The Natural History of Us

  The Natural History of Us

  RACHEL HARRIS

  Copyright © 2016 by Rachel Harris

  First Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by in any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the publisher, except in cases of a reviewer quoting brief passages in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Use of any copyrighted, trademarked, or brand names in this work of fiction does not imply endorsement of that brand.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available upon request

  Published in the United States by Spencer Hill Press

  www.SpencerHillPress.com

  Distributed by Midpoint Trade Books

  www.midpointtrade.com

  Cover design by: Lorin Taylor

  Interior layout by: Lorin Taylor

  ISBN 978-1-633920-68-2 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-633920-69-9 (e-book)

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Megan Rigdon,

  whose enthusiasm and heart

  influenced every page,

  and for Mindy Ruiz,

  who inspired such a vital part

  of this story.

  Thank you both for the gift

  of your friendship.

  Also By Rachel Harris

  Spencer Hill Press

  The Fine Art of Pretending

  Entangled Publishing for Teen Readers

  My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century

  A Tale of Two Centuries

  My Not So Super Sweet Life

  Entangled Publishing for Adult Readers

  The Love & Games Series

  Taste the Heat

  Seven Day Fiancé

  Accidentally Married on Purpose

  The Country Blue Series

  You’re Still the One

  MONDAY, MAY 12TH

  3 Weeks until Graduation

  ♥Senior Year

  PEYTON

  FAMILY AND CONSUMER SCIENCES 1:30 P.M.

  They say that once rodeo gets into your blood, you’re never the same.

  The scent of sunbaked dirt and salty popcorn, the thunder of hooves pounding the earth. Dust circling the air and coating your tongue, wind biting at your cheeks. It becomes a part of your DNA. Supple leather reins leave their mark on your fingertips, and regardless of where you are or what you’re doing, you can simply close your eyes and hear the crowd scream as you make that final turn. Ghosts from riders past whisper in your ear, daring you to give it everything you’ve got, to push yourself to your very limits.

  It’s exhilaration and devastation. An addiction, really. Rodeo used to be my entire life, and I was awesome at it.

  Heck, some even said I was on par to becoming one of the best barrel-racers in our circuit. But that was before. Three years ago, my weak body forced me to admit what I’d feared and fought ever since I rolled out of the hospital a few months before—it was all over.

  Well, until now, that is.

  As classmates stream through the open door, dropping backpacks and gossip about their fun-filled weekends, I copy the words I just read on Rodeo America’s website into my notebook:

  Barrel racing clinics are a growing trend. Day camps for professionals and fans on the rise. Businesses boasting HUGE profits.

  Those last two words? Yeah, they pretty much glow in flashing neon. In fact, they’re the only reason I’m not completely freaking out about Mom’s idea, frantically scouring the internet for a different option. Any other option.

  After a quick glance around the room, making sure no teachers are about, I grab my phone and pull up my messages. Countless conversations about dog food, horse shampoo, and YouTube scroll across the screen. Faith thinks it’s absolutely vital to alert me whenever inspiration hits for her popular web channel... even if it’s three A.M.

  When I find the last group text, my frantic S.O.S. from this morning, I type with shaking fingers: Crap on moldy toast. This time, Mom’s onto something.

  I eagerly wait for a dose of positivity, a little “Hey, this ain’t so bad” from the two people who truly understand, who get my fears, and startle when a thunk comes from the desk behind me.

  “Where were you all weekend? Didn’t see you at any parties.”

  I choke back the retort that jumps to my tongue: Maybe because I wasn’t invited to any?

  My New Year’s resolution was to end senior year with less snark, so I spin around, choosing instead to share the fascinating details of Sparky-the-carsick-Doberman dousing me in doggy-phlegm.

  “Somewhere better than another vapid rager,” Lauren Hays replies, beating me to the punch.

  Okay, so clearly, Melissa wasn’t speaking to me. Evidence being that she never speaks to me, and she’s currently staring at Lauren. Usually, prolonged contact with the dance captain/class president/girl-half-responsible-for-decimating-my-heart-freshman-year is something I avoid at all costs, but I can’t help grinning at her word choice.

  Vapid. Now there’s a word that doesn’t get enough play.

  Lauren catches my smile and curls her lip as if she’s smelled something foul, which you’d think would make me look away. It doesn’t. I smile wider and she rolls her eyes, leaning back against the desk as she adjusts the waistband of her uniform skirt.

  “My sister invited me out to Padre,” she says, raising her hem an inch.

  At the mention of the elder Hays and former head Diamond Doll, Melissa’s eyes go wonky wide. As the two begin rehashing their weekend exploits (who they hooked up with, who saw it happen, and what drama erupted because of it), I turn back around.

  My family’s broke, we’re seconds away from selling our ranch, and the one thing that can save it—save us—happens to involve my worst nightmare. Any more drama and my freaking head may explode.

  I glance down and stare at my phone, willing it to buzz with a message. I’m in serious need of Faith’s balls-to-the-wall confidence and Cade’s perpetual optimism. When it stares back, dark and silent, I blow out a breath and clench my hands into tight fists under the desk.

