When Lightning Strikes by Meg Cabot Read Free Book Online Page B

slut," my dad said. "She just looks like what she is." We all looked at him questioningly, wondering what I was. Then he went, "Well, you know. A tomboy."
    Fortunately, at that moment, Ruth honked outside.
    "Okay," I said, getting up. "I gotta go."
    "Not in those jeans, you're not," my mom said.
    I grabbed my flute and my backpack. "Bye," I said, and left by the back door.
    I ran all the way around to the front of the house to meet Ruth, who was waiting in the street in her Cabriolet. It was a nice morning, so she had the top down.
    "Nice jeans," she said sarcastically, as I climbed into the passenger seat.
    "Just drive," I said.
    "Really," she said, shifting. "You don't look like Jennifer Reals, or anything. Hey, are you a welder by day and a stripper by night, by any chance?"
    "Yes," I said. "But I'm saving all my money to pay for ballet school."
    We were almost to school when Ruth asked, suddenly, "Hey, what's with you? You haven't been this quiet since Douglas tried to … you know."
    I shook myself. I hadn't been aware of vegging, but that's exactly what I'd done. The thing was, I couldn't get this picture of Sean Patrick O'Hanahan out of my head. He was older in my dream than in the picture on the milk carton. Maybe he was one of those kids who'd been kidnapped so long ago, he didn't remember his real family.
    Then again, maybe it had just been a dream.
    "Huh," I said. "I don't know. I was just thinking, is all."
    "That's a first," Ruth said. She pulled into the student parking lot. "Hey, do you want to walk home again tonight? I'll have Skip drop me off again at four, when you get out of detention. You know, I weighed myself this morning, and I already lost a pound."
    I think she probably lost the pound from not eating any dinner the night before, being way too busy staring dreamily at Mike to consume anything. But all I said was, "Sure, I guess. Except …"
    "Except what?"
    "Well, you know how I feel about motorcycles."
    Ruth looked heavenward. "Not Rob Wilkins again."
    "Yes, Rob Wilkins again. I can't help it, Ruth. He's got that really big—"
    "I don't want to hear it," Ruth said, holding up her hand.
    "—Indian," I finished. "What did you think I was going to say?"
    "I don't know." Ruth pushed a button, and the roof started going up. "Some of those Grits wear pretty tight jeans."
    "Gross," I said, as if this had never occurred to me. "Really, Ruth."
    She undid her seatbelt primly. "Well, it's not like I'm blind or anything."
    "Look," I said. "If he offers me a ride, I'm taking it."
    "It's your life," Ruth said. "But don't expect me to sit by the phone waiting for you to call if he doesn't ask."
    "If he doesn't ask," I said, "I'll just call my mom."
    "Fine," Ruth said. She sounded mad.
    "What?"
    "Nothing," she said.
    "No, not nothing. What's wrong?"
    "Nothing's wrong." Ruth got out of the car. "God, you're such a weirdo."
    Ruth is always calling me a weirdo, so I didn't take offense. I don't think she even means anything by it anymore. Anything much, anyway.
    I got out of the car, too. It was a beautiful day, the sky a robin's-egg blue overhead, the temperature hovering around sixty, and it was only eight in the morning. The afternoon would probably be roasting. Not the kind of day to spend indoors. The perfect kind of day for a ride in a convertible … or, even better, on the back of a bike.
    Which reminded me. Paoli was only about twenty miles from where I was standing. It was the next town over, actually. I couldn't help wondering how Ruth—or Rob Wilkins—would feel about taking a little trip over there after detention. You know, just to check it out. I wouldn't tell either of them about my dream or anything. But I was pretty sure I knew exactly where that little brick house was … even though I was equally sure I'd never been there before.
    Which was the main reason, actually, that I wanted to check it out. I mean, who goes around having dreams about kids on the back of milk cartons? Not that my ordinary