Page 37 of Unsupervised
“It’s better than a car!” I exclaim. I can’t wait to get it out for a ride.
Sasha reaches in the truck and pulls out a helmet, handing it to me. It’s black with yellow sunflowers painted on. “And thank you!” I tell her, hugging her again. “I can’t believe you guys did this!”
Trey grins, his arms crossed across his chest. “Go ahead, take it around the circle a couple of times. You don’t want to get it out on the road until you get it insured, registered, and plated. His gaze meets mine. “In your name.”
My heart swells in my chest. He knows what that means to me. It’s mine. No one can use it to control me or show up to take it back years later.
The whole neighborhood watches as I take off and drive it around Violent Circle. The next half hour is spent giving my friends and the neighborhood kids a ride. When I finally park it in front of my apartment, Trey waves to me, letting me know they’re getting ready to leave.
“I love it! I need to name it. How about Sunshine or Sunny or…I don’t know,” I babble.
Trey laughs and shakes his head. “Just keep in mind it only goes about fifty miles per hour, so keep it off the highway. And always wear your helmet.”
“I promise.”
“Birthday girl,” Owen says, handing me a shot and a glass of beer.
“We’re going to go,” Trey says. “Have fun. Not too much. I don’t need a call to pick your naked, drunk ass up in the middle of the night.”
“I was not naked!”
Laughter echoes around us, and I join the party as Trey and Sasha head home.
Two hours later, I am drunk. Way drunk. More than I’ve ever been. I’m also having the best time. The kids have long since been sent inside and it’s all adults in the playground, some surrounding the portable firepit, and others gathered around the giant metal container of mud.
No one seems to notice when I walk a few steps away and take out my phone. I’ve heard of alcohol making you want to text an ex, but I sure don’t have that urge. I want to text a teacher.
A gorgeous, sweet teacher who gives me a ride when I’m stranded in a storm and learns the piano just to please his sick grandmother. Chuckling to myself, I add his name as TILF to my contacts from my note app where I had hurriedly copied down his number. This is probably a mistake, but it doesn’t keep me from impulsively sending him a message.
Me: I’m twenty today. Is that old enough?
A few seconds pass before I get a reply.
TILF: Kelly?
Oh my god, he answered. I need to play it cool. Don’t let him know I’m wasted.
Me: That’s Ms. Bryant to you remember?
Ha! Take that great kisser who doesn’t want to kiss me again.
TILF: How did you get my number?
Uh-oh. Do I lie?
Me: Work. Don’t get me fired Mr. Aldrich.
Apparently, inebriated Kelly doesn’t lie.
TILF: You’re texting me. I think you can call me Layton.
Me: I bet you get laid a ton.
Giggles spill out of me at my stupid joke.
TILF: Are you drunk?
Me: Psshh. Of course not. I’m only twenty, remember? Too young to drink or kiss sexy teachers.