  Inhale, two, three, four. Unclench. Exhale, two, three, four.

  The exercise has become my security blanket. Working my muscles, clenching and unclenching them into submission, reminds me that I’m strong. That I do have some control. Even when it feels as though my life is spinning out of it.

  No one admits it, of course, but I’m the reason for our financial crisis. My medical bills cut a bleeding hole through my parents’ savings and it’s obviously getting worse because they’ve been at it every night, huddled around bank statements and steaming mugs of coffee. They’ve talked about selling my great grandfather’s land, downsizing the boarding business, even making career changes. But when they brought up the rodeo school last night, it was the first time I heard excitement in their voices. Of course, they had no clue I was eavesdropping. They prefer keeping me in virtual bubble-wrap, not wanting me to worry. But I do listen, I am worried, and I can’t let any of those things happen. Not when we can do something about it.

  I’m mid hand-clench when the bell rings. Coach Stasi appears and conversations mute into whispers. She begins striding toward her desk, arms filled with papers and a loose shoelace slapping the floor, headed straight to where I am seated dead center in the room. So, naturally, this is when it happens. On my desktop, lit up like a tattling beacon, my phone decides to finally go
off—double time.

  First Katy Perry and then Hunter Hayes serenade the room in Faith and Cade’s designated text ringtones as my feeble fingers frantically fumble with the stupid case. With the collective classroom’s gaze upon me, I switch the device over to silent and lift my head to meet my fate. Coach’s stare is pointed, albeit slightly amused.

  Yep. I’m screwed.

  Officially, phones aren’t allowed in school. “They are a distraction and a hindrance to higher learning.” But we’re seniors, the countdown to blessed freedom is on, and in the face of rampant, class-wide rebellion, most teachers have adopted a lax policy. If they don’t see it and can’t hear it, they don’t really care. Unfortunately, in this case, I’m two for two.

  Heat infuses my cheeks as Lauren snickers behind me, and I remind myself yet again of my New Year’s resolution. Only three more weeks until graduation.

  Ignoring Lauren, I lift a shoulder and stretch my lips into a wide, cheesy grin. “Oopsie.”

  Coach shakes her head with a silent laugh then rolls her eyes dramatically before turning to face her desk, needlessly shuffling the pristine stack of papers in her hands on its surface. Thus allowing me to check my messages.

  I’ve always said Coach is one of the good ones.

  Faith’s text is first: Breathe, girl. No matter what, we got this. *fist bump*

  I lift my fist in the air, imagining her fierce scowl of confidence, and switch over to Cade’s: We’ll figure something out. Promise.

  Relief floods my veins in a cool, calm rush. This is reason number five thousand and eleven why my friends are made of win. Faith is my voice of reason and fearless counterpart, and Cade… well, whatever Cade is, he gets it. Gets me. They’re the only two who know about my rodeo fears since the accident, and if they think this is fine, then it will be.

  Nodding to myself, almost even believing it, I shift my thumbs to reply when a second text comes in. This one private, just for me.

  Cade: P.S: Love you!

  A wince forms before I can stop it. I’m fully aware this response makes me horrid, and a frisson of self-loathing creeps down my spine. Cade Donovan is everything a girl could want in a boyfriend—he’s everything I should want. Funny and smart, a great listener. Cute in that pretty-boy, CW actor sort of way, and an ass that fills out a pair of Levis like whoa. He’s been one of my closest friends since I wore a training bra, my rock the last few years, and in a perfect world, a world where my heart wasn’t completely decimated, I’d be ecstatic to hear those words coming from him. Sadly, life is far from perfect.

  The truth is, I do love Cade. Just not in the way he wants me to.

  “All right, kids, settle down.”

  As Coach Stasi nudges the last few stragglers toward their seats, my friend Mi-Mi hurrying among them, I blow out a breath. With one eye closed, I quickly type the generic (and pathetic) xoxo, then power off my phone, stomach churning with guilt.

  “We’re in the home stretch,” our teacher says, causing cheers to erupt across the room. Her smile widens and she nods. “Yep, graduation is just around the corner, and today kicks off our last major project of the year.”

  Those cheers turn to groans and she laughs aloud, somewhat gleefully. Coach is cool as far as teachers go, but she’s also a bit of a sadist.

  “I know, I know, Senioritis is rampant,” she continues. “But folks, I hate to say it, school’s not over yet. Lucky for you, this last section is going to be our best yet.”

  From the desk beside mine, Mi-Mi turns to face me, wide eyes flared with interest. The two of us are in the same boat, school schedules packed to the max, but for completely different reasons. Mine is overloaded with extra science and math classes prepping for Vet school, while hers are full of every art, music, and theater class our school provides. She’s our resident thespian.

  Mi-Mi has a love/hate relationship with Family and Consumer Sciences. She prefers classes where she can split eardrums, get messy, and become someone else, but the number of male students in here looking for an easy A makes up for it. As for me? I get my kicks with a good theorem, and centripetal force makes my heart skip a beat, but FACS is my guilty pleasure. It allows my brain to breathe. Projects are easy and we study things we may actually use in everyday life, unlike, say, the mating habits of fruit flies.

