The room is dark, except for the streetlights coming through the blinds. I can barely see her, but I feel her. She pushes me up against the wall and we kiss harder than we ever have before. I’ve been waiting so long for it to happen, and finally, it’s going to. Then the bedroom door flies open, and someone screams her name… Britton Walsh has never had a home. After a lifetime in the care system, she doesn't expect she’ll ever find one. But beginning her senior year with new foster parents in a new city, means starting over yet again. Tom and Cate Cahill seem okay. The hitch? Their daughter, Avery. Beautiful, popular and cool, Avery is everything Britton is not. She’s all Britton could ever ask for in a sister, or even a friend––but having survived without either for so long, Britton knows the way her heart races whenever Avery enters the room can only mean one thing… But Avery has a secret. Something that is eating away at her and stopping her letting anyone in, least of all Britton. Will Avery’s insistence on punishing herself for a mistake in her past make Britton's last year of high school, and finding a place to call home, impossible? Can two such different people ever find common ground, friendship, or maybe even something more? An unforgettable new adult lesbian romance for fans of Keeping You a Secret by Julie Anne Peters, Her Name in the Sky by Kelly Quindlen, or Nancy Garden’s classic young adult coming out novel, Annie on My Mind. New Adult novel: recommended for 17+ due to mature themes and sexual content. Readers adore When Sparks Fly : ‘ WOW!!... totally blew my mind and left me speechless.’ Heidi Lynn’s Book Reviews, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
‘ Omg, I absolutely love, love, loved this book!!!... amazing… addictive page-turner that really captivated my heart… Absolutely addictive, sexy, stunning romance that is filled with love and friendship.’ Bookworm 86, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
‘This book was so good I had to stay up late to finish it!... so cute and it had me feeling all the feels… fantastic… definitely a quick and easy to read! ’ Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
‘ I couldn’t put it down… every time I thought about taking a break, I wanted more. A beautifully written lesbian romance that had me hooked from beginning to end.’ Jessica Belmont, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
Everyone loves Kristen Zimmer: ‘ BEST. BOOK. EVER. I swear… DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO FIND AN LGBT BOOK TO RELATE TO??? I DO!... have recommended it to literally all my friends. Read it. It's amazing! ’ Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
‘ Wow!! What an amazing story!… very hard to put the book down… I couldn’t wait to get back to where I’d left it. A book has never made me feel like that.’ Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
‘ Breathtaking. I was on the edge of my seat… Read this in like one sitting - could not put it down… A beautiful love story & a definite must-read!!! ’ Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
‘ Amazing… got me hooked from page one… really fresh and edgy… a definite must-read! It has all you could ever want in a book… I guarantee you won't be able to put it down.’ Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
Beverly High School, day one—school number seven for me. You’d think I might have gotten used to switching schools by now, but being forced to transfer a few days into my senior year is next-level suckage. The Cahills, the foster family the Commonwealth of Massachusetts placed me with, live way outside the Boston Public School District. Obviously, or I wouldn’t be standing on the sidewalk staring up at Beverly High, would I?
Most of the girls walking into this place are dressed like they’re about to stomp down a catwalk. I don’t fit the prototype in my old Vans, shredded hip hugger jeans and oversized black Nirvana T-shirt. After falling out of bed later than I expected to this morning, I made the decision to pull my wavy blonde hair into a low, messy bun. That was a mistake. Looking like a homeless street urchin is no way to make a good first impression.
I let out a breath that blows my scraggly bangs away from my eyes, shift the strap of my ratty khaki messenger bag into a more comfortable position on my shoulder and zero in on the marquee sporting a gigantic black and orange paw print and the words Home of the Panthers. That’s when I hear someone behind me holler, “Hey, Britton!”
It’s not like I have any friends in this town, so I’ve got a pretty good idea who’s calling my name: Avery, my foster parents’ biological daughter. Like me, she’s a senior, but I’m certain that’s where the similarities between us end. She seems to be made up of everything I am not. I’m dirt poor and mostly keep to myself. Her family’s wealthy—Mom’s a lawyer, Dad’s the CEO of some gaming app company. She’s a cheerleader, so she’ll have a ton of eager groupies in tow all the time, and she’s beautiful in a high-maintenance movie star kind of way.
