Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
We met when she was the TA for my advanced biology class. Hot, uncomplicated, smart enough not to give a single shit about me with the exception of my body, and career driven. My favorite type of woman. I’m already missing the hell out of Penny.
“I don’t know.” But I better figure it out fast because Bailey’s dark gaze has been invading my dreams lately. The little I’ve had, since I’m not sleeping all that much.
Alice
I pry up the top of the page I’d slapped facedown the minute they handed them out, and stare at the big fat D on my Film Theory and Criticism exam. No, I wasn’t hallucinating. It’s still a D for dumbass.
I’m not one of those people that breezes through school. I’m more of an abstract thinker. Unless it’s visual information it’s receiving, my mind tends to move sideways, in tangents. Which means the linear mental process needed to accumulate knowledge and regurgitate it in test form is, bottom line, a struggle. I need to apply myself to keep my grades up and sometimes I need extra help.
I knew I hadn’t aced it––we took it the day after the ankle incident so I didn’t get much studying done because I was distracted and in pain––but I didn’t think I bombed it, either.
“How’d you do?” the girl next to me asks. Morgan’s piercing, the one on her eyebrow, glimmers under the floodlights. I wonder if it hurt. Why did she get it? Does she regret it? Does it have meaning to her? See what I mean about tangents?
Exhaling a deep, frustrated breath, I run a hand over my head. My bangs stand up so I shake them out. “Horrible. How ’bout you?”
She tugs on the ends of her short, pink hair. “B plus. I don’t know how, I barely studied. I hate Bertolucci. Such a misogynistic pig.”
I don’t care either way about Bernardo Bertolucci. What I do care about is my average. I can’t afford to do poorly in any class. My scholarship demands I maintain a B plus, and everything I’ve ever worked toward is at stake if I can’t do that.
Chewing on the tip of my thumb, I glance around and find Simon staring back at me. He sends me a coy smile. Which forces me to return one that lacks sincerity. God, I hope he doesn’t ask me how I did. That would be twice as mortifying.
“Last Tango In Paris. Classic,” he says with a leer.
Morgan turns away from him and mimes a gag, drawing a dry burst of laughter out of me. I’m definitely with her on this one. The movie is basically cheesy soft porn peddled as an art house think piece. And the profound moral of the story? Women are incapable of handling sex without an emotional attachment. They become hysterical, maniacal, and ultimately resort to murder.
See, I know my stuff. I just don’t do so well on tests unless I put in a lot of extra time.
“I rarely do this, but since quite a large number of you did poorly on this one I’m going to offer an elective make-up exam,” Levine, the professor, announces.
A bunch of murmured “Thank Gods” circulate the room. The tension in my shoulders eases a fraction.
“Come to study group and I’ll help you out,” Morgan says. I glance over and discover a flicker of apprehension on her round face. I don’t think she has many friends here. She only ever speaks to me in class.
“Where is that again?”
“Tomorrow night at the library. Study room B.”
“I’ll be there.”
A brief smile lights up her face and the butterfly tattoos on her neck flap their wings.
The following evening I’m sitting on the toilet in the communal bathroom, in the middle of gingerly rewrapping my ankle after soaking it in Epsom salts for half an hour, when my stepmom calls.
“Hey, sweets. How’s the ankle?”
“Getting better. I’ve been soaking it every day and it’s helping.” It’s marginally better. She doesn’t need to know that, though. She’s worried enough as is. “Are you taking arnica?”
“Not yet. I haven’t been able to get to the store.” I’ll have to rectify that tomorrow, ask Zoe to drive me when she has time.
“I still think you should get an X-ray.”
“Button? It’s me, Dad.”
As if anyone else on this planet calls me Button. He does that, steals my mom’s phone when she’s in the middle of a conversation. Yeah, she loves it. I wouldn’t be surprised if they find him bludgeoned to death by iPhone one of these days.
“Hi, Dad.”
“How are those California fruits and nuts treating you?”
“Awful. They say hello all the time. Like, for no reason. Even strangers. And smile. They even have the audacity to make eye contact. I’m a little freaked out.”
His deep chuckle comes through the phone and a sharp pang hits my heart. I miss them. One of the downfalls of being an only child is that you develop an unhealthy attachment to your parents.