Beneath the Helmet (Beneath the Helmet #1)

Chapter One.

“Charlotte! Charlotte Rose, hurry up or you’re going to be late for school!”

“Ughhh,” I groan on my bed, staring at the ceiling.

I didn’t oversleep. I’ve already been fully dressed, with make-up on, what little I wear anyway, for the last half hour. I just don’t feel like going to school today. Senior year has been a lot, to say the least, and I’m ready for it to be over with.

Last year, I couldn’t wait to be a senior.

I had my college choices picked out for months, knew where I was going to apply, had my major pinned down, and started applying for scholarships to help cover tuition.

I had it under control, like I always do.

Everything was in order; everything was in my control, just how I liked it.

Then I became a senior and all my imaginary control flew out the window.

Rejection after rejection flooded both my virtual and physical inboxes, each one a heavier blow than the last. Now, with the end of April fast approaching, time is running out for me to be a socially accepted human instead of a societal disappointment.

The only two schools I haven’t heard back from are Wyvern University and Charle’s College, but since everyone else has gotten their acceptance letters from them both already, I figure it’s unlikely I got into those either.

I don’t know what I’m doing wrong on the college applications. Is it because my family is too well off? I haven’t been through anything that could be considered a hardship in my life so that already puts me at a disadvantage to stand out.

I’ve never had to go to the ER or been extremely ill. No one I've ever been close with has died or experienced anything significantly life changing.

Who would’ve guessed having an easy life was a bad thing? Turns out, colleges only want people with trauma. Not average people who were dealt the lucky hand.

Maybe that’s too harsh… but bitterness has consumed me, gnawing its way into every crevice of my mind day and night, leaving me with a sour personality as of late.

Plus, all my so-called friends at school have already been accepted somewhere, whether it be an elite school or a standard university, except me.

Even Julia, a B-average student, who barely slides in above their standard GPA acceptance rate, and has never volunteered for anything in her life, got into Wyvern University down the road.

How did she get accepted into college, you ask? She had bone cancer when she was seven.

Now I don’t want to sound heartless, because I’m not… I’m just frustrated right now. I mean, come on. How am I supposed to compete with that?

I’ve volunteered for the local dance academy, set up props during school plays, lead the theatre’s operations team through an entire play from start to finish, have a 3.0 grade point average and run in track and cross-country... and yet, it still isn’t good enough. What else am I supposed to do?

Ben was accepted into Oaklen, the elite school across the country, but he chose to go to Wyvern around here instead for a reason he won’t tell me. He slacks off but he still, to my confusion, has a 4.0 grade point average. The kid was born a genius.

Sudden heat sears my cheeks involuntarily at the thought of Ben. My fingertips gently brush against my skin where they burn from the heat radiating through the pores.

Anytime my body produces a reaction, I have to investigate.

I’m basically a curious hypochondriac without the fear component.

My mother’s constantly yelling at me for poking and prodding at bruises, swellings or anything that hurts on my body.

Sometimes I’ll even poke something so often it causes more pain because I’m attempting to uncover what the cause is by seeing if it still hurts when I poke it again for the millionth time.

When I tell her it hurts worse, she always retorts, “That’s because you keep poking at yourself. Stop messing with it and it’ll heal.”

“True,” I’d say, doing my standard shrug and tilt of the head in agreement, finally moving on, having had my fill of my investigation.

Because of the nitty-gritty, curious nature of my brain, I’ve decided the best career for me to pursue is forensics.

It’d be fascinating to cut open bodies to explore how bodily trauma affected the organs and cells and find the exact nature of death.

The tiniest, most unexpected things can result in sickness, or the most minute chain reactions can cause our unexpected, untimely end. The whole process exhilarates me.

A knock breaks me out of my thoughts. My mother stands in the doorway, staring at me with a warm smile. Ugh, why is my family so nice all the time?

“Charlotte, what’s wrong, honey? You’ve seemed down lately.

Is it because you haven’t gotten into any colleges yet?

You still haven’t heard from Wyvern and Charle’s!

Keep your head up, sweetie. As a matter of fact, keep your head up along with your body and your torso and the rest of ya, because you gotta leave now or else you’ll be late for school.

