the passengers move forward.

The plane is smaller on the inside than I expected and much less fancy. It also has a weird odor, like old plastic and Ritz crackers with a dash of BO thrown in. I find my seat, which ends up being right next to the window. This morning, I would have considered that terrifying. But with the two Xanax fully working in my system, I don’t mind at all. Becka squeezes in next to me, still wearing that same disgusted expression. High-top suit guy takes the aisle seat in our row.

“Could I trade seats with you, by any chance?” Becka asks him. “I get claustrophobic sitting in the middle.”

She’s such a freaking liar, but hey, I’m not going to complain.

“Sure,” he says.

As the plane backs away from the terminal, he leans his head back and closes his eyes. A nap sounds nice right about now, come to think of it. My stomach roils up a bit during takeoff, but after we’re safely in the sky (or as safe as you can possibly be in the sky), I lean my seat back as far as it will go and zonk out. I don’t wake again until the man is poking me in the arm.

“You need to put your seat up,” he says. “We’re about to land.”

“Oh, okay.” I stifle another yawn. “Wow, we’re here already?”

But then I remember this isn’t our destination. We have a short layover in Denver. Crap. I hope the Xanax keeps working for a few more hours. Mom gave me two more, but I should