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)
Having some kind of plan makes me feel better. Plus, if I say yes to a live-in sponsor, I’ll have to binge on all the pills I packed up for this trip to get rid of them.
Of course, Mom and Dad thoroughly checked my suitcase. Turned it upside down and shook hard. And of course, I hid them in a small, inner pocket I sewed with my own two hands.
I grew up to be way too resourceful for my own good.
“Really?” Fire ignites in my sister’s eyes, and I can see my parents glancing our way hopefully, on high alert.
This is not an intervention; this is a full-blown coup. They all planned this. I nod anyway, trying to feel grateful instead of railroaded and trapped.
“We’ve got a green light, folks.” Daria stands up, sending two thumbs-up my parents’ way. “Excuse me while I go find you the hottest sponsor possible so they can start next week!” She claps excitedly.
“I don’t know why you’re so happy, seeing as I’m gonna make sure you’re never gonna meet him.” Penn pins her with a look.
“Aww, someone is jelly.” Daria struts toward her husband, landing on his knee with a giggle.
“I may be jelly, but he’s going to be straight up liquid if he ever looks at you the wrong way.”
“Please choose a woman.” I rub my face tiredly. “A calm, collected, friendly-looking one.”
“Party pooper.” She pouts. “Whatever, your funeral.”
After Daria is off to start the research on her laptop, I get up and walk into the lavatory.
I pull my jammies down to pee. When I finish my business and stand up, a sharp pain slices through my spine.
Shit. Tears spring into my eyes. My spine injury is worsening because I keep on dancing and using painkillers, pushing myself to the edge, and not stretching or recovering.
I’ll have to take some serious time off if I want to get better.
I wobble to the sink, mentally happy-talking myself into this new sponsor idea. I mean, I have to start somewhere, right?
When I finish washing my hands, my phone pings. I look down, and my breath catches in my throat. An email.
From Juilliard.
I open it so fast I can’t even make out the words at first. But then they focus back into coherent letters, informing me that I am formally invited to retake my practical exam four weeks from now.
I’m getting a second chance.
This is kismet, right? A sign from above.
I’m so happy, I clamp my elbow over my face and joy-scream into my hoodie.
I’m going to kill it onstage. Reclaim the narrative. I’m back in the game, baby.
How, exactly? a voice asks in my head. You’re going to get a sponsor and get off the painkillers, remember?
But maybe accepting this kind of help has been premature. What’s four more weeks in the grand scheme of things?
I’ll survive. Painkillers aren’t crack. It’s not even oxy. And Xanax is a recreational drug that literally every famous person I know has used.
I just need to pull through. And then, I’ll get a sponsor. Actually, moving out of my dorm room to an apartment with a live-in sponsor next year sounds like a perfect plan. So it’s not like I’m rejecting Daria’s idea; I’m simply postponing it.
With a cheek-splitting grin on my face, I get out of the bathroom and waltz back to my spot.
“Dude, what’d you do in there for twenty minutes?” Knight narrows his eyes at me. Marx. He thinks I took drugs?
“Number two.” I smile sweetly, determined not to let them get to me when I actually didn’t do anything.
“Bullshit.” He laughs.
I shrug.
“Thanks for killing the mood,” Penn mumbles into my sister’s lips, trying to make out with her while she’s on her MacBook.
Can everyone just get a room here? And some manners to go with it?
Vaughn screws his nose up in distaste, his arm slung over Lenora. She’s holding a sleeping Auggie, and he is embracing a half-awake Maggie. “Speaking of shit—Knight, how’s your football team doing?”
Knight coaches middle school football and is also a model. Spoiler alert: He and Luna just bought a five-bedroom beach house with a private ADU and a pool because of his Armani contracts, not his coaching side gig.
“We actually just won an away game, thanks for asking. How ’bout you, bro? Still sticking needles in Play-Doh and calling it art?” Knight coos.
It seems like I managed to get away from a public conversation about my bowel movements. I tiptoe to my seat, silently thanking my lucky stars.
My sister decides to unglue her lips from her husband’s and yelps, “Bails, I found you a live-in sponsor! She’s a woman, middle-aged, with a bunch of degrees, and looks about as fun as filing your tax returns. You’re going to love her!” She winks, trying to seem flippant when really, the way her right eye tics tells me she is nervous. “Aww, and guess what? She is available to start this Monday, as soon as we get home.”