Page 52 of Whatever It Takes

“Is called Penn State,” Lo explains. “If you say, ‘I go to Penn’ around here, most people will assume it’s not Penn State.”

“And if they don’t, who the fuck cares,” Ryke finishes. He also flashes the middle finger to the cameraman outside my window. “He’s too close to her.”

“I’ll get out and go around to her door,” Lo tells him. “You pop the trunk and grab the first box.” At this, both of them open their car doors and climb out. Flashes bombard them, along with a barrage of voices.

I unbuckle and scoot towards the door that Loren nears.

“Back up,” Loren tells them before opening my door and letting me out. I squeeze between him and a camera lens.

“What’s your name?!”

“How do you know Loren and Ryke?!”

“Who are you dating?!”

My shoulders curve forward at each incoming question, and I clutch my backpack strap, pulling it closer to my body.

Loren leaves my side to grab my second cardboard box, and I follow close by, as instructed. I trip a little over my feet and barely catch myself, avoiding a collision into Lo.

Do not fall, especially on your brother that you recently met.

Unfortunately, I’m most clumsy when I’m nervous.

It’s a horrible attribute. I wouldn’t wish it on my enemy, but then again, I doubt my enemies would ever feel nervous enough to be clumsy.

Ryke slams the trunk closed, and then we head towards the sidewalk. A cameraman sprints in front of me and walks backwards as he films. “What’s your name?!” he asks over the other paparazzi.

“She’s my cousin,” Loren lies with a dark glare. “So watch what you say and do.” He stuffs a hand in his pocket, the action casual but somehow threatening.

About this time, we reach the sidewalk, a direct shot to the glass double doors of the apartment complex. Lo said they can’t follow us inside. So I practically hold my breath in anticipation of ditching the eight—no,twelvecameramen that flank us.

And then, the weight on my shoulder goes from slightly heavy to very, very light—followed by acrashand acrack!I freeze in place and look down at the cement, wide-eyed at my backpack’s contents.

Shit. The bottom of my backpack ripped.

And my laptop…I’m about to bend down to check it, but I notice other items that litter the sidewalk.

Like an extra T-shirt and shorts for overnight “crashing in my car” purposes. An extra pair ofpanties—these really childish looking blue pair with purple hearts.

Lots of highlighters, sticky notes, and pens.

What’s most abundant:tampons.And not just one or two. There is an entireboxof pink plastic-wrapped applicators. I know this because I bought a box recently, dumped it into my backpack, and thought nothing of it.

I tense up, locked in a shell-shocked state, most likely ghostly pale.

My heart plummets, leaving a hollow hole in its place. My brother—anewbrother—and his intimidating half-brother plant their gazes on me. And to make it worse: I’m surrounded by men with cameras who will no doubt post this on the internet.

I’m not ready to be a meme.Oh my God.

I can’t move. I can’t squat. I just stare like maybe this moment will rewind itself, and my jean backpack won’t rip apart.

“Oh shit,” one of the cameramen laughs.

I barely register Loren’s murderous glare, plastered on the camera guy. He shrinks back a little and holds up a hand in surrender.

And then Ryke sets down his box.What is he doing—

No!