Don't Look Behind You (Don't Look Series Book 1) Emily Kazmierski (ereader that reads to you TXT) 📖

Home.

My eyes threaten to well over, but I force the tide back. I can’t arrive for my first day of school with puffy eyes and splotchy skin. I get into the passenger side of Aunt Karen’s sedan once she unlocks it and click my seatbelt into place.

Despite the ocean of sadness that washes over me, I’m relieved to be out of the old house that has been in the family since it was built in the 1940s. The white paint peeling off the clapboard siding and the weathered front porch testify to the truth of it. Against the side of the aged structure, the AC unit shudders as it tries to keep pace with the climbing heat.

I look up at the house, all of its windows and blinds shut against the outside.

As Aunt Karen backs out of the driveway, something in my chest loosens. I’m nervous about going to a new school where I won’t know anyone, but it’s got to be better than that house, where every move I make is catalogued and deconstructed. The idiom walking on eggshells has never been so concrete in my mind as now.

The car moves down the street past orchard after orchard of almond trees. Apparently, it’s the town’s major crop, along with milk. This side of town is all farm land; the other side flooded by the sea of black and white cows at the dairy. You can smell the stench from the freeway.

In town, we pass the grocery store, a big box store, barber shop, furniture store, boutique dress shop, a beauty parlor with faded photos in the windows, and a coffee shop/diner. That’s it—that’s the entire town.

I make quick work of my breakfast, wadding up the foil wrapper and tucking it into my pocket. Aunt Karen wouldn’t like me leaving it in the car’s spotless interior.

The school looks pretty much how it did during orientation a couple days ago. A long, single storey white building with a gymnasium at one end. A knight on a horse is painted on the side of the gym over a banner saying, “Go Lancers!” Behind that is the football stadium, which looks well-kept even though the metal bleachers are ancient.

The parking lot is separated into two sections: the teachers’ cars mostly sedans and minivans, while the student lot is full of trucks with extended cabs. Many are downright filthy, hinting at the popular pastimes of rodeos and off-roading. I wrinkle my nose as Aunt Karen pulls to a stop right in front of the main building.

Every student standing on the sidewalk turns to gape as I unbuckle my belt and move to open the door.

Aunt Karen stops me with a firm hand on my arm. “Do you have your recorder?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Unzipping the front pouch of my new backpack, I unbury the small silver device and turn it on, careful to keep it low enough that no one outside the car can see it.

“Don’t forget to check it between classes to make sure it’s still going.” Her tone is admonishing.

“Don’t worry, okay? I won’t forget.” I know how important it is.

She watches me for a beat. “I’ll be here to pick you up after school. Wait right out front.”

I promise to comply before climbing out of the car. She doesn’t pull away as I move toward the clump of students on the front steps. Their conversations hush as I draw closer. All eyes are on me—the new girl.

I try to muster a small smile, but one by one their expressions register my face and flick away, as if they’re afraid to stare. My hand comes up to cover the white scar that cuts a line from my left nostril all the way to my hairline. Dropping my chin, I let my hair fall in front of my face like a curtain.

The metallic blue front door flies open, almost knocking me in the head. I gasp, jumping back.

“Crap. Sorry. I’m sorry! Megan?”

My reddened face whips up to lock on the boy who just tried to murder me with a door. The gangly boy with an anime tee and thick black plastic glasses frames gives me a sheepish smile. Adjusting the backpack strap he’s got slung over one shoulder, he holds out a hand. “I’m Noah Lopez, your student liaison. Welcome to Valley High.” He steps back, motioning for me to go through the door he holds open.

We step into the administration building. The aisle passes the high counter manned by a secretary and out the other side to the open-air courtyard.

My heart is staging a revolt in my chest cavity. I can do this. I can.

The secretary gives me a warm smile. “Good morning! I gave Noah here your schedule. He’ll show you around, okay, hon? And don’t be afraid to ask if you need anything.”

“Thanks.” The middle-aged woman’s warmth is a sharp contrast to the chilly reception I got outside, making me wonder if someone started a school-wide game of Hot and Cold I don’t know about.

“How’d you know my name?” I ask Noah as we pass through the courtyard. Low hills of dead grass roll between the concrete walkways, each mound crested by a sapling supported by wooden stakes, like miniature kingdoms guarded by groups of students. Nearest us, a jock catches sight of me and turns to whisper in his buddy’s ear. A ripple goes through the open space, and my ears flame.

Hopeful for some semblance of normalcy, I ignore the clamminess in my palms. Resist the urge to cover my face in my hands.

Noah chuckles. “You’re the first new kid we’ve had since Joey Donner moved here in third grade. Small towns, you know?”

“Right. Is this the part where you ask me all about where I’m from and stuff?”

“I figure you’ll tell me all about that whenever you’re ready to. Being new must be tough.” The smile the boy throws my way makes me relax a fraction.

The morning light glows behind the apple green leaves of the