“Can I pick you up for school Monday morning?” he asked, turning onto my street. I unfastened my seatbelt. “No.” “I just asked to be nice,” he said in a stern tone. “I’m picking you up. I don’t like you walking.” “Please…” I shook my head, ready to plead. “Please don’t.” We approached my house, and I grabbed my bag and flute off the floor. “Stop here,” I told him. “I’m not afraid of your brother, Em.” “Please just drop me here,” I bit out. “Stop the truck, Will. Please.” “Okay.” He quickly pulled over to the curb, sliding behind Mrs. Costa’s Buick. I opened the door, but he grabbed my hand. I
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