One Tiny Secret

Chapter Two

The smell of a freshly brewed pot of French roast coffee pulls me from a dream I don’t want to awaken from. And yes, it was about Parker.

The strong French roast means one of two things. Either my dad spent the entire night thinking about Mom and needs the good stuff to get him motivated, or he spent a good portion of the night actually talking to her and needs a swift kick in the ass.

I stretch and release a yawn, fighting to stay in bed as long as I can. My alarm hasn’t even gone off yet, and I turn to look at the clock. I’ve technically still got two minutes of sleep left.

“Screw it,” I say as I fling back the covers and sit up in bed, realizing I’ll get nothing out of those last two minutes.

“Dani, breakfast will be in five,” I hear my Dad call up the stairs.

“Breakfast? On a Friday? Oh Dad, you really must have put yourself through the wringer this time,” I whisper to myself.

I’m not even sure I want to go downstairs at this point, because I’m kind of scared to see him like this. It dawns on me that their divorce anniversary is coming up soon, and that’s probably why he’s been in such rare form lately. He’s been working a lot more than usual, and sometimes I feel he forgets that he has a daughter at home waiting for him. I just hope he snaps out of it soon, because I’m starting to miss the dad he used to be.

“Be right down,” I call back.

I notice the clothes I picked out last night hanging on the back of my bedroom door, and my nose scrunches up. “Was I drunk when I picked these out?” I ask myself, examining my failed attempt at making an outfit. Scrapping the entire ensemble, I pick out new clothes from the closet and hurry to the bathroom.

Before jumping into the shower, I stop in front of the vanity mirror that’s outlined with tiny, round light bulbs, and examine my bloodshot eyes. My poor green beauties are surrounded by a ring of red, causing them to look like Christmas ornaments. The bags under them serve even more as a reminder that my current lack of sleep is caused by, one, Parker Reed.

I practically run down the stairs to the kitchen after my shower. I lost track of time while standing in the calming warm water, still thinking of he who shall not be named.

When I enter the kitchen, my dad’s sitting at the small table next to the window, still in his comfy pajamas and flipping through the daily paper.

“How’d you sleep, kiddo?” he asks, peering over the paper.

“I could ask you the same thing,” I reply, looking him up and down. “And why aren’t you in your uniform yet?”

He laughs. “I was getting there. I just wanted to relax with the paper and some coffee first.”

“Some coffee?” I ask him pointedly while gesturing to the more than half-empty pot.

“I had a rough night last night and needed a little extra something to get me going today.”

“And breakfast too? Eggs, bacon, and pancakes?”

“Okay, make that a really rough night.”

I make up a plate of food and pour myself a cup of joe before joining him at the table.

“Oh…Kevin just called from the shop. Your car will be ready for pick-up after school. And you were right. It was your spark plugs.”

“I told you, I know my girl,” I say, and my dad lets out a slight chuckle.

I’ve had my car for about three years now, and someone had her for eighteen years before me. I absolutely love that blue POS and every single one of her dents. I call them her beauty marks. She gets me from point A to point B, and that’s all I need. My dad wants me to get rid of her, but I think she’ll last me at least through the end of the school year.

“Weren’t you and Kevin dating or something?” he asks, catching me off-guard.

“Dad, seriously? Kevin and I are just friends. We never dated…ever. And since when are you keeping tabs on my love life?”

“Oh, so you have a love life now, huh?” he inquires with a smirk.

“You know what I meant.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to talk with my daughter. Is that okay? Your mom did have the talk with you, right?”

“Oh my God, we’re so not discussing this right now,” I state while pouring syrup over my pancakes.

“I’m just making sure. You don’t have to get all embarrassed,” he says, turning his attention back to the paper in his hands.

“Well, she did. So you don’t have to worry about that, okay?”

He laughs while rustling open the next page. “Thank God, because I wasn’t prepared for that can of worms. Are you sure you and Kevin never dated?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” I reply with a hint of irritation. I can practically hear his grin from behind the newspaper. He always knows how to push my buttons.

