Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
“I can’t get comfortable,” I grumble.
She puts down her half-made slingshot and looks up; her gray eyes are big and stormy. “Is it that?”
“Yes.”
She grimaces. “So, like… do you feel anything?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, like when it comes out.”
“Ew. Gross. No.”
“Really? Nothing at all? I mean, it is coming out of you.”
“You’re the grossest person I’ve ever met.” I squint and try to move around a bit. I feel something, a weird sensation like a bubble is coming out of me. “Ugh. I felt it just now.”
Sky’s face is so horrified that I want to laugh. But I’m too busy feeling the same horror.
“Oh my God,” she breathes.
“I cannot wait for you to get it too, so we can be miserable together.”
She draws back as if I slapped her. “I can’t believe you just said that. I’m your best friend. Why would you wish it on me?”
“Because it happens to everyone. I mean, every girl.”
She narrows her eyes, playing with her weapon, as if planning a murder. “I hate it. I absolutely hate it. Like, we gotta pay the price for being a girl.” She looks up, as if talking to God. “Hey, I never asked to be a girl, okay?” Looking down, she shakes her head. “It’s bullshit and because of it I’m gonna get boobs. I don’t want boobs. I hate boobs. You know what? There has to be a way to stop this.”
That’s Sky for you. She’s sort of a vigilante. If anyone can change the world, it’ll be her. Me? I’m happy with the way things are. I’m okay with having boobs. In fact, I’m kind of looking forward to it. I know I’m going to have big boobs. It runs in the family. My mom and all my aunts have big ones. That’s how the women in our family are made: curvy and short, and I’m okay with that.
I don’t want to change the world. I only want to stay in this treehouse forever and ever, hanging between sky and earth, and write in my journal and eat my chocolate.
But it’s not possible.
I look up and through the gap in the slats, I notice the sky has turned orange-ish. Darn it. The sun is setting and it’s going to be dark soon.
“We have to leave. My mom’s gonna be mad.” I snap my journal shut, eat the last piece of melted Toblerone before shoving everything in my chest.
“Dude, when’s your mom not mad?” Sky grumbles, but packs up her things.
We both stand up and the yellow-painted floor creaks. Sky’s the first to climb down. She can’t get out of here fast enough; she hates this treehouse because she’s afraid of heights. But she’ll deny it through and through. She’s too badass to be afraid.
I will admit, boobs aside, I really don’t see the point of bleeding every month, and this pad business is gross. I discreetly adjust my panties and waddle down the ladder.
We both reach the ground and in her usual way, Sky begins running, her combat boots thumping on the ground. I can’t believe she isn’t absorbing things. She isn’t soaking up the dying rays of the sun or feeling the softness of the grass or touching the rough bark of the trees, or even smelling the sweet corn.
I could spend all my life being outside in the woods or on the farm. In fact, my dad says that when I was little I had dark hair and dark eyes like both my parents, and I had a habit of wandering off into the corn fields behind our house. I used to stay out for hours before anyone could find me. It used to make my mom super mad, and then one day they found me out in the fields with yellow hair and blue eyes. Dad says that I soaked up the color of the sun and the sky. It’s a cute story, even though I know it’s impossible.
Dad is fond of stories too. I get the reading bug from him.
My treehouse is located in the middle of the woods behind my house. It’s not deep or thick or anything like the real woods where animals live. It’s just a collection of really tall trees that are bunched up together and form a canopy overhead. The ground has wildflowers and the softest grass you’ve ever felt. It’s like walking on silk. It gets real pretty when it rains, all the colors sharp and cutting and clear.
I come out of the thin woods and onto the farm that my dad owns. I can see our house in the distance, just up the dirt path that cuts through the long thick cornstalks. It’s white with gray shuttered windows and a wraparound porch. There are wooden steps leading up to the front door but I’m not allowed to use it if I’ve spent too much time outside. That means I’m always using the back door that goes through the kitchen. Mom says I get way too dirty for a twelve-year-old girl. I look down at myself and notice grass stains on my pink dress, and muddied-up feet and calves.