Reckoning Read Free Page A

too.
    “No,” she says, wrinkling her nose at me. “I never said a word to them. Like I’ve been saying all along, it is for my birthday. And Christmas. And my 3.8 GPA this year. Go on,” she urges, opening the door. “Get in! It is so awesome!”
    I slide onto the driver’s seat, hands clasping the wheel. Rachel is right. It is awesome. Cute and compact, and coolly stylish with its retro-chicness, it’s perfectly…well, Rachel. Granted, it isn’t the blue Mini Cooper with the British flag on the roof and backs of the side mirrors that she’s been gushing over, and it doesn’t come close to the well-used Jeep Wrangler that’s for sale at the end of my block, and that I’ve been fantasizing about for weeks, but there’s no question it’s a close second. Really close. A flash of jealousy surges through me as I finger the silk daisy in the convenient vase attached to the dashboard. My seventeenth birthday is in two weeks, and I know with absolute certainty that I won’t be getting a car. Unless I can pay for it myself. And even that involves a long and protracted argument with my parents that makes me tired just thinking about it. As it is, they have yet to confirm that I’ll even be getting my drivers license.
    Rachel is lucky, no question about it.
    I look up, peering through the sunroof at the clear blue Colorado sky, the rays of the late spring sun warming the interior. My fingers trail across the air vents and the buttons on the CD player, down to the cup holder and back up across the smooth circle of the leather-covered steering wheel. I sigh and turned to Rachel with a smile. “Wow. It’s amazing, Rach.”
    Rachel squats down and runs her hand along the edge of the black leather seat. “I know. Isn’t it?” The expression on her face changes from total happiness to resigned dejection.
    I look at her with surprise. Rachel is rarely bummed about anything. “What?”
    Grimacing, she says, “I have to work in my mom’s shop this summer.” The shop being a recently opened home interiors store in LoDo, the trendy area of lower downtown Denver. “ And be her delivery driver,” she adds, lifting one side of her upper lip in distaste.
    “Oh, come on,” I protest, with a laugh. “It won’t be that bad. You’re mom’s store is nice. And it beats going home smelling like greasy French fries every day.”
    “Yeah, but selling throw pillows and designer sheets to overly-accessorized and perfumed fifty year olds isn’t exactly my idea of exciting.”
    “You know there’ll be more people than that coming in. And who knows, maybe you’ll meet some really cute guys.” I waggle my eyebrows at her.
    Rachel cocks her head, raising one eyebrow in disbelief. “Any cute guys coming into an interior design store aren’t going to be checking me out. I’m not exactly their type, if you know what I mean.”
    I laugh, shaking my head, because everybody checks her out. Young. Old. Men. Women. Gay. Straight. It doesn’t matter. Because Rachel de Santis is beautiful. Tall and thin, with an athletic build, thick dark brown hair, golden skin and deep brown eyes surrounded by lush, dark lashes she never has to use a stroke of mascara on, she is one of those rare beings who never have a pimple or a bad hair day. Even if she gets caught in the rain, she just flips her hair to the side, letting it air dry into long waves. She’s like some Italian goddess. It’s disgusting. But we’ve been best friends since third grade, bonding over our mutual dislike of our teacher, Miss Keppel, a woman who obviously despised children so decided her ideal job would be a teacher so she could spend the rest of her days torturing them. Unbelievably, three years later, the school administration had moved her to sixth grade so we’d had to endure her all over again.
    “Well, it could be worse,” I say, nodding like an all-knowing sage. Rachel shrugs, unconvinced by my profound words of wisdom. My brows draw together. “What’s