Saving The Shortstop (The Good Girls of NE University #3)

Prologue

DALLAS

My stomach aches, feeling so empty inside that it almost burns, and I feel sick.

I’m lightheaded, but I take a sip of water from the paper cup the teacher put on my desk halfway through class.

I don’t bother looking around at all the fancy water bottles on other kids’ desks because what would be the point in that?

The school has throw-away cups beside the fountain, and they work fine for me. I don’t want water though; I want food.

Paper after paper gets dropped down onto each desk surrounding me as Mrs. Whitaker makes her way around the room. I barely remember what the test she’s returning from yesterday was about. All I know is it had to do with a book the class read.

Or was supposed to read.

“If anyone has questions on their grade, please come see me at the beginning of class tomorrow. If you feel like you can do better, I’ll allow a retake,” she finally says, her hands now empty as she returns to her desk.

Wow. I sucked so bad that I don’t even get a paper back. It was garbage, so that’s probably where it is.

At the bell signaling it’s time for PE, everyone begins gathering up their things and bolting toward the door. Lucky for me, I’m as close to invisible as it gets, so no one noticed that I didn’t get a test back.

It takes every bit of my energy to get up, even though the room is empty now. I look at the clock and sigh when I see there’s still another hour and a half till lunch. I’ll make it through though … I always do.

Before I have a chance to get up, Mrs. Whitaker walks toward me, now holding a paper in her hand.

Maybe it wasn’t good enough for the garbage after all, but I’m sure there’s a reason I didn’t get mine back when everyone else did. And I’m pretty sure it’s not because I did great.

When she reaches my desk, she sinks down, kneeling before me. Her eyes look sad, so right away, I know it’s bad. But instead of sliding it toward me, she keeps it against her chest.

“I let Mr. Mason know you’d be late for gym class,” she says kindly. “Dallas, how do you think the test yesterday went?” she asks softly. “Did you struggle?”

I try to think back to yesterday, but my brain just won’t work. I know I did it. I remember sitting down, writing some things on the paper, but that’s about it.

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “Sorry.”

She gives me a tiny smile, but it’s pathetic and sad, and it doesn’t do anything to make me feel better. Looking down for a second, she inhales a shallow breath before lifting her gaze again.

“I’ve reached out to your parents quite a few times.” Her voice isn’t a whisper, though she speaks lower than she normally does. “Have they said anything about that? Anything about my messages?”

This is a conversation teachers have with me each year.

They can never seem to get ahold of my mom and dad, which isn’t surprising because my dad comes and goes, returning only when he has no other place to go, and my mom …

well she’s in pain a lot and hardly ever leaves the house.

She has to take medicine to make her feel better, but that medicine makes her stay in her room.

“Dallas, you can talk to me, okay?” she whispers, and I know she feels bad for me. I hate it. I hate the way she’s looking at me, so I look down.

“My mom hasn’t felt good,” I say, and it’s not a lie. I don’t think, anyway. “I’ll talk to her when I get home about it though.”

That part was a lie. I know better than to go into my mom’s room when she’s in bed. She gets angry—or she’s so sleepy that she can’t wake up to answer me.

“What about your dad, sweetie?” Her voice stops, but quickly, she asks another question. “Do you think your dad could speak with me?”

“No,” I utter, looking down at my hands. My stomach rumbles so deeply that it actually hurts. “My dad is away right now.”

I wouldn’t want her to talk to my dad anyway. He’d be angry at being bothered over this, and he’d no doubt beat the crap out of me to show me how pissed he was.

She’s quiet for a bit, and just when I’m considering getting up, her hand touches mine for a split second before she removes it.

“Dallas, I’d really like to set up some tests for you to do.

Tests that would help us figure out where you need extra help to make schoolwork more enjoyable.

” When my eyes float to hers, she’s looking at me.

“You’re such a bright boy, but there’s something that is stumping you when it comes to ELA class.

And I think it’s only fair to you if we figure out what that something is. ”

“Okay?” I say with a shrug. “When do I have to do the tests?”

Deep down, I know tests won’t help me. I’m just not smart like my classmates are. Tests won’t change anything. But Mrs. Whitaker has always been so nice to me. So I’ll listen.

She grimaces. It’s tiny, but it’s there.

“Well, that’s the thing. We need your parents’ consent.” She pauses, swallowing. “And we can’t seem to reach them.”

“Oh,” I say, nodding like it’s no big deal.

Like it’s normal for a nine-year-old’s mom and dad not to care what happens to their kid during the day, as long as they don’t have to deal with him.

Then again, there are days when I don’t go to school at all because I’m too hungry, or too dirty when our water is shut off. And my parents never once notice.

When her eyes are still on me, I fidget with my fingers under my desk. “I’ll talk to my mom today,” I mumble, lying through my teeth.

I feel her gaze on me for a moment, probably seeing if I’m lying before finally, she stands up straight.

“Hey, Dallas?”

“Yeah?” I utter, not looking up.

“Do you like chocolate chip cookies?” she asks, her voice now lighter. “Because if you do … well, I made some last night, and my husband is on a diet, so I had to bring them with me to get rid of them. Would you like a few?”

Maybe she feels bad because she hears my stomach rumbling.

Perhaps she knows I’m the kid whose only meal is at school.

Whatever it is, I don’t care. Because when I look back at her, I’m doing my best to smile as I tell her I love chocolate chip cookies.

Because the thought alone of eating anything—let alone a cookie—has my mouth watering.

My mom’s never made cookies before. The ones the lunch ladies make are like hockey pucks. So I can’t wait to try a homemade one. I’m so glad I don’t have to wait till lunch time either.