Make Me a Liar

by Melissa Landers

Genres: YA Mysteries & Thrillers

Synopsis

Caught red handed, for a crime she didn't commit.

Within the secret circles of Harvey Davis High School, everyone knows Tia Dante is worth her weight in hall passes. Using her genetic gift of transferable consciousness, she can slip inside your mind and do your dirty work—humiliate your cheating boyfriend, bring a bully to his knees, tell your boss where to stick it—and then return your body with no one the wiser. No task is too awkward, and unlike the competition, she takes care of business without peeking at your goods.

But while Tia is occupied during a routine payback mission, someone uses her body for a few dirty deeds of their own…like murdering the town prosecutor. With the crime caught on camera and no concrete alibi, Tia is forced to ask her infuriatingly gorgeous ex—Nash Brock--to help unravel the mystery. The heat is on, in more ways than one, and a few stray bullets later, Tia is in a frantic race against the clock to find the killer before they find her.

 

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Release date: December 5, 2023

Publisher: Disney Hyperion

Print pages: 252

Sample

Chapter One

I LIKE TEENAGE BOYS, JUST NOT ENOUGH TO WEAR ONE.

Who could blame me? The high school years were brutal for guys. Everyone knew it. I’m pretty sure that if the average person could head-hop like me—if they could transfer their mind into someone else’s body—no one would use their gift to walk around in a fog of testosterone and armpit stank with unpredictable dangly bits going bonkers in their pants.

Yeah, no, hard pass. (Pun intended.) I would rather live a year of consecutive Mondays than spend one hour inside a guy’s meat suit. Which was why I didn’t take male clients.

Until the day I met Josh Fenske.

He wore me down one Friday after school when I watched him drown in literal garbage. The bell had just rung, and I was sneaking off to the super-secret parking spot I had discovered behind the cafeteria. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have noticed Josh—or anyone else—in my rush to beat a hundred other cars out of the parking lot before it turned to gridlock. But focused as I was, not even I could miss the sight of a redheaded sophomore going ass over teakettle into the dumpster.

Nor could I miss the elephant-size boy who had launched him in there. The jerk’s name was Mark Something-Or-Other, a senior who’d transferred in a few weeks ago after his last school expelled him for punching a bus driver in the boob. Or maybe it was giving a janitor a wedgie. That part didn’t matter. The point was Mark had major damage. I could tell from the way he kept torturing his prey by shoving Josh’s head into the garbage each time the poor kid tried to stand up.

It was the saddest game of Whac-A-Mole I had ever seen.

At that point, I could’ve stepped in. I’m not heartless, and I can handle myself. But that would have made matters worse. The thing about bullies is they’re not feminists. Shocking, I know. A guy like Mark would lose even more respect for Josh if a girl rescued him. And if I beat Mark in a fight, which I absolutely would, he would roll twice as hard every day afterward to save face. Which would make Josh an even bigger target. The only way to break the cycle of abuse was for Josh to stand up for himself in a public display of fierce badassery.

That I could do.

So I stayed out of sight and waited until Mark left before offering Josh my services. In exchange for a modest fee, I would use Josh’s body to fight Mark. And I would win, guaranteed, or his money back. Josh accepted, and just like that, I had broken my cardinal rule and booked my first male client.

I knew the job would be weird. I was prepared for some level of awkwardness, having to wear a boy’s body and whatnot. What I didn’t expect was for Josh to show up to his appointment an hour late, wearing nothing but a black eye and a pair of Star Wars boxer shorts.

“Hey, Tia” was all Josh said. No mention of the wardrobe malfunction.

“Hey, yourself.” I leaned down to squint at a cartoon Yoda near his waistband. Time and detergent had faded the Jedi Master, giving him a horrified expression. Seen things, I have, he seemed to say. Terrible things … on the Dark Side of the Shorts.

“You’re late,” I added. “I was starting to think you changed your mind.”

Josh blushed hard enough to set his face on fire. “No. I didn’t change my mind.”

I pushed open the door and ushered him inside the backyard shed that doubled

as my office. My dad had given it to me for my seventeenth birthday, a peace offering of sorts. Dad had never approved of my side hustle, but he tried his best to support me, and the shed was his way of showing it. The place was nothing special, just a five-by-ten, furnished with a few folding chairs and a black futon. But it was clean and private, and most important of all, secured with a padlock to protect my body when I left it behind for a job.

“So, tell me what happened,” I said.