I turn around to find Avery jostling toward me, pink plaid sheet skirt and white crop sweater both riding up with every stride. There’s a suggestion of frustration on her face. “Why didn’t you wait for me? My mom said I was supposed to drive you.”
“I felt like walking.” I shrug. “Besides, you were taking forever to get ready. I didn’t want to be late for my first day.”
She runs a hand through her long, chestnut-colored hair and slings it over her right shoulder. “I’m here, aren’t I? You wouldn’t have been late.”
“Right. Thanks, anyway.” I turn back to the school and start for the main entrance. She doesn’t let me slip away unaccompanied—unfortunate considering I really don’t feel like making small talk. Anyhow, I know she’s only sticking close to me because her parents told her she had to escort me around.
“Do you have to get your schedule from the office?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
I pick up my class schedule, locker assignment and a map of the school from the secretary. “Block scheduling.” I glower at the top paper. “I don’t get it.”
“Give those to me.” Avery snatches all three sheets of paper from my hands and scans them over. “What’s not to get? We’ve got Pride days and Panther days. They alternate. On Pride days you have Honors English, Life Skills, Biology, lunch, then Sociology. On Panther days you have Computer Science, Consumer Math, Free Study, lunch and… Tennis? Way to go on picking the lamest Phys Ed elective ever. Today is a Pride day, so follow the Pride day schedule. Got it?” She hands the papers back to me.
“Thanks so much for being judgmental about Tennis. And yes, I’ve got it.”
“Whatever.” She waves dismissively. “I’m going to the Humanities Wing. Come with—we’re in the same English class.”
“You’re in Honors English?”
She leers at me. “What, you think because I’m a cheerleader I must be stupid? Now who’s being judgmental?”
I feel the heat of embarrassment bubbling in my chest and try to shake it off. “Touché.”
She smirks.
We’re about to head up the staircase to the second floor when she is ambushed by a group of girls whose barely-there attire must push the boundaries of the school’s dress code. They ignore my presence and proceed to yammer at her, their voices meshing together in a wall of sound. She can’t get a word in. “Guys,” she says softly. When that doesn’t work, she says it again, louder, “Guys!”
Everyone stops to focus on her.
She shoots me an apologetic look. “Everyone, this is Britton. Britton, this is Kylie, Amy, Liz and Tasha.” She motions to each girl as she introduces them.
They all ogle me, head to toe. I can tell they’re appraising my coolness factors. I lose points for my clothing, but I suppose the fact that I’m keeping company with Avery is enough for them to overlook the way I’m dressed, because they opt to speak to me.
“Britain, like, the country?” Kylie questions. Her features contort into a sour expression, like she’s bitten into a lemon. I find it kind of amusing, but am able to suppress my laughter by sheer force of will.
“No, not like the country. T-T-O-N,” Avery replies. “She’s staying with my family for a while, so you bitches had better be chill to her.”
Instantly, their demeanors soften. Interesting. She is the puppet master.
“So, Brit—I can call you that, right?” Tasha asks. I start to say, “I guess,” but she doesn’t let me finish. “Will you be trying out for cheerleading?”
Is she kidding me? Do I seem like I’m eager to join the Braindead Brigade? “I was thinking about trying out for soccer, actually.”
She sneers. At second glance, I see they all do—everyone except Avery.
“Just to let you know, all those girls are lesbians,” Amy says, making ‘lesbian’ sound like the most disgusting word in the English language—worse than ‘sewage,’ or ‘maggot,’ or ‘pus.’
Should I blow their minds now, or wait until later? Later would be better. I’d like to get through my first few days here unscathed, maybe make some allies before I start making enemies. The problem is, on the rare occasion someone manages to piss me off, I’m really bad at keeping my mouth shut and really good at scathing comebacks. Oh man, do I have a comeback for this chick. Like, If you’re going to be homophobic, I’d prefer it if you’d call me a ‘dyke.’ ‘Rug muncher’ is also a good one.
Avery comes to her friend’s rescue without even realizing that she needs to. “Amy, seriously, refrain from spewing your shit all over the place. You’ll ruin my heels.”
