Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
And it’s not just Sarah. It’s everything, including Alan and this party that we’re at. Once upon a time, these people were my world, but as time flies by, they’re starting to feel like strangers, and this world seems less like my own and more like a cocoon I’m supposed to shed.
But lord knows with my parents, shedding anything they’ve brought upon me is next to impossible.
Still I say, “I’m good. It’s kind of fun with this storm, eh?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Fun? It’s frightening.”
“Yeah, but being frightened is fun,” I tell her. “Remember when we used to go on night hikes and I would take off with the flashlight and leave you alone in the dark?”
“Oh yeah, real fun,” she says dryly. “You were the cruelest child, you know that? Scarred me for life.”
I can’t help but smirk. “Oh come on, that’s why you liked me. Everyone else was too boring.”
“Everyone else was normal,” she says and then blinks, as if catching herself saying the wrong thing.
I’m not offended. I know that out of everyone in my private school for rich bitches and the silver spoon elite, I was the resident weirdo. I tried to hide it, and still do, lest I risk the look of utter disappointment on my mother’s face every time I slip into geekdom.
“Well, normal is overrated,” I say. What I really want to do is open the giant glass doors and run out on the deck and into the storm, letting the rain ruin my makeup and hair and dress. I want to feel fucking alive from my fingers to my toes—I want to capture the lightning and hold it in my chest until I burst.
“Are you okay?” Sarah asks, putting her hand on my shoulder.
“Yeah, why?”
“You’re crying.”
I frown, and only then do I notice her face is starting to blur. I thought maybe it was her airbrushed foundation, but no, it’s tears smearing my vision.
“Argh,” I growl, and shove my finger into my eye. “It’s these damn contacts.”
I normally wear glasses for my nearsightedness but Alan insisted I wear contacts tonight. I rarely wear them, so my eyes seem to reject them every second, and it could be one reason I’m feeling out of sorts. With my glasses I almost feel like I have a persona, like Clark Kent. Without them, I’m exposed.
“I thought you were getting sentimental,” she says, and after I blink a few times and my vision clears, I notice this strange twinkle in her eye, a devious slant to her mouth.
I swallow thickly, my gut all frothy again.
“No,” I say slowly. “Over what?”
“No reason,” she says, looking back to Alan who is gabbing with his father. The two of them both look my way and nod at the same time, like fucking robots. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Sarah nod to them and raise her drink.
There’s something going on here. It’s in the air and it’s changing, and it isn’t the storm at all.
Oh god, please don’t let tonight be that night.
But you know it’s coming, I tell myself. You know he asked you what size ring you wear.
“Oh god,” I whisper, my stomach turning into a whirlpool.
“What?” Sarah asks.
I look at her, pained. “What do you know?”
“Huh?”
“What do you know?” I hiss. “Sarah. You’re terrible at secrets. What do you know?”
She gives me a funny look. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But there’s a warble in her voice, an uncertainty. She knows something. “I have to go to the washroom. Excuse me.”
I watch as she quickly walks off.
Shit.
I take in a deep breath, trying to fight the nausea, my hands wrapping around my stomach. My nickname in high school, aside from Amanda Panda, Lord of the Geeks, and Tits McGee, was Sir Pukes-A-Lot. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t a sir. I still got sick every time I got really nervous, which led to many embarrassing moments during presentations, PE, and drama class. Clearly, having such a nightmare-worthy reflex defined my awkward teenage years, though I haven’t puked in an awkward situation in a really long time, and I desperately want to keep it that way.
I wonder if I need to escape to the washroom to splash some cold water on my face, but before I can, Alan approaches me with the champagne.
“Here we go,” he says, smiling at me with sparkling white teeth and handing me the glass.
I hesitate, afraid to take it, afraid I won’t be able to grip the stem and it will shatter at my feet.
“You all right?” he asks in that gentle, sweet way of his, and I try and let the familiarity ease me back to normal.
I nod and grab the glass, taking a tepid sip. I can barely taste anything right now, but at least it should help with the bile.