Josh dropped his gaze. He crossed both arms over his chest and hugged himself, despite the heat wave that had turned the early May air into soup. I grabbed a blanket from the futon and handed it over. That seemed to help. Josh wrapped the fleece around himself and probed his swollen eye. “Mark jumped me.”

“Where?” I asked.

“At the bus stop.” Josh noticed a ladybug on the floor. He scooped it up and released it outside. “We live on the same street. That’s how he knows me.”

“Did anyone see?”

“You mean besides the twenty other kids at my stop?”

I groaned. It only took one person to start a rumor. Twenty witnesses could circulate the story in an hour. “Okay, that explains the black eye, but not the shorts.”

“He, uh”—Josh scratched the back of his neck—“took my clothes, too.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

Josh shot me a look. Not joking.

My chest burned with anger. Josh didn’t deserve this. No one deserved having their dignity stripped away, but especially not a boy who caught and released bugs. I refocused my attention and considered what this meant for the job. Mark had upped the ante. Not only had he escalated his torture, but he’d also humiliated Josh in front of an audience. That told me Mark didn’t care about getting caught. He had doubled down, so if I wanted to beat him at his own game, I would have to go all in.

“Don’t worry,” I told Josh. “I’m gonna shove my foot—well, your foot—so far up his ass, he’ll be flossing with your shoelaces.”

Josh cringed. “Maybe we should do something else. Something sneaky. Like get him expelled, but not let him find out it was me.”

“No,” I said. “Out of the question.”

“Why?”

“Because your problem is bigger than one person,” I explained. “Every school

has an alpha dick. Right now, that’s Mark. If we expel him, someone else will take his place, and then you’re right back in the dumpster. We have to make sure no one screws with you ever again. I can do that.”

Josh’s facial expression told me he wasn’t convinced.

“Think about it,” I said. “Why are you here?”

“Because you can … you know”—he waved toward my face—“do mind control.”

“Mind control is not a thing, Josh.”

“You can take over bodies.”

“Nope,” I told him.

“You’re a head-hopper, I mean.”

Close enough. I preferred the term immersionist. Head-hopper was a label the media had invented two years ago when people like me started coming forward, and the term sort of stuck. No one knew how many of us existed or why we had all leveled up at the same time. Ever since the government passed a law forcing us to register like a bunch of pervy sex offenders, most immersionists kept their abilities a secret. Myself included. But according to the handful of interviews and studies I had read, it seemed we all shared three basic restrictions: our host had to be human, their body had to be alive, and they had to be willing to share their headspace. In other words, we couldn’t hijack anyone’s brain.

Try telling that to the public, though.

“Look,” I said. “Simply put, you’re paying me to change your reputation. Not by a lot. Just enough to make you a risk to guys like Mark.” I held up an index finger. “Bullies are lazy. They want an easy target and a guaranteed win. So if they know you can throw down, they won’t touch you. But they have to know it. And that means standing up for yourself in public. You don’t have to flex every day. One time is all it takes … if you do it right.”

“But I’m not giving you a lot to work with,” Josh said, using one hand to indicate his skinny frame. “I can’t beat Mark in a fair fight.”

“You can’t, but I can. And who says it has to be fair?”

Josh cast me a skeptical look.

“Your body is smaller than his,” I told him. “But I’ll be the one at the wheel. I won’t lose, Josh. Trust me on this.”

“But will it look legit?” he asked. “Real enough to convince everyone? I mean, you can’t bust into the lunchroom and shout, ‘Hey, Mark. I’m here to eat chicken nuggets and kick ass … and I’m all out of nuggets.’ No one will buy it.”

“You act like I’ve never done this before,” I said, trying not to take offense at his complete lack of confidence in me. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”

Josh spread his blanketed arms wide. “Well, how do I know how many rodeos you’ve been to? It’s not like you gave me a résumé.”

I paused for a deep breath and reminded myself that I was a professional. Josh deserved my credentials. “Fine. I spent a year practicing immersion before I took my first client. That was three months ago, and since then I’ve done two breakups, two promposals, a few college interviews, and four coming-outs. I’ve never fought in a client’s body, but my dad was a bouncer, and he taught me all his tricks.”

“Whoa,” Josh said, raising his brows. “Promposals, huh?” 

“Really? That’s what impressed you?”

“Just thinking about it makes my palms sweaty.” He lifted a hand to show me. “How do you do it? How can you be so chill about stuff that terrifies everyone else? You make it sound easy.”

