Sophomore Year, 92-93. Megan B. March

      

      Sophomore Year, 92-93

      A Novel by Megan B. March

      Copyright 2014 Megan B. March,

      All rights reserved.

      Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com

       http://www.eBookIt.com

      ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-2221-3

      No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

      Acknowledgements

      Special thanks to my family for bearing with me during my editing stress and perfectionist outbursts. Thank you to my beautiful and talented daughter, Nyah, for giving me honest feedback and constructive criticism—I know I can always count on you to tell me like it is. Thanks to my editor for all of her advice, recommendations, and most of all, patience! Last, but certainly not least, thanks to all of my friends and family members that continue to support me in this venture.

      Prologue

      Midway through my memory of the night before, I was suddenly wrenched awake by the sound of air-breaks and the horn of a dump truck. The next few sounds happened in rapid succession: crumpling metal, breaking glass, and the sound of scraping of metal against asphalt. I sat bolt upright, and not a second later I was out of bed pulling on my nearest pair of jeans and a shirt. Once outside I ran without shoes or socks, not thinking of the cold that hit my feet like sharp daggers. I ran beyond the driveway and down the street to see what had happened. A sick feeling began to build in my stomach.

      Although it was probably only eight in the morning on Saturday, cars traveling in the distance were already starting to slow and pile up. I paid them no mind. The dump truck with the blaring horn was easy enough to spot, but I stood on my toes and searched a little harder to see the car and driver that was surely piled up under the dump truck’s bumper. Feeling bile climb up into my throat as my eyes searched, I pleaded in my head, “Please, let it not be Jensen. Please, let it not be Jensen.”

      My eyes eventually focused on what was attached to the front bumper of the truck, and I realized that the electric blue hunk of metal laying there was that of a lifted Jeep—or what was left of one. With my head spinning I could not keep the bile down as I wretched and fell to my knees. Shaking, I somehow stood up and started running for Jensen’s house which was not too far down the road. Sirens caught my ear just as I reached his house.

      Don’t ask me what you know is true.

      Don’t have to tell you, I love your precious heart.

      -INXS

      Is it my turn to hold you by your hands,

      tell you I love you and you not hear me?

      Is it my turn to totally understand;

      to watch you walk out of my life and not do a damn thing?

      -PM Dawn