Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 137433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
When we get home, I go downstairs and close the door. Our basement is a makeshift dance studio and a gym. Mom converted it when she gave Daria and me private ballet lessons.
There’s a ballet barre along the mirrored wall. I practice here, but my body is in excruciating pain since I’m off the heavy-duty painkillers. I blast classical music that shakes the walls and push myself to the limit, ignoring reason, and logic, and my body.
I check my phone and notice three missed calls from my sister, along with some text messages.
Daria: Hey <3
Daria: Answer :/
Daria: Bitch don’t pretend like you have a life outside of school/charity/being creepily, bound-to-implode-one-day perfect.
Daria: Heard you went from goody two-shoes to trainwrecked stilettos in less than one academic year.
Daria: Oh, come on, I’m KIDDING.
Daria: I’M OFFICIALLY WITHHOLDING CUTE SISSI PICS FROM YOU UNTIL YOU ANSWER.
She keeps calling and I keep dodging. I’m not ready for the shift in dynamics where she is the responsible adult and I’m the wayward daughter who has more issues than Teen Vogue.
At three thirty, the doorbell chimes. Lev took his time, but I’m glad I didn’t text him first.
He was wrong to poke into what happened yesterday.
It’s only when I fling the front door open that I remember Lev never knocks or rings. He barges and swoops in, like the sports car he uses for racing every weekend.
My heart sinks. Don’t people know it’s rude to exist and call upon someone when that someone is pathetically in love with another someone and waits for them? Common courtesy, people.
At first, I think I’m looking into a mirror. Then I remember I’m wearing plaid PJ pants, a sports bra, and have dark circles around my eyes. A pint-sized blond, extremely muscular and lean in a navy cable knit sweater, white tennis skirt, and matching Air Force 1 sneakers is standing in front of me.
She’s my vibe and a half—Old Bailey’s style, at least—and seems familiar, but I can’t place her in my memory bank.
“Bailey?” She beams, shoving a plate full of oatmeal cookies to my chest. “Ohmygod, hi! Thalia. Mulroney!”
Not wanting to seem impolite, I take the plate and smile back. Dang it, why don’t I recognize her? I’ve met her before.
“Hey. Thanks so much. Did I…mentor you at dance camp?”
The answer to that question is a resolute no because Thalia’s hopeful expression crumbles like one of the cookies she just gave me.
“No. I was a junior when you were a senior at All Saints High. People always mistook us for one another?” She tries to jog my memory, giggling with adorable awkwardness.
The penny drops. “Thalia, of course! I am so sorry. Come on in.”
I open the door wider. She sashays in, following me to the kitchen. We’ve never been formally introduced, but we shared grins and eye rolls from time to time when others would tell us how alike we looked.
I don’t know what she is doing here, but I’m grateful that she’s here since my parents put me on house arrest. Actually, I’m not even sure I’m allowed guests, but I’m going to play dumb if my parents give me grief about it.
“Want some iced coffee?” I chirp.
“I’d kill for some caffeine right now.”
“Triple shot it is, then.”
“Aww, Bailey. Still an angel.”
Who is currently going through hell, but whatever.
I start making coffee, ignoring the persistent feeling that I’m only pretending to be normal, alive, and an actual person. I don’t know what’s up with my anxiety, but I feel like I’m acting out a role in a tacky coming-of-age show, not actually experiencing this moment.
Mom is on a Zoom call upstairs—she’s on this committee that grants low-income students scholarships to dance schools—and Dad is in Seattle for work.
Daria lives in San Francisco with her 49ers-star husband, so I’m lonelier than a saltless french fry.
“So, um, how are things at school these days?” I ask, instead of asking the obvious question—what are you doing here?—as I dump heart-shaped ice cubes into Mason jars and flick our Nespresso machine to life.
I usually take a lot of pleasure in making people feel right at home and doing nice things for them. But right now, I’m just ticking boxes.
Making coffee—check.
Making small talk—check.
Thalia props her elbows on the butcher block island, studying her surroundings with puckered, glossed lips. “You know, the usual. Cheerleaders be mean, jocks be stupid, people who aren’t peaking in high school be hatin’. How ’bout you? The Big J! I’m so jelly.”
I add blue agave and cinnamon to the oat milk and top it with fat-free whipped cream.
I know why she’s asking. I’m not stupid. People in my former high school found out about my so-called overdose. I heard there’s a TikTok going around, but supposedly Daria reported it enough times to bring it down. Guilt spears my heart.
I really should call my sister back.