It was easy. I didn’t have to try to be brave for my clients. It came naturally, because someone else’s heart was on the line instead of mine. In real life, aka my own life, I hated drama. My last breakup was so messy and embarrassing that I didn’t even want to date anymore. But breaking up for a client? Effortless. I had zero reasons to feel anxious when I wasn’t the one who would be crying into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s afterward.

“It comes down to not being invested,” I said. “When I go inside your head, I’ll bring my own consciousness with me. I won’t feel your emotions or have your memories. I won’t know what you’re afraid of, because I won’t be you.”

“You’ll have no skin in the game,” he added.

“Exactly. Which makes it easy for me to take risks that scare you.”

“Huh,” Josh said. “That’s kind of deep.”

“Speaking of risks …” I said with a pointed look. “There’s no way for me to put a respectable hurt on Mark without getting you suspended. Three days, at least. The honor society might kick you out, too. Are you okay with that?”

“I guess so.”

“You guess so?”

“I’m positive.” Josh nodded. “No guts, no story. Right?”

“That’s what I like to hear.” I gave him a hearty pat on the shoulder. “Now, let’s talk business. You remember my fee?”

“Yeah, about that,” he said. “The money was in my pants, so …”

“Pay me later,” I told him. “I know you’re good for it. The most important part of our deal is keeping it a secret. You can’t tell anyone about me. No one. Not your best friend, not your priest, not your mom. Not even yourself—so no journaling about it.”

“But what if someone needs your help?” he asked.

“Then you come to me, and I’ll decide if I want to offer them my services. But you don’t mention me to that person.” I pointed back and forth between us. “This only works if we stay quiet. If Mark ever found out that I did your dirty work for you …”

Josh swallowed hard. “I swear I won’t tell a soul.”

“All right. So now there’s only one other matter to discuss.”

“Which is?”

“Lunch.”

Josh wrinkled his forehead.

“Before I exit your body,” I explained, “I will take it to lunch. And I will stuff myself—technically yourself—full of the greasiest,

cheesiest, sauciest, most nutritionally deficient garbage to ever see the inside of a fryer. And then I’ll chase it down with a triple-fudge sundae and a shake.”

His gaze lowered to my hips and thighs. “But why? You’re not—”

“This isn’t a weight thing,” I interrupted. “It’s an allergy thing.” As evidence, I showed him the EpiPen I kept tucked in my pocket to save me from the perils of wheat, eggs, dairy, and a dozen other staples of human existence.

“What are you allergic to?” he asked.

“Everything that makes life worth living.” I folded my arms. “I can’t have good food unless I eat it in a different body. So I’m going to eat vicariously through you, Josh. This is nonnegotiable. Expect to wake up with level-five heartburn.”

“Fine.” He held up both palms. “Stuff me like a turkey.”

“Oh, I will,” I assured him with a smile. “Now that the details are out of the way, we can get to work.” I sat on the futon and patted the spot beside me. “Come have a seat. You’re going to give me a literal piece of your mind.”

 

Chapter Two

“THE FIRST STEP IS TO RELAX,” I TOLD JOSH, COVERing his hand with mine. We sat side by side with our shoulders touching. The contact allowed me to sense his tension and match the rhythm of our breathing. “Close your eyes and concentrate on your muscle groups, starting with your head and working your way down to your toes. I want you to release all the tension in each group until your body goes limp.”

He nodded and inhaled. As he exhaled, his shoulder eased down an inch, pressing closer against me. After the next breath, he whispered, “By the way, how’d you learn to do this? Did someone teach you?”

I stifled a laugh. I had never met another immersionist, let alone had a guide. Only a few hundred of us had come forward to join the registry, and the government kept those identities on lockdown, probably to stop us from networking. There were no schools for people like me, no handbooks, no YouTube tutorials to explain the experience with step-by-step instructions, briefly interrupted by annoying ads. No, I had to learn the old-fashioned way—by accident in a Chick-fil-A dining room.

“It’s a long story,” I whispered back. “I found some info on the dark web. After that, it was pretty much trial and error.”

I didn’t mention that my best friend, Valencia, had helped. I had committed a crime by failing to join the registry, and I didn’t want Val charged with collusion for keeping my secret. But in all honesty, Val was the one who had made me realize I was an immersionist in the first place.

It all started with a craving for waffle fries….