Savage.
Amy’s cheeks go bright pink.
The 8:10 bell rings; we’ve got five minutes to make it to class on time. Avery plasters on a pretentious smile and says, “We’d better get our ass to class. See you at lunch.” She grabs me by the elbow and leads me up the steps. “Sorry. They can be dickheads sometimes,” she says as we reach the second floor.
“I noticed.”
“Did Amy offend you?”
Am I that transparent? Wonderful. That’s exactly what I need, to live in a house with this girl until I graduate and have her feel uncomfortable around me the whole damn time—because of course the system won’t let me ‘age out’ until I finish my public education or decide to drop out, despite the fact that my eighteenth birthday was last week. Might as well get your social worker on the phone right now. Am I ever going to stop fucking up and getting kicked out of foster homes? “Did I seem offended?”
“Not really.”
“Then why would you ask me if I was?”
“The rainbow patch on your duffle bag, the one you were carrying when you moved in.” She sucks in her bottom lip and bites down.
I forgot about that thing. “Oh.”
“Listen, it’s fine. I don’t care.” She sounds genuine, but I can’t be certain.
“Are you sure? I can put a call in to my social worker if—”
She laughs, which has to be the most inappropriate reaction ever. I’m aware that I’m glaring at her like she’s high on something, but I can’t help it. Before I can slip my features into a more innocuous expression, she reads me. It throws me. You’re losing it, kid.
She gathers herself and says, “The last foster kid my parents took in deliberately set fire to our garage. She was a total headcase—scared the shit out of me. If the worst thing about you is lesbianism, I’m relieved.” Her eyes go wide, as though she’s afraid she may have said the wrong thing. “Not that being gay is a bad thing. It’s not. It’s normal. I—”
“Avery, stop.” I throw my hands up. I don’t want her to have a political correctness-induced meltdown. “I can promise you that I’m not a pyromaniac, or a kleptomaniac, or any of those other words that have ‘maniac’ as a suffix. I want us to be cool with each other. Can we try to do that?”
“Yes.” She smiles. It’s the first time I’ve seen her authentic smile. Pretty.
“Great. So, uh, will you show me where the hell Room 232 is, please?”
“This way.”
“Your locker is on this floor. Down the hall, make a right,” Avery points out after English class is over. I follow her finger with my gaze, then settle on her face once she puts her arm down. Her eyes are striking, clear and crystalline, like photos I’ve seen of the Caribbean. Another thing about her that’s different from me. My eyes are a weird ochre color, like baby diarrhea. “I’ve got Calculus next,” she continues. “It’s in the penthouse. Life Skills is on the first floor. Will you be okay finding the room by yourself?”
I check the school map. “I think I can manage.”
“We have the same lunch block. Meet me outside the cafeteria at twelve.”
Was that a command? I should probably make it clear that I have no intention of allowing her to become my puppet master. That stuff might fly with her mindless minions, but it won’t with me. “Are you asking me or telling me?”
“I was asking. If you’d rather wander around the caf looking for people to sit with like some pathetic freshman, be my guest.”
No. That does not sound appealing at all. “I’ll meet you outside the caf.”
“See you then.” She starts to walk away. “By the way,” she calls over her shoulder, “soccer tryouts start today at three.”
Apparently, she is unable to recognize sarcasm when she hears it. I wasn’t serious about that. I only said it because I like the idea of becoming an actual athlete a lot better than the idea of becoming a cheerleader. I plan to avoid becoming either. “Thanks.” I keep my eyes on her retreating figure until she disappears from sight.
By the end of the day, I’ve realized there isn’t a single student at this school who wants to befriend me. No one in any of my classes bothered to say a word to me unless prompted to by the teacher. It was the same in the lunchroom, save for Avery, her surprisingly pleasant jock friend Jason, and a few of his bros from the football team. I know most of the guys only talked to me because they considered me fresh meat. They had the air of hungry predators who’d spotted prey. Avery shut that down real quick. “She isn’t going to fuck any of you. She’s not interested in trash.” It was funny, and preferable to her flat out announcing my sexual orientation to the entire cafeteria. That would have been mortifying. I’ve been out to myself since I was fourteen, but it’s something I like to divulge to people in my own time, on my own terms.
