Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 164459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 822(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 548(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 822(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 548(@300wpm)
Dumb move.
“Um, Mrs. Roscoe,” Mrs. June said from the podium. “I’m sorry. Is there something else you needed to tell us? I was just getting to the best part.”
I laughed. Seriously, they were all pathetic—Mrs. June with her voice full of bullshit and sarcasm, and Mom, with her faux smile and stone-cold eyes. “No, Martha. Please,” Mom lowered in her seat. “Continue.”
Mrs. Martha June nodded, continuing the ongoing summary of her book. “I’ll deal with you at home,” Mom whispered, seething at her end of the table. She glanced at Dad, who simply shook his head and picked up his cup of tea, taking a drawn out sip.
I pressed my lips in defiance, hoping she didn’t really think she could intimidate me. Not after what she’d done. After what she’d allowed to happen to Mitchell, I lost all respect for her. She didn’t deserve my love, but unfortunately I loved hard and that was something I could never get rid of.
She was lucky—lucky I grew up with someone who showed me what unconditional love was about. Around Mitchell, a loving brother. A sweetheart. A great friend.
Tears welled in my eyes when I realized how much I’d missed him, and how great it would have been to have him there at the books and tea party with me.
We’d goof.
We’d pick on someone, like Mrs. June and her HUGE rack for example, and then snort about it.
We’d sneak to the buffet line for extra pastries and he’d steal candy for us and then give it to me once we got home.
Shoving back in my chair, I broke out of my seat, excusing myself for Dad’s benefit. Not for Mom.
“Where are you going, sweetie?” Dad asked, the brown skin on his forehead crumpling.
“I need some air. Please?”
He nodded, weary with the two of us. I knew he was fed up too, but I wasn’t sure if he was more fed up with Mom or me. “Okay. Sure. Go ahead.”
I thanked him with my eyes, pushing my chair in and leaving the banquet room, but not before grimacing at Mom, who simply returned the same expression.
I was out of the room, pressing my back against the door once I’d made it out safely. I felt suffocated in there, smothered by Mom’s arrogance and all of the heavy gazes and whisper-hissing.
She had no idea how terrible of a mother she was…and that’s what worried me. She thought she was doing great, but boy, was she wrong. Compared to some of the other mothers I’d met, I’d have to say my mom was the worst of them all.
She didn’t work. She considered herself a stay-at-home mom, which you would think would have given her ample time to sign up for PTA meetings, help during field trips at my school, or even host a party for me here and there.
She never did. She hated volunteering, demanding that Sue do it instead.
Dad and Sue got my parties going. They planned it all and always did an outstanding job. Of course Mom would rain on the parade, always mentioning how something could have been done better, like maybe a bigger cake or more streamers, or even more drinks.
One year, all of her complaining backfired on her. She said something about the balloons, and I said, “Well, why didn’t you just plan it yourself if you have so much to say?” I was thirteen and for a brand-new teenage girl, I was rather pleased with the party and its set up.
Things had changed since then. So much. I was sure from that moment on, Mom and Dad knew I was nothing like them. They knew I was a rebel at heart, fearless in all the wrong ways.
They knew I didn’t care about expensive rubbish, like clothes and jewelry. I did love buying shoes, preferably Nikes and sandals, but what girl didn’t have a shoe addiction? Truth be told, they were afraid of me, especially Mom, which was why she was always so hard on me.
She was afraid because she couldn’t handle me.
And I was glad things were that way. She wasn’t going to run me down like a ragged horse the way she did my brother. No. I refused.
Unlike Mitchell, I didn’t give a damn about hurting anyone’s feelings, if I had to—not when it came to my own sanity.
God, I couldn’t wait until I was in college. I needed to get out of this hellhole. Move forward and never look back.
I collected much-needed oxygen, walking in my wedges to get to one of the cushioned benches in the foyer. I took out my cellphone, and even though I was still upset with him, I silently wished that Drake had actually given me his number so I could have someone to chat with. I was certain Kylie was still asleep.
No one to rant to.