Val would constantly drag me into restaurants where I couldn’t have anything on the menu except for a fruit cup. So there I was, sitting across the table from Val, drooling over her chicken sandwich and her waffle fries while I picked at a cup of mandarin oranges. I remember wishing I could trade places with her, and the next thing I knew, I tasted mayonnaise and saw Val’s sandwich in my hands … except they were her hands.

She must have pushed me out of her mind right away because the whole thing lasted less than a second, just long enough for me to catch a glimpse of my body going limp on the other side of the table. I blinked and returned to my own head, and then promptly screamed and fell off my chair.

After picking me up off the floor, Val rushed me to my house to re-create what we had done. It took a few days of experimenting, but we figured out the basics. To transfer my mind into another person’s body—and to stay there—required two main elements: cooperation and focus.

“No more talking,” I told Josh. “I want you to imagine your mind as an empty room. There’s no furniture inside. No windows, no decorations. Just four white walls and two doors—one door for the entrance and another one that leads to a walk-in closet.”

“Are the doors open?”

“Not yet.”

“What about the floor?” he asked. “Is it carpet?”

“Sure, if you want.”

“What color?”

“Beige.”

“Mm-kay,” he said with a nod. “Got it.”

“Now imagine yourself sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room, kind of like you’re meditating. Your eyes are closed. You’re warm and calm, focusing on each breath.” I paused, waiting until he fully relaxed against me. “Now you hear a soft knock on the door, and you know it’s me. You smile and open your eyes.

 You want to see me, so you push up from the carpet and walk to the door. Your body is loose and limber. You grasp the doorknob and turn it, and you let me in.”

As I spoke, I tipped back my head and concentrated on Josh, imagining myself leaving my body and traveling to the door in his mind. My fingertips tingled, a sign of disconnect that told me the process was working. One by one, my limbs grew heavy as I floated out of my skin. A moment later, I stood facing an imaginary door that opened to reveal Josh, still clad in his Star Wars boxer shorts.

“Freaky.” He grinned. “So does this mean we’re both in my head?”

“For now.” I leaned forward, struggling to cross the threshold. Some unknown force opposed me, like a strong wind pushing me backward. It happened during some transfers. I figured the resistance had to do with a struggle for control, because the force always disappeared as soon as my client left the room. I pointed at the closet. “I need you to go in there and wait until I call for you. Don’t try to come out early. Just sit down in the closet and focus on your breathing, like you did before.”

Josh chewed on his lower lip. “What’s in there?”

Honestly, I didn’t know. Every one of my clients had said they couldn’t remember a single moment of their time outside the room. But I didn’t want to scare Josh, so I told him, “The same thing that’s in here—four walls and a carpet. Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. It’ll all be over before you know it.”

Josh hesitated for a beat, but he crossed the room and let himself into the closet. He closed the door behind him, and at once, the pressure against me dropped.

Now that I had control, I didn’t need to stay in the imaginary room anymore. Turning my focus outward, I concentrated on my physical sensations—the pressure of my thighs against the futon cushion, the soft fleece blanketing my arms, the cool floor beneath my feet. Motion came next as I flexed my fingers and toes. And with my next breath, the transfer was complete. I lifted my head, stood up from the futon, and viewed the world (or the inside of my shed) as Josh Fenske.

I blinked a few times, taking in the changes. I wondered if Josh knew the throw rug he saw as gray was actually blue. I made a mental note to ask about his color blindness later. Right now, I had to deal with prepping my own body to leave it behind.

I hated this part.

Not only was it creepy seeing myself passed out with my head lolled to the side, but I felt a weird attraction between my mind and my flesh, a slight magnetism drawing me back to where I belonged. Maybe it was nature’s way of making sure I could wander without losing my path home. That made sense, because even though the pull grew weaker with distance, I always felt it like a compass for my soul. Which made me wonder what would happen if my body died while my mind was elsewhere.

 Would my soul find its home in a new body? Or would I always feel drawn toward my own remains?

I shivered. I didn’t want to find out.

For that reason, I followed a list of safety protocols before I left for a job. First, I leaned down and readjusted my head so I wouldn’t wake up with a stiff neck, which had happened more times than I cared to admit. Then I inspected each of my limbs, making sure nothing blocked my circulation. Satisfied with my body check, I scanned the shed for fire hazards—combustible liquids like nail polish and essential oils, or electronics that could short out and cause a spark. I didn’t see anything at first, but then I remembered my cell phone and retrieved it from my back pocket. Faulty batteries could start fires. After one last look around, I left the shed and bolted the door with a two-inch steel padlock.