To add to what was probably the worst first day of school anyone has ever experienced, I didn’t have enough time to make it to my locker at any point, so I’m dragging three thick-ass text books and a plethora of paperbacks courtesy of English Honors around with me. It’s absurd that we’re only allotted five minutes between classes to make our way through, like, two thousand students and four floors. What if your B Block classroom is on the first floor and your C Block classroom is on the fourth floor—the penthouse—like mine are on Pride days? There’s no way in hell I’ll have time to make a pit stop at my locker. Three days a week I’ll be stuck lugging every last thing I need for the day unless I cut into the forty-five minutes I get for lunch.
I find my locker, number 473, and give it an inspection. I’m not thrilled about the size of it—just high and wide enough to stuff a person into. My mind cooks up a vision of me crumpled inside, barely able to scratch at the metal, my face pressed against the grates as I gasp for every breath until I die. Get it together. I put my messenger bag down on the floor and proceed to struggle with the combination lock that’s built into the door. “Goddamn stupid thing.”
“Only frosh have trouble with their lockers. You look too old to be a freshman. That must make you a transfer,” says a voice from off to my right. The locker next to mine bangs closed and my observer comes into view. She’s tall, muscular. Her hair is fiery auburn, pulled up in a high ponytail. She turns toward me, and I notice her irises are the color of emeralds; they sparkle with amusement as they comb over me. I can feel my cheeks flushing. “No shame, we’ve all been through it. Let me help you.”
I’m tempted to take her up on it, but hesitant to give my combination to a complete stranger. Like there will ever be anything in there worth stealing. “It’s 27-9-35.”
“Got it.” She maneuvers into place between me and the door, hunches down to fiddle with the lock. I note the bold orange 22 and the name Spencer on the back of her black hoodie.
She opens the locker with such ease that it makes me feel twice as dumb. She moves away from it, gestures at the thing with a flat palm, like, ‘Voila!’
“Thanks,” I whisper.
“No problem.” She offers her hand for a shake. “I’m Valerie Spencer. My friends call me Spence. I’m a senior.”
“Britton Walsh, also a senior.” I shake her offered hand, drop it a little too quickly, pick up my messenger bag and start shifting my books onto the top shelf.
“Britton, sweet name. Where’d you transfer from?”
“East Boston.”
“You’re from the city? Why’d your parents move up here?”
I always dread this moment, having to explain to everyone I meet that I don’t have parents. I’ve never even met them. They gave me away the day I was born. It hurts enough knowing that they didn’t want me; telling other people about it is excruciating. Naturally, I have an alternative to the truth, a well-researched and complex lie: Both my parents are climatologists who work for the United States Antarctic Program. They went on assignment to Palmer Station, so I’m staying with family friends until graduation. For some reason, though, I can’t bring myself to lie to her.
She contemplates me for a moment, bewildered by my silence. “Was that a hard question?”
“Mmm…”
“We don’t have to talk about it,” she says coolly. The softness in her eyes tells me she means it.
Pivot, moron. “The number on the back of your sweatshirt. What sport do you play?”
She tugs her hoodie tight against her body. Below her left clavicle is a crest, the letters BHS and a soccer ball emblazoned across it.
“Soccer. Nice.”
“Speaking of, sorry to cut our conversation short, I have to go get ready for practice.”
“Okay.”
“See ya, same place.” She begins to saunter off, but stops a few paces in and turns heel. “Do you have a Study tomorrow?”
“Um.” I scan my memory. “I do. G Block 1.”
“That’s my Study, too. Then G2 lunch.”
“Same.”
“Gotta love it, gives us an hour and a half to do whatever. I’m psyched to use my off-campus privileges, perks of surviving this shithole for three years.”
This isn’t a shithole. Roxbury Jr.-Sr. was a shithole. “Yeah.”
“You want to come with me?”
I pause, weigh the invite, and her. I can already tell that I’ll get along better with her than I ever will with Avery’s friends. And if what they say about the girls’ soccer team is true, Spence might end up being one of those allies I’m eager to make. “Sure.”
