Never Gonna Tell

  * * * *

  Never Gonna Tell

  Copyright © 2015 by Sarah M. Ross

  Cover design by Regina Wamba of Mae I Design and Kelsey at K- Keeton Photography

  Editing by Tawdra Kandle of Hayson and

  Kristina Circelli of Red Road Editing

  Formatting by JT Formatting

  ISBN:

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Sarah M. Ross

  NOTHING BUT BLACKNESS surrounds me. I can’t move. Why can’t I move? A shiver runs through me, both from fear and the cold of the ground below me. The air is stale and smells like the earth as I try to take a deep breath. I instantly know I’m inside of something, or maybe under something. “Hello?” I call, my voice shaking and barely above a whisper. No one answers. I try again, a little louder, as I fight back tears. The only sound I hear is my heart pounding in my tightened chest, the noise filling my head. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

  I blink, my eyes adjusting to the darkness, but still I can’t see a thing. Pain radiates through my arm and head, but fear pulses stronger. The air around me grows thick and heavy. Sweat trickles down my face. My clammy hand trembles like a leaf in the wind as I stretch forward, feeling for something—anything. “Calm down,” I command my nerves. “It’s going to be okay.” But even I don’t believe my lies.

  I move, just an inch, to test my arm. The pain is still throbbing, but it’s manageable enough to try to get out from … wherever I am. Taking another stale breath, my right hand reaches out and connects with something hard and scratchy. Wood? It’s all around me, maybe a foot or so away. I push against it as hard as I can with one hand, but it doesn’t budge.

  I’m trapped. I can’t move and I want to scream. It’s bubbling up inside, but I quash it back down. Screaming will only let them know I’m awake. That I’m alive. Panic begs to take over, to take control, but I need to get out of here before that happens. I want to take a deep breath, but can’t. There isn’t any to fill my lungs. But there has to be air coming from somewhere or I’d be dead by now, I remind myself. And that’s all I need. I focus on keeping my breathing even, counting each breath. After reaching thirty, I reach up again, trailing the tips of my fingers along the wood, hoping to find a handle or knob, but there is only a large, flat, solid piece of wood.

  This is it. My worst fear is coming to life. Everything I worked for, everything I sacrificed, was for naught. My mom and dad’s faces pop into my mind as tears well in my eyes. I was so stupid. So foolish to think that I was doing the right thing. Now look where that’s gotten me.

  I’m going to die tonight. I’m sure of that now. All because I vowed that I was never gonna tell.

  IF DANTE ALIGHIERI were alive today, I’m pretty sure he would add an eighth layer of hell: high school. People always say that your senior year of high school is the greatest time of your life and you should savor every moment, but I’m pretty sure those people are smoking something. In extremely large doses.

  Between the catty girls who would sooner claw your eyes out than offer a smile and the guys whose every last brain cell is either focused on sports or getting laid, I’d rather have skipped these four years entirely. I’d go right to college where thinking outside the box is encouraged and finding likeminded people who share your interests is actually possible. I glance up at the clock and sigh. Will this day—hell, this year—ever end?

  And it’s only the third week of school. Ugh.

  “Hey,” the girl behind me whispers. I can’t remember her name. She’s one of the stoners, and I’m surprised she’s even in class today. Most days she doesn’t bother.

  I look up from my notebook that contains no notes, only doodles, and turn toward her, raising my eyebrows as if to say, “What?”

  “No, not you. I don’t even know you.” She glances over my shoulder to the girl seated in front of me. “Hey, Hailey, you goin’ to Noah’s party tonight?”

  Of course she’s not talking to me. I sigh and stop listening to their hushed conversation and try to figure out where we are in the textbook. I’ve been attending Jefferson High School here in Hope Mills, Tennessee for the last two years, and I’m pretty sure there are a total of five people who even know my name, including teachers.

  I’m okay with that. I like it that way.

  I’m sitting in senior English as Mrs. Timmons drones on and on about Beowolf and Grendel. As I glance around the room, only two students are even paying attention, and based on the blank stares as she asks about the symbolism of the grand banquet, I’m ninety-nine percent sure only one actually read the book. Everyone else in the class, myself included, most likely just saw the movie with Angelina Jolie instead. I’m still not sure why teachers assign books from hundreds of years ago. They know we’re just going to watch the movie. Besides, fiction is not my thing. Give me the Washington Post or Chicago Sun Times over a cheesy romance novel any day.

  “Reagan? Are you paying attention? Can you answer the question, please?”

  My head shoots up to see Mrs. Timmons staring daggers at me through the top of her wire-rimmed glasses and tapping her foot impatiently. She’s one year away from retirement and actually has a countdown on the bulletin board behind her desk. I don’t blame her.

  “Um, can you repeat it?”