“Good luck getting through that,” I dared no one in particular. The sound of Josh’s deep voice shocked a laugh out of me. That would take some getting used to.

I set off across the lawn, the dewy grass tickling my bare feet as I walked toward the house in loping strides that covered the distance in half the time as usual. I had never piloted a body with legs as long as Josh’s. I would have to get used to them—fast. Not to mention find him some clothes. I knew nothing in my closet would fit him, so I raided my dad’s bedroom for a pair of Velcro sneakers, drawstring sweatpants, and a Grateful Dead T-shirt. Dad wouldn’t mind sharing, as long as I washed and replaced his clothes before he noticed them missing.

Speaking of missing things, I should probably explain my absence to the attendance secretary, the ever-vigilant Mrs. Kazinski, before she called my dad at work. I logged on to my dad’s School Link account and sent a quick message claiming I was sick with a fever. As for Josh, he would have to take an unexcused tardy. If I did my job right, it would be the least of his offenses today.

I checked the clock, noting I had thirty minutes until the next city bus. I had already bought a pass since Josh didn’t drive. That left me with enough time to run a few drills in the basement gym. I jogged down the stairs and warmed up on the punching bag. I did the bare minimum—a few jabs and right hooks—to learn Josh’s body. For an extra boost, I grabbed a Gatorade on my way out the door.

The walk to the bus stop gave me a chance to unwind, and I found myself daydreaming about what I would eat for lunch. I’d brought plenty of cash, and I had already decided on the restaurant. My favorite place was a family-owned diner called the Sparky Spoon. They made the best chili dogs in town, and their shakes weren’t half bad either, depending on who was mixing them. Today that would be Nash. I knew his schedule because he was my ex … the same ex who had dumped me last fall to “focus on college,” which apparently meant “bang sorority

girls.” But whatever. I didn’t care about Nash. I wanted a chili dog, that was all.

I pushed him out of my mind when I boarded the bus. One hour and two transfers later, I stepped inside Harvey Davis High School and collected a tardy pass from Mrs. Kazinski, just as the fourth bell rang to signify senior lunch period—Mark’s lunch period.

I couldn’t have timed it better.

The only problem was Josh’s boxer shorts. They provided no support for the beanbags that kept catching between my thighs. At first it hadn’t bothered me, but the long walk to the bus stop had caused some serious chafing. Now I found myself ambling along the hallway with my knees spread and my hips pushed out like a bowlegged cowboy.

I couldn’t take it anymore, so I snuck into the boys’ locker room and borrowed a jockstrap from the supply closet. The strap looked ridiculous when I put it on over my boxers, but it bundled up everything nice and tight. For good measure, I tucked an athletic cup beneath the strap to protect me against a low blow. Not that I planned to fight fair, but I knew better than to count on a bully to hit above the belt.

When I finally reached the cafeteria, I paused outside the open doors and searched for Mark. I found him sitting alone at the end of a table near the emergency exit, farthest from the lunchroom monitor. A perfect spot to pick a fight, except the monitor on duty was Coach Bollard, otherwise known as the Boulder. I would have thirty seconds, at best, to take Mark down before the coach broke us up.

Staying out of sight, I studied Mark’s body language and noticed a Coke in his right hand. He took a swig and set it down, and then used that same hand to pluck a french fry from his tray. He was a righty. The angle of his head toward a nearby group of girls told me he was right-eye dominant, too. I took in his posture, the way he curled around his food, his shoulders tense, and his butt poised on the edge of his seat. Those details might seem trivial, but they gave me a few key pieces of information. Mark would be quick to attack, he would lead with a lunge, and he would favor his right side.

The first lesson my dad had taught me was how to read someone’s “tells.” Even the tiniest actions could betray an opponent’s next move and give away the advantage. My dad had been so adamant about paying attention that he had forced me to study hundreds of boxing matches until I could pause the fight and correctly predict what would happen next. Only then had he taught me how to throw a punch. Mark didn’t know it yet, but he’d already lost.

Now to sell the performance.

Josh was right—everyone knew he was a quiet kid who didn’t stand up for himself. He had proven it again that very morning by letting Mark take his clothes. But everyone also knew that quiet kids could snap, and in that rare occurrence, their explosions rang the loudest. Josh could push back, but to make people believe it, he needed to go nuclear.

