Total pages in book: 168
Estimated words: 162369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 812(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 541(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 812(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 541(@300wpm)
Ava’s face brightens as she touches the chunky curls at her shoulder. “Thank you! You look stunning, as always.”
I mimic their excitement while we wait for the bell to ring. I’m a pro at pretending to fit in—so much so that I’ve been one of the most popular girls in my class for four years. A status I don’t want or even like. But inside, I feel as disconnected as an old phone number. I perpetually feel a sense of homesickness, as if I’m in the wrong place and with the wrong people. Two years ago, I cornered my parents during dinner, demanding to know if I was kidnapped as a child. I begged them to take me back to my real family, promising them I wouldn’t let them go to jail. My mother quietly proceeded to haul out photo albums featuring her holding me the day I was born—pink and wrinkled—right up to my most recent birthday. She showed me my birth certificate, which I suppose could’ve been Photoshopped, but my mom isn’t very tech-savvy. My father threw his napkin onto his plate and disappeared into the garage. The next day, I had a visit with the child psychologist I’ve been seeing off and on since I was six years old. I rolled my eyes and told her my parents overreacted. I was just curious because I look nothing like them, and I’ve been watching a lot of true-crime documentaries lately.
I mean, that is true.
I’ve learned to go through the motions, say all the right things, make the right faces. Guilt constantly plagues me because my friends are completely oblivious, believing I’m just as happy as they are, as deeply invested in our teenage life and drama as they are, when sadly, I’m just…not.
I want to be. I really and truly wish I was. But I’m trapped in a strange limbo, waiting for something or someone that’s a total mystery to me.
“…we’re going to eat lunch together, right? Penny? Penny!”
Blinking, I shake my head. “I’m sorry, what?”
Olivia’s almond-shaped brown eyes come into focus just inches from mine. She’s a close talker, and it totally freaks all of us out.
“Lunch?” Olivia says. “We’re all going to eat together like we always do, right? On the bleachers?”
I inch backward. “Yes, of course.”
She nods, letting out a sigh of relief as if we just avoided a catastrophe.
The bell rings, and we jostle to the front entrance of the school with the swarm of other students. For the briefest moment, when I squeeze through the doors with my three best friends, I’m overcome by the all-too-familiar sense that something is missing or forgotten, and the viselike fear that I may never find it, never remember, tightens around me, taking my breath away.
The morning is a whirlwind of unlocking new lockers, finding new classes, complaining about how stuffy the rooms are, and meeting new teachers. More excited hugs from classmates who look totally different than they did the last day of sophomore year. Everyone is growing up so fast. Girls are prettier. Boys are taller and hotter. Couples are attached at the lip and hip between classes like they can’t bear to separate.
I wonder if I look different.
At noon, I meet up with the girls at our spot on the bleachers.
“Penny, where’s your locker?” Heather asks. “I looked everywhere for you.”
I bite into a carrot stick, which is almost the same color as my hair. Not a good vibe. “It’s right outside the art room.”
She frowns. “Lucky you. Mine is down by the gym. I was hoping I’d be near you again.”
“Mine is right where it was last year, by the library,” Olivia says.
“I can’t even find mine,” Ava says, attempting to get the lid off a small Tupperware. I take it from her and pull the top off.
“You have to pull the tab part,” I tell her. “What number is your locker?”
“Two thirty-six.”
“That’s on the second floor, across from where we had math last year.”
“Oh.”
I can never quite tell if Ava’s helplessness is genuine or an odd, subconscious way to get attention. Either way, I’ve always found it endearing.
While the girls talk about the cutest boys they’ve seen so far today, my mind wanders to the painting of a lake I started yesterday. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t capture the glistening reflection of the sunlight on the water. I decide I’m going to have to try a different brush and possibly start all over.
“Damn. I’d hate to be her,” Heather observes out loud.
“Who?” Me, Olivia, and Ava ask in unison.
“That new girl over there. Sitting all by herself.”
We follow Heather’s gaze to a dark-haired girl sitting alone at a picnic table under the trees.
“Who is she?” Olivia asks.
Heather shrugs. “Some new girl in our grade. I saw her in my English class earlier. Jennifer Smith told me she came from a private school. She’s probably a bitch.”