  She sighs. “I said, ‘Who foreshadows war and death in Geatland?’”

  My hands deftly flip through the worn paperback trying to find the right page. Crap. Was that John Malkovich’s character?

  The gods shine upon me, and I am granted a reprieve as the bell rings and the whole class stands in
unison to leave. I smile dimly at Mrs. Timmons as I grab my backpack and head to the door.

  “Be prepared to answer tomorrow, Reagan,” Mrs. Timmons calls as I shuffle my way through the throngs of students heading to the cafeteria for lunch. In that one brief moment when the bell rings, the entire student body goes from lethargic to full of life. I mean, who wouldn’t bubble with anticipation at the thought of school cafeteria food? It is Taco Tuesday, after all.

  My phone buzzes in my back pocket, but I don’t bother to pull it out right away. Only one person would text me in the middle of the day—my best friend, Charlie. Charlie and I grew up next door to each other in Baltimore, and we bonded in elementary school when we both tried to stake a claim on the hidden corner of the playground that the teacher couldn’t see. I wanted to color alone without being disturbed, and Charlie wanted to hide so he didn’t get beaten up. Seemed the other third graders weren’t very open-minded when Charlie wanted to play with My Little Ponies and Barbies instead of monster trucks and GI Joes.

  Ducking into an alcove, I slip out my phone and laugh aloud when I read the three lines of text: “2 hrs of Calc HWK? Ain’t nobody got time 4 that! Project Runway premieres 2night! SMDH.”

  A few people turn and stare at my outburst but continue on without so much as a “hello” or “what’s your problem?”

  I type out a quick reply, “The inhumanity of it all.” I’m still smiling as I enter the cafeteria. I don’t have a lot of friends, and none truer than Charlie. Charlie was a foster kid who bounced around from group home to group home for years. When my family decided to move here, it didn’t take much convincing for my mom and dad to become his foster parents so he could come with us. He practically lived at our house anyway. We just made it official.

  Weaving through the cafeteria, I don’t bother to pay much attention to the happenings around me, but it’s hard not to notice Vincent Gumble standing on the table, shoving six peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in his mouth to the cheers of his friends. Shaking my head, I make my way to the end of the line, trying not to cringe at whatever is sticky on the bottom of my tray while I impatiently wait behind the offensive line of the football team as they heave spoonfuls of food onto already-overloaded plates.

  I smile at the redhead now squeezing in beside me, knocking one of the football players out of the way and looping our arms together. “Seeing what they attempt to pass as food around here reinforces my decision to become a vegan every day. You know I only endure this house of ill repute for you and Charlie.”

  Kally is a self-proclaimed hippy, my next-door neighbor, and one of the six people here who know who I am.

  “Right about now, Kal, I’m thinking of joining you,” I laugh. “I can still have bacon if I’m vegan, right?”

  She scrunches her nose in disgust before going ahead of me in line and grabbing an apple, placing a second on my tray. The coins from her Turkish hip scarf clink against the metal serving line as she skips along, eyeing today’s selection. “Ugh. Gross. I have no idea how you eat that stuff.”

  I met Kally the first day I moved to Hope Mills. Charlie and I were unpacking boxes from the U-Haul when she came bouncing over, immediately engulfed me in a hug, and told me that my aura was the most beautiful shade of blue/green she’d ever seen, and she just knew we’d be friends. I love that she couldn’t care less what people think about her, that she always finds a silver lining, and that she totally gets that I’m an introvert. She’s never upset that I’d rather eat alone sometimes and don’t always want to hang out for hours after school.

  “I could say the same about your tofu and bean sprouts.” I pretend to make gagging sounds, eliciting looks from a few people around me. “So are you ready for the Calc quiz next period?”

  Kally shakes her head. “I’m leaving early for the day.”

  “What? Why?”

  “My parents and I are going away to Cassadaga, Florida for their annual Autumn Solstice festival. I’m so excited. They’re going to have dozens of spiritualists and amazing mediums doing readings this year. And of course there’s the haunted walking tour at midnight. Last year, there were so many spirits who came out and made their presence known. It really is a magical time of year. Do you want to come with?”

  Her parents are free spirits like her, valuing “life experiences” much more than the institutionalization of classroom learning. They also opt her out of the standardized tests each year, claiming that the capacity of children’s minds can’t be measured by filling in bubbles on a scantron.

  I skip over the questionable meat they’re calling “tacos” and add my usual slice of burnt pizza and Diet Mountain Dew to my tray, handing a crumpled five to the cashier. “Sadly, I’m only a muggle.”

  Kally giggles, pointing out an empty table near the back of the cafeteria. “I heard they have this town elder who’s a hundred and eight years old. He makes this amazing paste out of herbs you can only get in the rainforest of Peru, and it’s supposed to be amazing for opening your chakras. And great for the skin, too. I’ll bring some back for you.”