I ruffled his hair and scrubbed his eyes until they felt puffy and red, and then

I slapped both of his cheeks to create an angry flush. Satisfied with the transformation, I stalked into the cafeteria, breathing wildly through my nose.

No one noticed me at first, not even Mark. I made it all the way to his table without drawing a single glance. But all of that changed when I slapped the Coke out of his hand. At once, nearby chatter stopped. Mark froze. Hundreds of eyes widened and turned to me. A question hung in the air: Did that really happen? No one seemed to know what to think, least of all Mark, whose fingers were still curled around an invisible can.

“I’m done playing with you,” I announced.

There was a collective intake of breath, and right on cue, a cell phone screen appeared in my peripheral view. Two more screens popped up. God bless the social media addicts and their thirst for likes and follows. I could always count on them for maximum exposure.

Mark glanced at the lunch monitor and hesitated, clearly torn between whether to kick my ass now or wait until later.

He needed a push.

“What?” I taunted. “You got nothing to say to me?”

His jaw tightened.

“You’re just gonna sit there?” I asked. When he didn’t move, I pulled out the big guns and called him a girl.

That did it.

I grabbed Mark’s tray and dumped its contents just in time for him to charge me. As predicted, he led with his right shoulder. I dodged left and tripped him, sending him face-first into a pile of his own fries. His head snapped up, his cheeks red with rage. And ketchup. I knew he wouldn’t stay down for long, so I held the tray in front of me like a shield. Luckily, the cafeteria had replaced Styrofoam trays with heavy-duty reusable plastic. Safe for the environment, safer for me.

Mark pushed to his feet and charged again, making the same mistake of leading with his right shoulder. Part of me wanted to coach him, but an even bigger part wanted to smack him upside the head. So I darted aside and gave him a wallop as he stumbled by. That enraged him, exactly as I had intended. Anger made people sloppy.

Mark turned and swung at me with his—you guessed it—right fist. When I ducked, he shifted his weight and lowered one shoulder in a telltale sign of an uppercut. Based on the direction of his gaze, I knew he was aiming for my crotch. (See? Bullies don’t fight fair.) I was prepared for a low blow. I figured the molded plastic between my legs would hurt Mark more than it would hurt me, so I stood firm and let his knuckles connect with my cup.

Oh, my god, that was the worst idea I’ve ever had.

A thump sounded

 I felt pressure around the cup, followed by a sudden weightlessness as the force of the blow lifted me off my feet. I grabbed Mark’s shirt to steady myself while pain radiated from my groin to my stomach. I fought the urge to heave, swallowing a mouthful of half-digested Gatorade. The cup must have slid against my boxer shorts and racked me, because I had never hurt so badly, not even in seventh-grade gymnastics, when I had slipped and lost my virginity to the balance beam. I could feel Mark gearing up for another punch, but I wasn’t strong enough to dodge it. I couldn’t even breathe. So I panicked and did the first thing that came to mind. I poked him in the eye.

Not my finest moment, but “desperate times” and all.

Mark flinched and brought both hands to his face. His distraction gave me a beat to recover. I drew a breath and turned the tables by jabbing him in the windpipe. He doubled over in a coughing fit. I saw my chance to send him down for the count, so I took it, elbowing him in the kidney.

Mark dropped to the floor and curled up in the fetal position. On the other side of the cafeteria, Coach Bollard waded toward me through the crowd of onlookers. I knew I didn’t have much time, so I lowered my mouth to Mark’s ear and got right to the point.

“Listen,” I hissed. “I didn’t want to get suspended. That’s why I took your shit. But I don’t care anymore. If you come at me again, I will tag you back, no matter what it takes.” To drive my message home, I squeezed the delicate spot between his wrist bones. “Are we clear?”

He cried out something resembling a yes.

“And I want my stuff back,” I said. “All of it. By the time I get home, there’d better be a bag on my front porch.”

“Mm-kay,” he grunted.

I released him and stood up, flashing both palms in surrender at Coach Bollard. I didn’t wait for the coach to order me to report to the office. I backed away and told him, “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m going.”

I turned and strode across the cafeteria with my head held high—not easy, thanks to my aching crotch. But I wanted to give Josh a dignified exit, and in my opinion, I nailed it. As a bonus, I even made it all the way to the bathroom before I puked. I considered that a double win, since an empty stomach meant more room for food.

Now I could reward myself with lunch at the Sparky Spoon. After what I had been through, I deserved the best chili dog in town …  coincidentally served up by my ex.