Don't Touch Read Online Free PDF

help anything. Mom and Dad have their problems. Everything’s already changed. If all the bad stuff has already happened, why do I still feel so scared?
    I am not going to panic. Not going to drown.
    And I’m not going to ask Jordan to open his door.
    I push up to my feet, steady my breathing, and head down the hall into my room, where Ophelia’s the first thing I see, the Millais painting taped to my wall.
    Ophelia in the water, sinking.
    My clothes pulse with stress, so I peel them off, peel off the sticker that told Peter my name. The stressy clothes go out of sight, out of mind, in the dirty clothes hamper. The nametag . . . should go in the trash, but it’s wrapped up with Peter and throwing it out doesn’t feel right. I stick it to my desk and head into the bathroom that Jordan and I share, making sure his door’s locked.
    The hot water washes the tension away. I breathe in the steam, and it helps my lungs open, unclench. Jordan and Mandy and Ophelia, my parents and school all slide off, swirl around at my feet, and leave me alone—with Peter.
    He made me feel . . . on edge, alert and alive. That I can’t throw away the stupid nametag is a bad sign. I’m not going to be touching him, that’s clear. But something happened when he looked at me.
    When we locked eyes, the ease of his stare and the welcome of his smile made me feel like one of two fixed points in a hurricane. The building could have crashed down around us as he smiled, and I wouldn’t have noticed.
    That can’t be good.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
    HarperCollins Publishers
    ..................................................................
5.
    Mom said she’d take me school shopping, but by noon on Saturday, she’s still in bed with a migraine. When I crack the door to her darkened room to ask how she’s feeling, she whispers, “Why don’t you try Mandy?”
    I obsess over this idea for nearly an hour. I’m way out of practice with friends. At my old school there were girls who included me in group stuff, but no one I could call on a whim. When I finally do text Mandy, my heart beats so fast, I get dizzy. But I do it.
    She texts back within five minutes, saying:
    PLEASE, YES. Dying to get out.
    The honk brings me outside, but instead of Mandy’s “lame-ass” car, the driveway is full of a humongous, tricked-out, bright-red monster truck. Mandy leans out the passenger-side window, peering over giant sunglasses like a movie star.
    â€œLike my ride?” she asks in a put-on Southern belle drawl.
    â€œAhem. My ride,” says the driver, a hulking guy.
    â€œDarlin’, you are my ride,” Mandy teases.
    â€œThat’s enough, Scarlett,” he says. He’s handsome in a WWE kind of way—beefy muscles, square jaw, sleepy-cow eyes. He’s got Birmingham man-hair—thick, side-swept hair grown a little too long all around, like it dreams of becoming a mullet but doesn’t quite dare.
    â€œThis is Drew,” Mandy says.
    Even though he’s smiling, Drew makes me nervous. His hands are as big as my face.
    The truck is Frankenstein’s monster—the paint job’s meticulous, but it covers a jumble of parts that look like they’re itching to reassemble themselves into a more comfortable arrangement. There’s a huge gash in the passenger side that I pray came from a former life and not from Drew’s driving.
    I climb in behind Mandy and buckle myself in.
    â€œWill your mom care I’m not driving?” Mandy asks. “I told Drew he should park up the block, but he was being stubborn.” She squeezes Drew’s bicep and he winces.
    â€œOw. Hi, Caddie, nice to meet you. How are you doing? I’m fine.” He says it like an etiquette robot, programmed to give Mandy a lesson. She goes to pinch him again, but he catches her hand and presses it flat to her leg. Drew reaches his free hand