  “Me, too?” Charlie slides in the seat next to me.

  “As if I could ever forget you!” Kally kisses him on the cheek.

  “How long will you be gone?” I ask, popping the tab of my soda.

  “A few weeks. Maybe more depending on if my parents want to stop by New Orleans on their way back and visit my aunt. But I’ll have my cell—though I’m not sure how great the coverage is down there.” She pops a grape from her fruit salad in her mouth.

  Charlie pouts. “But you’re going to miss the Project Runway premiere. And then I’ll be stuck watching it with this one.” He juts his thumb out, pointing at me.

  Kally cringes. “I’m sorry, Charlie. Save it and we’ll do a marathon when I get back? I’m only going to miss two episodes. Three at the most.” She gives him her best puppy-dog eyes.

  Charlie’s still pouting, but I know him too well. He’s just making her work for it. “Fine. But only for you. And to get out of having to justify to Reagan why you can’t pair chiffon and flannel each week.”

  Kally nods in sympathy. “She really is a disaster.”

  “Hey!” I protest, hiding my smirk with a bite of apple. They’re totally right. I am a fashion disaster.

  “All right, you two, I’m off to Florida.” She stands, gathering up her apple core and putting it in a baggie, no doubt for her compost pile at home.

  “Bye, Kally. And hey, if you see Bruce Willis on your ghost tour, just remember that he doesn’t know he’s already dead!”

  She rolls her eyes before disappearing from view, leaving only the tink-tink sound of her bells behind.

  “That girl is too much,” Charlie laughs. “You think she really will communicate with the dead?”

  I take a bite of my apple. “I highly doubt that.”

  “Maybe that should be your next story—investigating that place. Send her in with a hidden camera or something.”

  It’s an interesting idea, but I brush it aside. “Nah. She’d never go for it. Besides, I already have big story I’m working on.”

  Charlie lathers mayo on his burger and nods. “Oh, yeah. How’s that going?”

  My nose crinkles as I think of how much research I have yet to do on it. “Ugh. Slowly. I’m having a hard time coming up with anything concrete. It’s frustrating the crap out of me.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  I sigh. “No. But thanks. I just need to keep digging. Speaking of, I should go work on it now.” I stand up, taking my tray with me. “Meet you at my locker after school to walk home?”

  “You bet.”

  Back in the solace of my favorite hidey-hole—the school newspaper office—I set my food on the desk before digging in my book bag for the notes I’ve been working on for my story. I’m the only person who works at the paper. Everyone else thinks that it lost funding and had to be shut down a few years ago.

  It did.

  So the once-bus
tling office sits empty in the south corridor of the school, and it’s the perfect place for me to work alone and uninterrupted. I’m determined to revive the paper, even if I have to do everything myself, and a thousand questions from a faculty advisor is the last thing I need right now. Last year, I tried to go through the proper channels to restore the paper—talking to the PTA, guidance counselors, and the front office—but without much student interest and no money in the budget, my efforts were futile.

  This year, I’m not even going to bother asking permission. I borrowed—okay, stole—the copy codes of several teachers, and once I have a few features written, I’ll publish online and print out a few copies anonymously. It’s not about me getting credit; it’s about getting the story out.

  Journalism is my purpose. My happy place. My future. Sometimes I think being normal and having a large group of friends to hang out with at the mall or whatever would be nice, but I’ve never been normal. I’m not interested in celebrity gossip or fashion trends. I watch Dateline with a big bowl of popcorn like other girls watch The Vampire Diaries. Lester Holt is way sexier than Damon Salvatore. (Okay, not even Charlie agrees with me on that one, but the heart wants what the heart wants.)

  I take a quick bite of pizza, careful not to let the still bubbling cheese burn the roof of my mouth, and go over my notes from the previous day. I’m a journalist—or at least that’s what I plan to be when I get out of high school. And not the cheesy morning show anchor reporters or even the six o’clock news kind. No, I want to be a serious journalist who uncovers corruption and secrets for the world to see, like Woodward and Bernstein did during Watergate—minus the bad seventies haircuts.

  I’ve been observing people for as long as I can remember. I’m fascinated by what people will do when they think no one is watching. It amazes me how many people in this civilized world still pick their noses because they think no one will know.

  When I was little, I would sneak out of bed and just sit on the top of the steps in the hallway for hours, watching my mom and dad downstairs. Usually they were doing mundane tasks like washing the dishes, arguing, or making out on the couch (which, for the record, they still do, and it still grosses me out). It helps that I’m shy and quiet—no one notices me and I easily slip off the radar. All the better to watch you, m’dear.