This Is Not a Drill Read Free Page A

says I’m “untrustworthy and irresponsible.” It’s a pretty widely held opinion in this town since my recent arrest. But I’m betting even my dad would agree that I’m doing the responsible thing right now—nothing. I’ve never been face-to-face with a guy with a gun before, but I know right from the start there isn’t much I
can
do. This dude is well over six feet tall, probably 240 pounds, neck the size of my thigh—and ready to back up any threat he makes.
    It’s not something we talk about, but when guys walk in a room, we do this quick, practically subconscious scan of every guy there: If a fight broke out, who could I take and who would I have to watch out for? It happens in a flash—kind of a survival-of-the-fittest thing.
    It’s not like I’m a total lightweight. I’m right at six feet myself, I stay in shape for baseball, and I work on my uncle’s farm in the summer and on weekends bailing hay and hauling heavy shit. But this guy is hardcore, man—in every way. Hell, he probably has
Kill
tattooed inside his bottom lip. He’s got that crazy roid rage look in his eye, the one that says
Bring it, you pathetic peon. Give me one good reason to bash your head in with my bare hands
. I’ve always been pretty good at reading people’s faces, and what I see in this guy’s eyes is damn scary.
    Bottom line, there’s no way to make this right. I’ve always been good at fixin’ broken stuff. I’d rather work on cars and take lawn mower engines apart than make straight A’s like my older brother. Stephen’s the brain of the family, and I’m the hands-on guy. At least, that’s what I tell my dad when he gets on me about grades. But this time, hands-on won’t work. I can’t MacGyver my way out with a weapon made from an eraser and a rubber band. All I can do is wait for Stutts to show me his next move—and pray that his finger on the trigger is steady.
    The fear in Emery’s pale green eyes just about kills me. Emery’s solid; she’s the real deal. Most girls don’t stack up to your expectations in the end—kinda like those movies everybody raves about and then when you finally see them, you’re disappointed. But Emery was every bit as cool as I thought she’d be. Her mind is lightning fast, and her mouth is always curled up at the corners like she’s thinking about some private joke.
    The first time I really talked to her was in art class. I sat in the seat next to her and tried to make eye contact. She ignored me. So I reached over and picked up the camera she was using for a photography project, put my face next to hers, and turned it around to take a picture of the two of us. She still ignored me. Finally I leaned over and whispered, “So, I hear you think I’m an asshole.”
    “I didn’t say you were an asshole,” she said, turning red. “I said you were conceited. And it’s true.” She smiled—that great smile of hers that starts as a wicked grin and spreads—and then she turned back to Molly like I didn’t exist, which, of course, really chapped my ass. So I quit talking to her.
    “What’s the matter, Biscuit, got your feelings hurt?” she asked me a few minutes later, grinning. I stop at Hardee’s every day on the way to school for a butter biscuit and eat it before class starts, so I knew she was making fun of me, but I didn’t mind.
    There’s tons of downtime in art class, so we wound up talking a bunch that day. Emery’s really funny, but half the stuff she says is under her breath, so you have to listen close to catch it. She made me laugh so hard, I got in trouble with the teacher and had to stay for detention. I don’t even remember what we were laughing about.
    After school my buddy Cole said, “I heard you were having a big conversation with Emery Austin. She’s not really your type.”
    “You mean smart, Cole?” I asked. “You think smart’s not my type?”
    “She’s president of the damn Honor Society, for God’s sake.”
    “And your point