Not Our Summer Casie Bazay (which ebook reader .TXT) 📖

Something twitches inside my stomach, and I sit up a little straighter. “Oh… sorry.”

“It’s fine.” A beat of silence passes. “Miss Walker, I need to meet with you and your mother. We have some matters to discuss. Your grandfather’s will, namely. Your Aunt RaeLynn suggested meeting next Monday evening.”

My jaw drops open and all the moisture evaporates from my mouth. I have to clear my throat in order to answer. “Um, we can’t meet with her. I don’t know if you know, but…”

“Ah, yes. I know all about the family dispute.”

Heat crawls up my neck, making me itchy. Had Grandpa really told this man everything? “Then you should know it’s not a possibility.”

“It’s what your grandfather wanted,” Mr. Sisco says. “He was very specific in his requests.”

“Listen, you really need to talk to my mom about this.”

“Like I said, I’ve tried her phone. Several times actually. I left her a message, but she still hasn’t returned my call.”

Yeah, Mom can be bad about that sometimes. “I’ll tell her to call you,” I say. “Promise.”

“You can tell her it involves a large sum of money.”

I snort. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m quite serious, Miss Walker.”

I pull the phone away from my ear to stare at it for a moment. Is this some kind of sick prank call? I press the phone back to my ear. “Listen, I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but this isn’t funny. I gotta go.” I hang up and pull out another cigarette, rolling it between my fingers and wondering if the call was possibly legit. Grandpa had been somewhat secretive. But Mom should be the one to decide if Mr. Sisco is telling the truth or not. I push the cigarette back into the pack and slide it beneath the planter. The screen door slams behind me as I enter the trailer.

“Mom?” She doesn’t answer, but shuffling noises carry from her bedroom down the hall. I knock on her closed door.

“Yeah? Come in.”

I find her reorganizing her sock drawer—another nervous habit she’s developed over the years. She cleans when she’s stressed, or upset, or worried about something, which means our house is usually spotless. “Someone named Mr. Sisco called. He says he’s Grandpa’s lawyer.”

She closes the sock drawer and perches on the side of her bed, staring up at me anxiously. The disastrous makeup is gone, but her nose is bright red and her face, still splotchy. “And?” she asks.

“He said he needs to meet with us. To discuss the will. He also said it involves a large sum of money.”

Mom’s eyes widen, so much so that they look like they might actually pop out of her head. “So that’s the guy who’s been calling me.” She nods with the realization. “I wonder why he didn’t say so in his message.”

“No idea. You should probably call him back, though.”

“Let me use your phone.” She stretches a hand my way. “Mine’s on the charger.”

“There’s one little problem,” I say, handing it over. “We have to meet with RaeLynn, too.”

Mom’s face pales, and she squeezes the phone in her hand. Her eyes shift to the floor as her shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. “Well…” She looks thoughtful for a moment. “I guess we’ll just have to suck it up, then.”

I lean against the doorframe, trying to register what she just said. Because if I heard Mom correctly, hell has just frozen over.

CHAPTER 2BECKA

“BECKA, PASS!”

I look right to see Leah is wide open. Dribbling past the Lady Hawks defender coming at me, I make a clean pass. With little effort, Leah collects the ball and shoots, sending the ball soaring past the keeper’s outstretched hands and into the far corner of the net. Leah and I fist bump before jogging back toward center field.

“Nice assist, Cowles,” Coach yells from the sidelines.

Yes, it was, thank you very much. Eyes focused on the opposing forward about to kick off, I get back into my game stance.

“Go Becka,” someone yells from the stands, and I swear it sounds so much like my little brother, I have to turn and look.

Wham! The soccer ball smacks me hard in the chest, just above my left boob. I grit my teeth before anything can come out of my mouth. I don’t know who yelled my name, but it wasn’t Ricky. Of course it wasn’t Ricky. What on earth is wrong with me? Grandpa’s funeral must be messing with my head.

Whitney’s already covering my slack and dribbling upfield. I shake off the pain and move forward. A Hawks defender steals the ball from Whitney, pounding it all the way back to our defense. Dang it. I wheel around and run in the opposite direction just in time to see our keeper has snatched up the ball. I jog backward, preparing for the punt. It could be my ball again any second. My left pec still stings like the devil, but I try to stay focused.

Head in the game, I tell myself. Head in the game.

Sure enough, it soars straight to me. I trap the ball with my thigh and dribble upfield. Our forwards are covered up by Hawks defense, and two midfielders are headed my way fast. I fake right, then touch the ball left, trying to throw them off, but they’re not falling for it. Number forty-seven—the tall girl—matches my stride, preparing to make a swipe for the ball. It’s now or never. I make the shot, but my foot connects all wrong and the ball goes flying out of bounds, nowhere near the goal. The crowd groans and I squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t believe I blew it like that.

The Hawks are setting up for a goal kick when three whistle blasts pierce the warm evening air. I blow out a breath, a certain emptiness filling up my chest instead. We won. Barely. Not that I had much to do with it.

Coach doesn’t say a word about my missed shot. He knows I came straight