All We Have Left Read Free

best opportunity I’ve ever had.”
    He shakes his head. “You are only sixteen. There will be other opportunities, other chances. This is not the end of the world.”
    “But it is,” I say, and turn around and walk out before I can say anything else, because all the words in me are hurtful and angry.
    I don’t say good-bye to him, and he doesn’t mention the scarf on my head.

Chapter Two
Jesse
    Up until that bitter-cold February morning when he comes in late to class, Nick Roberts was just the skinny kid with dark hair who always sat in the back, the kid people made fun of for being too quiet, too weird, too unwilling to fit in.
    It’s the first day of Entrepreneurship, a semester-long block, so you always wonder who you’re going to be stuck with for the rest of the year. I’m a little surprised to see him, because I never thought of Nick Roberts as the type of guy who says, “Hell yeah , I want to start a million-dollar company someday.”
    Not that I’d ever thought about him much at all, but when he comes in ten minutes late and heads for the back of the room, which is my favorite territory, I see his face. I givehim a sideways glance, and then again, because he looks the way I feel lately, bottled up and trying not to explode like a can of shaken soda.
    He sits in the empty seat next to mine and drops his backpack onto the floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I take in the silver hoop winking in his eyebrow, and his eyes the color of a cold winter sky. He’s dressed all in black, including clunky black boots, and he’s got plugs through both of his ears.
    Something else: Nick Roberts is hot. I don’t know why I’d never noticed this before.
    Mr. Laramore, who is passing out syllabuses, looks at Nick. “Nice of you to join us, Mr. Roberts,” he says, and his voice is a just-right mixture of friendly and edgy. A couple of girls behind me sigh, and I can just imagine the hearts they are doodling all over their notebooks.
    That’s when I see the tattoo snuggled up under the arm of Nick’s black T-shirt. It’s hidden by his sleeve, but I can see it is a word. What is it?
    A muscle twitches in Nick’s neck before he leans back in his seat, but he doesn’t say anything. I’m still staring at his tattoo. I can make out an N and an O . “No” something? But it is all one word. My fingers itch to slide the sleeve up so I can see the rest of it.
    “Do you have anything to say for yourself, Mr. Roberts?” Mr. Laramore is not going to let it go.
    Nick stares at our teacher for a long moment. “My dog was sick.”
    If there was one thing I had noticed about him before, it was this . He says things in a low voice, most of the time so the teacher never hears, which are so blatantly eff you that you don’t know whether to laugh or be horrified. He usually says it so quiet you wouldn’t hear him unless you’re really listening.
    This time we all heard him. I don’t think any of us knew why we broke into giggles because his dog was sick. Mr. Laramore continues passing out the syllabuses, and there’s a general murmur of disappointment, because school is a contact sport and some people get a kick out of seeing blood on the field.
    Nick leans his arm down to his backpack, and for just a moment I see the word tattooed on his bicep. It says “Nothing.”
    All righty, then.
    He sits back up, and pulls his sleeve down, covering the tattoo entirely.
    “I trust he has recovered,” Mr. Laramore says, stopping in front of Nick and putting the syllabus square in the middle of his desk. Nick stares at him with no expression; you can see the anger coming off him in waves, but maybe only if you’re a pro at surfing anger like I am.
    I twine my blond ponytail around my finger, pulling and pulling until it hurts my head.
    “She,” Nick says, and it takes me a minute to realize that he’s still talking about the dog. And then he shrugs, anextravagant whatever, dude, and says, “She’ll either be kicking or stone