“Meet me in the parking lot tomorrow at, like, 11:20? We can take my car.”
I nod.
“Dope,” she says, then bounces down the hall toward the nearest stairwell.
“What were you doing with her?” Avery appears at my side from nowhere.
Making out in full view of every passing student, duh. “What did it look like we were doing? We were talking.”
She blinks at me. “She’s trouble.”
“Seems nice to me.” I slam my locker door, turn to her and sneer. “I’m going out to lunch with her tomorrow,” I retort, then dash away from her.
She trails behind. Once she’s close enough, she snatches my arm, stops me dead. “No, you’re not.”
Is it absolutely necessary for her to touch me? “Yes, I am.” I yank myself free from her grasp.
Her groan is almost inaudible, but it registers.
Deadpan. “What?”
Her face is a blank canvas. “I’m just trying to look out for you. You’re new here, so trust me, you’d be better off staying away from Spence.”
Spence, huh? “Why?”
She folds her arms across her chest, purses her lips together—secure as a dead-bolted door.
“I’d prefer to get to know her and decide for myself whether or not she’s ‘trouble,’ alright?”
“Fine.” She rolls her eyes. “If you’re not going to soccer tryouts, you’ll have to walk home. I’ve got cheerleading,” she says, then marches away from me.
“No skin off my ass,” I mutter under my breath and embark on my long walk to the Cahills’ house.
I’m sitting at the kitchen table reading George Orwell’s 1984 for English class when Mrs. Cahill arrives home from work. I look up from the book to find her overburdened by her briefcase and two brown paper grocery bags. I dog-ear my page and scurry over to help her. “Mrs. Cahill, let me get those for you.”
“Oh, Britton, thank you.” She offloads the bags into my arms. “And please stop calling me ‘Mrs. Cahill.’ Catelyn is fine. Cate would be better.”
I suck in a lungful of air. It’s difficult for me to get comfortable with calling adults anything other than Mr. or Mrs. So-and-So. Maybe it’s a ‘respecting my elders’ thing. Hell, I think if I ever met my birth parents, I’d call them Mr. Walsh and Ms. whatever my mother’s last name is. Jesus, that’s pathetic on so many levels.
“Cate.” I let her name slide around my mouth, tasting tiny pieces of it as though it were a food I’ve never tried before. I’m not sure whether or not I like it. I start to unload the bags, compel myself to concentrate on something other than my uneasiness.
“How was your first day of school?” she asks at my back as I’m putting a gallon of milk in the fridge.
“It was fine.”
“Just ‘fine’?”
Right? Should be an expert at first days. “Fine is better than shitty—uh, bad!” I spin around to gauge her reaction to my swearing.
Mrs. Cahill—Cate—is calm as can be. “You’re old enough to say ‘shit.’ You’ll hear Tom say worse. He’s a potty mouth, especially when he’s testing a pre-release game.” A little grin flickers into being.
To say I’m relieved would be an understatement. I used to get slapped in the mouth for cursing. Was that two foster moms ago, or three, now?
“Is there something specific you’d like for dinner?” she asks, either not noticing or overlooking my reaction. “I was thinking spaghetti and meatballs, Avery’s favorite. Do you like Italian?”
“Yes, I do.” A lot. “Spaghetti and meatballs sounds great.”
Dinner is weird. I haven’t sat down at a table for a proper meal with any of my foster families in a long time. Mr. Cahill, er, Tom, is nice. I hadn’t gotten the chance to talk with him much over my first couple of days here because he’s been crazy busy with work. He seems pretty laid-back, precisely how I expected a guy who got rich designing video games would be.
Cate and Tom are chatty, talking about their day’s grind: Cate had a debacle with a client who hadn’t divulged his tendency to cheat on his wife, thereby obliterating the prospect of an amicable divorce. Tom had to talk a graphics department intern through a mini meltdown after the lead designer told her to get the fuck out of his office, then he had to scold the lead designer for being a prick to the poor girl.
Avery is silent throughout, sitting across the table from me. She’s not spacing out, but not quite interested, either. Now and again I catch her watching me. Examining me? I wonder what’s going on in her head. She’s. . .
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