Endangered by Lamar Giles Read Free Book Online Page A

bread and water at all the local stores because folks around here are afraid of flooding and lengthy power outages. Dad drew the short straw tonight and had to brave the crowds for milk and cheese on his way home. Thus, the tirade.
    â€œYou’d think they’re expecting a category five hurricane,” he says.
    Mom smiles. “They? We have been here for ten years. We are Virginians, too.”
    â€œMaybe. We’re not the kind that overreact, though.”
    Mom glances toward the pantry. “So you suddenly felt we needed three cases of water because . . .”
    â€œI was thirsty. Most Americans are chronically dehydrated.”
    I can’t help but giggle, even as I’m palming my phone under the table because dinner’s supposed to be tech-free. Ocie’s messages are all I know UR mad, but . . . and I need 2 explain about T . . .
    What’s to explain?
    My best friend is consorting with the enemy.
    â€œLauren,” Dad says, diverting talk of storm paranoia away from himself and peering over the tines of his fork with SternFace, “something pressing on your phone?”
    â€œNope. Not at all.”
    I put it away though it purrs against my thigh. Ocie gets the hint shortly after dinner and stops the thumb groveling. Good. She should take some time to reflect on what she’s done. We’ll settle up soon.
    Tonight, my Admirer problem.
    I’m not down for the invisible puppet master act and I’m in just the right mood to make a thing of it. Even if I did have a concept to top his photo, why should I have to prove anything to some anonymous creep? I compose a quick message expressing my dissatisfaction.
    Who are you? Tell me or I’m not shooting anything .
    When I send the email I’m sweating. It’s a big bluff. The last thing I want is for him to expose me, not while the Keachin-Coach stuff is getting hotter by the day. I mean, I never want to be exposed, but especially not now.
    Coach Bottin’s sure to lose his job soon, and talk of jail if Keachin was underage when they started is still circulating. Here’s the thing: if Coach Bottin broke laws, he should go to jail. Me and Mom are in 100 percent agreement on that. But . . .
    Jail is full of thieves, and murderers, and child molesters. People are lumping Coach into that last category. When I hear molester , I think ofcreepy guys in nondescript vans scoping out playgrounds. I had Coach Bottin when I was a sophomore, and he was one of my favorite teachers. He never freaked if you really didn’t understand how a three-man weave goes, or couldn’t get a softball all the way from the mound to home plate. I never got the vibe he was ogling us like some porn scout. And trust me, the uniforms us girls get duped into wearing—little booty shorts and tight shirts, like the school orders them from a Vegas burlesque emporium—probably would’ve drawn him out. It sure did for other teachers.
    I’m thinking about you, Mr. Mitchell, aka GawkEye . Really, what possible reason does the Automotive Arts teacher have to walk through the gym two to three times a week?
    My point: Coach Bottin was not the one I was after. He shouldn’t have done what he did, and maybe I somehow saved Keachin from a monster who manipulated and took advantage of her. But when I think about Coach’s life in shambles, why don’t I feel like a Panda the Vampire Slayer badass?
    My computer makes this weird, unfamiliar ding ing noise. A window I’ve never seen before flashes in the center of the screen.
    SecretAdm1r3r wants to chat. Do you accept?
    Oh, fu—
    I snatch my hands from my MacBook like it’s grown teeth. A quick glance over my shoulder confirms my door is closed. I cross the room on gummy legs to make sure it’s locked, and my palm is slick when I jiggle the knob.
    I’m slow returning to the machine. My bluff’s been called.
    Forcing myself into the seat, I reread the message