  Just thinking of last year’s Bio II lab gives me the heebie-jeebies.

  Coach strides across the floor with a bounce in her step, tapping her fingertips together à la evil scientist. “You kids are gonna be my guinea pigs,” she says. “This year, I’m changing things up a bit, combining a few sections, adding a new one. A mini-experiment, if you will. As I’m sure Alyssa can tell you, I love shaking things up.”

  Aly Reed, one of Coach’s volleyball players, laughs from the back. “And it always leads to trouble.”

  “Nonsense! You’re going to like this. Over the few weeks, we’re gonna take a close look at issues most of you will face after graduation. Budgeting for the first time. Career and life planning. Possibly thoughts of marriage and starting a family. I decided to combine three units on money, relational skills, and child development into one topical, real life project. It’ll count for twenty-five percent of the semester grade, and a co-written paper with your teammate will substitute for a final exam.”

  A row over, my former nemesis lifts her hand. “What teammate?”

  “Ah, glad you asked, Lauren.” Hitching her hip onto the desk, Coach pauses for a moment, letting the suspense build. From the look in her eye, this is going to be interesting. I find myself leaning forward, right along with the rest of the class, until she finally announces:

  “Congratulations, kids! You’re all newlyweds.”

  Gasps and confused laughter echo around me. Coach grins (See what I mean? Sadist), and immediately, Melissa and Lauren start whispering about who their husbands will be. A mystery evidently high on everyone’s minds since a male voice asks from the back, “Do we get to pick our wives?”

  Without permission, my head swivels. My survival instincts always suck when it comes to him. Yeah, he wasn’t the one to ask the question, and I’ve made it a point never to look back there in almost nine months, but I know he’s there. Seated with the rest of the baseball team.

  My gaze slides over Drew, our third baseman, and Brandon, our main pitcher. It hesitates over Carlos, the star shortstop and class clown, his hand in the air and a goofball grin on his face. Then it stops on Justin.

  Whoosh! Cold flashes the back of my neck. A dull twinge builds behind my ribs, and time turns glacial as my heart seizes in my chest. It’s not hate or anger pooling in my gut—God, I wish it were. More like humiliation, hurt, and intense regret. Also a dash of loneliness and stupid longing.

  How pathetic is that?

  “Afraid not,” Coach replies and I force my attention back to the front, thankfully before he catches me gawking or I’d be adding embarrassment to the mix. “I’m aware there are several couples in this class, but the project will run the duration of the course. Unfortunately, that’s longer than most Fairfield relationships. I think partner assignments are best left to my handy-dandy computer.”

  With that, she picks up the packets.

  As she walks to the far end of the room, she nods at someone peeking through the glass window in the doorway. “Here,” she tells Madison in the front row. “Take a stack and hand them back. I have to step out for a moment so use this time to look the project over. All the details about group assignments are inside, including your spouse’s name on the last page.”

  She walks out, the door closes behind her, and laughter breaks out all around.

  That’s when it hits me.

  Why it didn’t before, when everyone was whispering and wondering, I have no idea. I blame rodeo. Either way, as the packets make their turtle-like crawl across the room, and the horrific possibility turns more into a sick, twisted, certainty (because, let’s face it, that’s how my life rolls), all I can do is await my fate and think
:

  Surely, my luck can’t suck that badly… can it?

  The question’s not even fully formed before I’m closing my eyes and chuckling.

  Oh, silly girl. Of course it can.

  I rock back and forth in my chair, the stiff plastic squeaking as old memories assault me, this time not of rodeo or my weak body, but a particular boy and his wicked grin. The way he teased me, the way he kissed me. The deep sound of his laugh and the haunted look in his eyes.

  And the craptastic way I fell for him.

  “Peyton.” Mi-Mi nudges my arm and I open my eyes. Attempting a smile, I take the packets from her hands and blindly toss five behind me before handing off all but one to my neighbor. “You all right?”

  I nod stiffly. “Just a little nauseous.”

  No truer words have ever passed my lips.

  She accepts that with a shrug, and I begin to flip—papers, that is. Funny, I was so desperate to see who my partner is, curious to learn if the universe really hated me that much, but now that the packet is in my hands, and the truth is seconds away, it’s like I’m trudging through oil. The room disappears. Lauren’s snide giggles float away. My world shrinks until all that’s left is the sound of my choppy breaths and the page deciding how my senior year will end: stress-free or in epic misery.

  I shake out my hand and exhale, psyching myself up for the big reveal. Then, slowly, fearfully, I turn the final sheet and peer at the bottom of the page.

  And begin laughing hysterically.

  Oh, I feel Mi-Mi’s stare. Sense Lauren’s judgment. If Coach were still here, she’d no doubt be offering up a pass for the nurse. But no pills and no amount of lying down is gonna stop this crazy train from derailing, because right there, typed in black permanent ink on the final row of the spreadsheet is my name. Paired with the boy who irrevocably broke my heart...

  Justin Carter.

  JUSTIN

  FAMILY AND CONSUMER SCIENCES 1:45 P.M.