Seven Percent of Ro Devereux by Ellen O’Clover EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Novel Title: Seven Percent of Ro Devereux
- Author: Ellen O’Clover
- Language: English
- Formats: PDF / EPUB
- Status: Available for Download
- Series: None
- Price: Free
- File Size: 2 MB
The only time I see Miller that summer, he’s walking straight at me in a
tuxedo.
“Code red,” Maren says, and tugs me sideways into the math hallway.
School is quiet—a little over a week before the start of classes, only open this
afternoon for senior presentations. I risk a peek around the corner just as
Miller’s looking up, a clothbound book tucked under one of his arms. When
he sees us, his eyes narrow.
“Maren,” he says, nodding tightly as he approaches. His gaze skates right
over me, and I get busy studying the locker Maren plastered me against. A
rudimentary etching of the word dickhead is carved like a rainbow around the
combination lock.
“Miller.” Maren’s voice is icy, and after Miller passes us she sticks her
tongue out and makes a vulgar hip thrust in his direction. He’s cut his hair
since May, his usual mop replaced by a short-on-the-sides, tsunami-wave-uptop situation that makes him look like a boy-band front man wannabe.
“Sick tux,” I mutter, and Maren snorts.
“Of course he wore a penguin suit to his presentation.” Her arm’s still
hooked through mine, and she guides us back into the main hall. It’s empty
now, late-August light slanting in through tall windows that overlook the
parking lot. “Has that boy not taken something too far even once?”
I can hear his dress shoes retreating—click, click, click, click. Steady and
measured, unshaken by me.
“Come on, Ro.” Maren elbows me in the ribs. “Don’t let him throw you
off your game.”
“He didn’t,” I say, even though my chest has gone all tight, that
suffocating feeling only Miller ever gives me. A natural side effect of being
so thoroughly hated, maybe. “I’m ready.”
“Good,” she says, and nudges me forward. We’ve reached the end of the
hall, where a printer-paper sign is taped to the auditorium door: Group A
Senior Presentations 12 p.m.–5 p.m.
“Hey,” I say, turning toward her. “Thanks again for coming.” She didn’t
have to be here: It’s summer, still—the last few precious days. But here she is
nonetheless, just like always.
“You know I wouldn’t miss it.” Maren reaches for the door, swinging it
wide so I have to step through. “Now let’s go, you’re stalling. The future
awaits.”
I could’ve waited until May to present my senior project. Maren hasn’t even
decided what to do for hers yet. But here I am, instead: ten days before the
start of senior year, in a room full of teachers I’m not legally required to
listen to for over a week, with my unruly hair tamed into a bun and my toes
cramped into flats Maren made me borrow.
I could’ve waited until May, like everyone else. But not everyone else has
a dad breathing down their neck to apply to college when it’s the last place
they want to go. And not everyone else needed all summer—literally every
waking moment—to finish their project. I couldn’t have pulled this off during
the school year, with eight hours of all my days spoken for, plus homework.
Between all-nighters spent coding and mornings studying behavioral science
with Vera, I needed all the time I could get.
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