We can’t have that tardy on your record after you’ve gone this far without one! ”

“Ayyeee, zinger!” my father yells, peeking his head in from behind her with a wide grin slapped on.

I roll my eyes, but a reciprocal grin appears, nonetheless.

I can’t help but laugh at their goofiness.

I swear those two were a match made in heaven.

Anytime there’s an opening for a pun or a dad joke, they both pounce on it, never failing to make each other laugh.

“Shouldn’t you two be getting to work as well?” I ask, hoping it saves me from enduring another dad joke.

I grab my phone off my desk to check the time but instead get distracted by the mountain of texts coming in from my usual person, Benny Boy. My lips curl, yet again, involuntarily upwards. A motorcycle engine roars by, causing the heat to resurface on my cheeks.

“See, even Benjamin is going to beat you to school, and you don’t want that, now do you?” Mom shoots me a mischievous grin.

There she goes again. She’s always joking that Ben and I should be dating but that’d be weird. He’s never seen me that way, nor I him. And I don’t really know what love or crushes feel like, but I imagine I'd know if I had one on him, right?

Avoiding her obvious implication, I change the subject.

“Yeah, yeah. Aren’t you guys late for work now too? Make sure to drive safe.” My arm sarcastically motions toward the end of the hallway.

“It is a rather long commute. I better jump on the train and get going.” With a wave, she jumps on my dad’s back and rides him into their office down the hall, shutting the door behind them to hide the rest of their giggles.

Chuckling, I shake my head at them, grab my bag and dart down the stairs.

My parents, both best-selling authors, write in practically half the genres that exist. Mom tends to write romance and horror while my dad strays more toward thrillers and non-fictional history.

Although, she’s written more books than him.

He has a social life and takes more breaks than she does.

She doesn’t have much of a social life unless it’s hanging out with me, doing press tours or marketing her books.

That’s most likely where I get my personality from.

I love that their successful careers allow them to work from home and make their own schedules because it’s enabled them to be available for every sports meet, parent-teacher conference and important event of my entire life.

So even though they make me nauseous with their sappy love and happiness most days, I’m extremely grateful for them and hope I find a love like theirs someday.

My phone vibrates, rattling my car’s cup holder.

“You have a text from Benny Boy,” the Bluetooth in my blue Prius announces as I pull into the school parking lot.

“Read,” I instruct it, keeping my hands on the wheel.

“Yo girl, you about here? I saved you a seat, but you better hurry before Greta the troll takes it. She’s been chomping at the bit to get a bite out of me, if you know what I mean. Hurry up and come save me before it’s too late.”

I burst out laughing as I throw my car in park. Benjamin Beltre never fails to make me laugh.

He’s been my best friend since we were little.

We met because our parents both used the same babysitter, although we didn’t become friends until the day Cooper, the nastiest little boy, tried forcing me to eat dry dog food because he thought it was funny.

Laughing, he shoved a handful of it in my face and tried to pry my mouth open to eat it, but Ben stepped in and saved me.

He pushed me out of the way, snatched the dog food out of Cooper’s hand and shoved it into Cooper’s mouth instead.

We’ve been inseparable ever since. Well… mostly.

As soon as I walk into class, Ben enthusiastically waves at me and mouths the word “hi”. I approach him with a smile and study him for a second, treasuring our born-again friendship and being back to normal.

He’s such a rare breed of human. And by that, I mean he’s a contradictory sociable loner who spends most of his time in the gym lifting weights by himself or riding his motorcycle which he’s been riding since he was practically a toddler.

His parents literally gifted him a mini motorcycle when he was four years old.

And he knows everybody, and I mean everybody, and they all love to know him. I guess I see the appeal… he’s athletically fit with a six pack and a V-cut who’s ridden his motorcycle to school ever since he got his official license.

He can’t walk anywhere without someone stopping him to say hi. I always try to stand off to the side, but he pulls me in to make me feel included.

Well, when he’s allowed to be near me that is.

Curious as to why there’s the need for a restriction for him to be near me? One word.

Tree.

His on and off girlfriend. Ugh.