“Hey, I meant to tell you earlier, but I really like your hair cut like that,” he comments, folding down the corner of the paper so he can look at me. “I know your mom loves when it’s long, but that style suits you. And I don’t care what anyone says. You don’t look like a boy.”

“Dad!” I reply, feeling a little self-conscious as I run my fingers through my short wavy blonde hair.

“Just kidding. In all seriousness, I do like it.”

“Thanks, but you know my hair’s been this way for more than a week now, right?”

“I know. Like I said, I’ve been meaning to tell you. And I also see you’re still wearing those earrings.”

“I can take them off if you don’t like them,” I say softly.

“No…keep them on. I like them. ’Tis the season anyway, right?” he replies with a half-smile.

My phone vibrates on the table and I check it to see a text message from Rory asking if he needs to pick me up. The next message that follows is from him as well, saying that he’s already outside. I giggle to myself because HURRY UP is in all caps.

“Do you need a ride to school?” my dad asks, interrupting my musings.

“As much as I’d love to be chauffeured in that wonderful sheriff’s car of yours—which, by the way, draws no attention whatsoever—I’m going to have to pass. Besides, Rory’s already outside waiting.”

I scarf down the rest of the food on my plate and go to take a sip of the coffee. I have to stop because it’s so freakin’ strong. I practically spit it out the moment it touches my lips. Even though I added a ton of creamer and sugar, it still isn’t enough to take away the intense coffee flavor.

“Damn, Dad. What did you put in this?”

“Like I said, I had a rough night. It might just be a tad stronger than usual.”

I laugh. “Just a tad?”

My phone goes off again and that’s my cue to leave. I give my dad a quick peck on the cheek and head for the foyer.

“Have a great day. Make good choices,” I hear him say as I fling open the front door.

“Will do,” I reply before leaving the house.

Rory is standing by the passenger side of his car with the door open, motioning for me to get in. He has his “butch” black-and-purple lumberjack flannel on with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of black denim jeans. The purple Converse shoes add the final touch. I can’t really knock the guy’s style because I’m sure if he wasn’t gay, he’d be quite the chick magnet. His swimmer’s bod would definitely help. I’ve lost count of how many girls have asked me if I’m sure he bats for the other team.

“Will you hurry your ass up? Your chariot’s waiting,” he jokes, exaggeratedly gesturing to the open door.

“Such a gentleman you are,” I reply, pinching his left cheek and then tapping it before settling into the car.

“I try,” I hear him say as he closes the door.

I notice that a certain someone isn’t in the back seat. “Hey, where’s Alex?”

“She said she wasn’t feeling up to school today,” he chuckles. “She did give me this to give back to you, though.”

Rory hands me my Algebra notebook and I send him a questioning look. “Let me guess…she got drunk last night during band rehearsal and didn’t have time to copy my homework. She’s hung over, isn’t she?”

“Maybe,” he replies.

“I swear. That girl’s something else.”

“What do you expect? She’s the pastor’s daughter. She’s got ‘wild child’ blood coursing through her veins,” he says, putting the car in drive and pulling away from my house.



There’s always been one thing I’ve never been able to stand about high school: the sound of the damn tardy bell. I’m pretty sure there’s never been anything more annoying. Luckily, I have independent study first thing in the morning. I just ignore the bell altogether as I stroll in sipping my grande pumpkin spice latte. I had to succumb to buying my own cup after the travesty that was my dad’s brew earlier.

The sight of Gunnar Benson running down the hall toward me catches my attention. A lot of girls would probably freeze up at the sight of him, but not me. I just continue sipping my coffee while taking in the show. Sure, he’s the complete package, but I like my guys to be a little rougher around the edges. Gunnar’s too perfect. With his pristinely combed blond hair and his all-American boy fashion sense, he’s kind of like a walking Abercrombie and Fitch ad or something.

The huge grin on his face, reminds me of the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland. It can only mean one thing: he loves the flyer.

