Authors: Liz Fichera
Dear Reader,
It’s been an honor and a pleasure to be part of the More Than Words program this year, working with cool people like Birgit Davis-Todd, Marsha Zinberg and Dana Grimaldi, who help to give the stories life. I was especially pleased to be paired with Cheryl Sesnon, executive director of the Jubilee Women’s Center and the inspiration behind
You Are Here.
Tragedy can happen to anyone at any time and always seems to happen when you least expect it. I am grateful for tireless and dedicated advocates like Cheryl and humbled by the work they do every day to assist women when the unexpected happens.
That’s why I’d like to dedicate my story to Cheryl and all of the good people at the Jubilee Women’s Center, along with all of the unsung heroes like them across the globe who strive to make the world a better place. Lastly, I also dedicate my story to anyone who has hit rock bottom but has found her way back.
All my best,
Liz Fichera
Two more FREE ebooks await!
In
Red at Night
, author Katie McGarry honors the work of Nikki Berti, cofounder of the Goodie Two Shoes Foundation in Las Vegas, a group that provides 10,000 pairs of shoes to impoverished children each year.
And in
The Gift of a Good Start
, author Earl Sewell honors the work of Elizabeth Roelfs, a member of the Diller Community Foundation in Nebraska, a group dedicated to improving the community for the future of the Diller children.
To access your free ebooks visit
www.HarlequinMoreThanWords.com
.
Sam
I jogged the six steps to the waiting bus.
Even through the windshield, I could see at least thirty faces, including Mr. Romero’s, staring back at me like two rows of dominoes. A few mouths hung open.
“Okay, you idiot,” I muttered to myself. “You asked for it. Now deal.”
When I reached the door, it was already open.
Mr. Romero stood at the top of the stairs. His mouth twitched in one corner below his salt-and-pepper mustache. I couldn’t tell whether he was angry or glad to see me.
“Sorry I’m late, Mr. Romero. Had some trouble with the truck.” I nodded back at Martin’s ride, as if its mechanical limitations weren’t obvious. Martin turned and headed back toward the freeway as blue-black smoke billowed out of his tailpipe. He was never going to make it to the Rez.
“I can see that,” Mr. Romero said. “Well, glad you made it. Now have a seat. We’re already behind schedule.”
“Sorry,” I said again as I looked over his shoulder at all the faces on the bus. As usual, I was the only Native. I recognized maybe six people on the bus, including Matt Hendricks from Advanced Chemistry. He nodded. I nodded back. Unfortunately the seat next to him was taken.
“You’ll have to put your backpack under your seat.”
“No problem,” I said, removing it from my shoulder. Other than a toothbrush and a change of underwear and socks, it was pretty empty.
There was an open seat up front next to a girl dressed in a pink sweatshirt and pink baseball cap. It was blinding, really. For some reason, she kept pulling her cap lower as if she was in disguise. But I recognized her.
“Hi,” I said, slipping into the seat. There was barely any room for my legs. The bus driver closed the door and the bus lurched forward.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m—”
I interrupted her with my sigh. “Yeah, I know who you are.”
The bus lurched again and we all lunged forward, grabbing the seats in front of us. For some stupid reason, I put my left arm out to stop her from crashing her head against the seat.
“Um, thanks?” she said, turning sideways to look at me and then my hand on her shoulder.
My hand snapped back and I nodded, facing forward, wishing I could have found a seat all to myself.
She began to fidget with her hands before fumbling for the iPod in her lap. “Oh. Well...” Her thumb pressed one of the buttons, probably a little harder than she needed to. A notebook with some sketches and doodles sat on her lap.
I leaned my head back, hoping that I could sleep most of the way. Just my luck I had to sit next to Ryan Berenger’s sister, who was every bit as annoyingly perfect as her brother. Maybe worse. The clothes, the pale skin, the graceful way she crossed her legs like a pretzel all the way down to her ankles.
It was going to be a long ride.
Riley
Oh. My. God. What a jerk.
Drew was never going to believe this! I pulled out my cell phone and began to text her.
I should have taken that seat way in the back after all, despite the sea of juniors and seniors. I’d had no idea that Sam Tracy was so in love with himself.
I
know who you are?
Seriously? I mean, get some manners.
I had seen him talking with Fred a couple of times in the cafeteria, and he’d seemed nice enough on school territory. Obviously I’d misread him.
My nose wrinkled.
Great!
And he reeked, too. Eau de Charcoal Grill.
Because he was so tall, I supposed he’d want to claim most of the leg space underneath the bench in front of us. Not gonna happen.
Once I got my internal hyperventilation under control, I uncrossed my legs, taking as much space as I could. Then I finished a quick text that Drew wouldn’t see until at least noon and pressed the volume button on my
Friends
episode. I’d rather listen to Chandler and Joey and sketch in my notebook any day than attempt conversation with Sam Tracy, especially now.
Mr. Romero turned around. He looked at Sam and me over the tops of his wire-rimmed glasses. “Could you pass these backward?” he said, handing us a stack of papers. “It’s the agenda for the weekend.”
I removed one earbud, one eye trained on my iPod screen as I grabbed the papers with my right hand. It was my favorite
Friends
episode, the one where Ross gets his teeth whitened so pearly white that they glow in a black light. Hilarious.
Mr. Romero stood. “Can I have your attention?” His chin lifted while his eyes swept over the rows. “Pause the texting for a moment, people. I promise your brains won’t self-destruct.”
A few people chuckled as the bus grew quiet.
Mr. Romero moved to the center of the aisle, still hanging on to the back of the seat with his free hand as the bus headed down the freeway toward the rising sun. “Since we’ve got three hours to kill till we reach the campground, we might as well go over a few details. As many of you know, we’ve reserved two large cabins—one for the girls, the other for the boys.”
“Damn,” someone behind me said, feigning disappointment. People around him laughed.
Mr. Romero smirked. “Watch the language, Mr. Wolkiewski,” he said.
“Sorry, Mr. Romero,” Logan said, but he didn’t sound the least bit sorry.
Mr. Romero continued. “Anyway, we’ve got a busy weekend planned and you can read all about it on the agenda that’s being distributed as I speak. There will be competitions and contests, and tonight we will have a barbecue. Keeping up so far?”
No one spoke. Most of us were too busy looking over the agenda. It seemed that at any given hour there was an activity—from rope climbing to scavenger hunts to leadership tests that were supposed to reveal our leadership styles. I had a style? It kind of looked as if the weekend had the potential for fun, in a weird, dorky way. I always did like variety. I pulled out my pink highlighter.
“As soon as we arrive at the campsite, we’ll unpack the buses, get you settled and then get started on the first activity. Everyone has been organized into teams. They’re listed on the back of the agenda.”
I flipped over the page and scanned for my name. There were twelve groups of five. I was on the Green team. One name jumped out at me right away: Sam Tracy.
It was impossible not to groan.
Copyright © 2014 by Liz Fichera
ISBN-13: 9781460317938
YOU ARE HERE
Copyright © 2014 by Liz Fichera
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