Letters to Nowhere Read Free Page A

hallway.
    At twenty minutes to three, I was searching the kitchen cabinets of the three–bedroom town house, digging for something on the list of approved foods for elite athletes when I heard the front door swing open and slam shut. Before I could even get a glimpse of Coach Bentley’s unfamiliar offspring, he was thudding up the steps, slamming a second door and blaring music that would probably vibrate through the shared walls.
    At a quarter to four, I headed upstairs and paced the hallway. I was already late for practice and yet I didn’t have the nerve to knock on my negligent driver’s door. It turned out I wouldn’t need to. Just as I was about to break down and call Coach Bentley, the door flew open and I came face–to–face (well, forehead to face, since I wasn’t quite five feet yet) with a blond, brown–eyed boy—white uniform shirt half tucked in, red tie loosened, top button already unfastened, shoes off. Not exactly the look of someone about to go out again. Like to give me a ride .
    “Oh,” he said, diverting his eyes from mine. “You’re…uh…Cassie—”
    “Karen,” I corrected, voice cracking. My experience with teenage boys was very minimal due to homeschooling the past three years and a girls–only gymnastics team taking up practically my entire life.
    “Right, sorry,” he mumbled as he slid past me toward the stairs.
    I spun around with my mouth hanging open, knowing the words would stay lodged in my throat. Jordan froze with his foot on the first step.
    “Shit,” he said, the heel of his hand making contact with his forehead. “You need a ride, right? To the gym?”
    “Yeah,” I said to the back of his head.
    I followed as he thundered down the steps, whipped the door open, stuffed his feet in a pair of tennis shoes, not bothering with the laces, and headed outside. I hadn’t seen Jordan’s car earlier since he was at school, but I knew which was his right away, despite the nearly full parking lot. It was old, rusty, and a combination of puke green and purple. Something only a teenager desperate for freedom beyond a ten–speed bike would own.
    I immediately opened the door to the backseat and started to get in, but stopped when Jordan shook his head.
    “Seriously? I’d rather not look like a chauffeur if that’s all right with you.”
    Even though my boy experience was minimal to nonexistent, I knew better than to tell him the backseat was much safer, especially when short people and airbags were involved, especially when this hunk of metal was being driven by an unreliable motor vehicle operator. Whenever I rode anywhere with Blair, her mom still made us ride in the backseat of their minivan. But Blair wasn’t old enough to drive yet, so that would obviously have to change soon. I sighed, decided it wasn’t worth making a scene, and climbed into the front passenger seat.
    I tugged on my seat belt five times before accepting its correct positioning. When Jordan backed out of the parking lot and took off toward the main road, I felt my fingers searching for the sides of the well–worn seat, gripping them until my knuckles turned white.
    The traffic light in front of us switched to red and Jordan hit the brakes, jolting us to a hard stop. I squeezed my eyes shut, holding my breath and willing away the sound of glass shattering, metal crunching against pavement, screams—high–pitched like sirens.
    Please, no more panic attacks. Not now.
    The car jolted into motion again. All I could hear were the ten beats my heart pumped out for every single rotation of the tires. Air continued to move in sharp, jagged motions through my lungs, letting me know I wouldn’t pass out.
    The car had been stopped for at least thirty seconds when I finally opened my eyes. The sandy–haired boy was staring at me, looking as though he had no idea what to say and like he wanted out of this situation ASAP.
    “Um…are you…?” he stuttered without finishing.
    My face burned as I flung the