The moment he found out I was a “Photoshop genius” (his words, not mine), I had the pleasure of designing it for him. All I did was make him look good in one picture in the school’s newspaper featuring his winning touchdown. After that, he wanted me to edit everything for him. He even went to the paper’s faculty advisor, Mr. Whitman, and requested that I be the only one overseeing the photos for the entire football team. Little did he know, I already do that. The newspaper staff isn’t really all that big, after all.

“You seem to be in a good mood, Gunnar,” I greet him.

“Yep, and it’s all thanks to you. I got your email this morning, and the flyer looks legit. They’ve already been printed and distributed. Thanks again for doing that last minute.”

“No problem. But remember, if things go south, I had nothing to do with that flyer or this party, okay?”

He lets out a little laugh. “Just as we agreed.”

“Good.”

“See you tomorrow?” he asks with inflection and a smile.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I reply, smiling back.

As Gunnar continues down the hall, I notice a small group of girls standing off to the side next to a row of lockers, all of them glaring at me. Uh-oh, looks like my little chat stirred up some trouble in girl world.

“Hey, Dani,” I hear one of the girls, Portia, call out to me when I pass. Her voice is laced with cattiness and sarcasm. I’ve never understood girls like her.

Deciding to be the bigger person, I stop, turn to face her, and reply, “Hi, Portia.”

An odd silence falls between us, almost like she wasn’t expecting me to answer her.

“So,” I add, “are you going to the party tomorrow?”

“And what party would that be?” she drawls.

Realizing I’m going to get nowhere with this conversation, I say, “Right. I’ve got to get to class. See you later.”

“Laters,” she replies while twirling a lock of her bright red curly hair around her finger.

I hate to say it, but she fits the stereotype for every mean girl who’s ever walked the halls of a high school. I hear the chatter between the group behind me as I walk away. It sounds like a bunch of hens fighting over some chicken feed, accented by popping bubble gum sounds. Portia’s probably just irked because all it took for me to get the attention of the “it” guy at school was making a cool flyer, whereas she’s been trying everything in her bag of tricks to get him to notice her for years.



The door to Mr. Whitman’s office is closed, which is strange because he has an open-door policy. Besides, he’s usually expecting me for my independent study.

I knock and hear some scurrying around on the other side. His muffled voice sounds through the door. “Come in.”

As I open it, I see him positioned behind his desk. A woman sits in one of the two chairs across from him. She turns to look at me and smiles when I enter the room.

“Ah, Dani. Perfect timing. This is Mrs. Summerton. She’s the head of the journalism department at Blackburn University,” Mr. Whitman says, motioning in her direction.

Mrs. Summerton stands and reaches her hand out for mine. “Mr. Whitman’s told me so much about you, Dani. To be honest, he’s been talking my ear off,” she says playfully as I shake her hand.

Mr. Whitman laughs. “Guilty as charged. Dani is one of my best pupils, and I honestly believe she’s a perfect fit for your program, Gloria.”

“I have no doubt, Harry. I can’t wait to read her admissions essay.” She sends me another smile. “Especially if she’s as good a writer as you’ve built her up to be.”

“Oh, she is, I assure you,” Mr. Whitman replies.

“Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, Dani. I look forward to hopefully sending you an acceptance letter.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Summerton. I look forward to receiving that letter,” I say, reciprocating her smile.

As she begins to leave the room, I turn to Mr. Whitman with a look of surprise plastered across my face. He beams with delight, and I’m pretty sure he’s thinking the same thing I am.

“You’re a shoo-in,” he says after he’s sure Mrs. Summerton has left.

“Thank you so much for pulling some strings, Mr. Whitman. I really hope I do get in.”

“Have you given any thought to what your essay will be about?” he asks, leaning back in his chair.

“I have a few ideas, but haven’t really settled on one just yet.”

“Submissions are due by December at the latest, so I’d get working on something soon,” he states with a serious face.

“I will, don’t worry. I’ll have something concrete by the end of the weekend,” I reply.

“See that you do, because you don’t want to squander this opportunity.”

“I won’t, promise.”