Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76272 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76272 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
For the first time since I could remember, I looked in the mirror and I didn’t see someone who had a monologue of toxic garbage running on repeat in her head. I wasn’t the girl always reminding herself she wasn’t good enough, or thin enough, or interesting enough, or whatever––fill in the blank. I wasn’t someone who stuttered. And I definitely wasn’t someone who was still a virgin.
Sasha stopped taking pictures with ball gags long enough to look me up and down and announce that I looked “fucking hawt” and that was that. I whipped out my credit card and the rest you know.
Watching Dallas now, a pit of longing cracks opens my chest. Not that I would ever admit it to my friends. That’s not happening. Like––ever. Not even if I somehow end up starring in a Saw movie and am about to get dunked in a vat of acid. If you knew my friends, you’d understand.
“Hey, loser,” a familiar voice calls out.
See what I mean? Zoe’s voice yanks me out of my daydreaming as effectively as a cold shower.
I’ve managed to become friends with three of the girls that share my dorm suite through no effort of my own. They’ve kinda just refused to let me hide in my room.
“We made a coffee run,” Blake says, holding up a cup in each hand, her gold medical bracelet jangling. “Want one?”
Say no to an iced latte? Never.
The two of them approach my table dressed like they stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine. Zoe’s wearing platform wedge sandals with the wedge in rainbow stripes. A micro denim skirt and a blousy cotton top. Blake is in ripped white skinny jeans with a cherry red silk top and silver Jimmy Choo slides. The only reason I know all this is because of Zoe, freaking encyclopedia-of-fashion, Mayfield.
Blake hands me one of the drinks while Zoe’s gaze tracks mine right back to––
“Who are you staring at with that dopey look on yourrrrnooo. No!” she whisper-hisses. “Tell me you are not looking at Van Zant.”
I glance up to find Zoe’s picture-perfect face set in a grim expression, her glossy lips pressed together tightly.
The best way to describe Zoe is part motivational coach, part fashion consultant, part sociopath. Only the good kind, though. She’s the one always leading the charge in everyone’s defense. Maybe a little too aggressively at times, but for all her bluster and blunt talk, she’s generous to a fault and as loyal as the day is long.
Blake Allyn is the quiet one. The voice of reason. An introvert who goes out of her way to avoid attention. Thing is, with her movie star face, dark brown skin, and long thick braids, she’s too beautiful to go unnoticed.
Alice Bailey is the fourth member of our little group, the one absent at the moment. A recent transfer student, she’s a film buff and a scholarship kid like me. She’s also pretty much the most down-to-earth person I’ve ever met.
“I-I’m not. I’m looking at the v-view.”
Santa Monica Bay sparkles in the horizon. A small white lie for the greater good. I’m obviously not doing a good job selling it because Zoe’s expression calls me on my BS.
“You better be because––ewww, Ramos. Look at him––” The three of us glance over to find Dallas laughing it up with his buddies. “He’s a gorgeous, useless idiot.”
“He’s n-not t-that bad,” I mutter, taking a sip of my drink to hide the indisputable flush of my cheeks.
When all I get in response is whole lot of silence, I steal a glance and find that my knee-jerk reaction has earned me more unwanted scrutiny. Even Blake is eyeballing me strangely now.
“He’s sub-human, Dora. Liking him would require a level of self-loathing that seriously concerns me.”
The two of them move to sit on the bench, one on each side of me.
“You can’t fuck him,” Zoe continues with no sign of stopping. “He’s probably got like––a bunch of STDs.”
Ouch. My ears hurt. “C-can you please not u-use that word. It-t’s so crude.” At this point, there’s so much heat coming off my face I wouldn’t be surprise to see it smoking.
“I’m a fan of the first amendment, Queen Mum, but I’ll be sure to edit my fucks next time we have high tea.”
“Look at you lawyering,” Blake remarks.
“Yale Law, yo. Here I come.”
“Easy there, Atticus Finch, you haven’t gotten in yet.”
While they go back and forth, the instinct to defend Dallas gathers strength. I don’t know why it bothers me that people assume he’s dumb and “useless” because he’s far from it. Somehow we wound up in the same English Lit. class and his comments and answers are always insightful. He’s definitely doing the required reading and work…I don’t know. I guess I don’t like to be judged on my appearance so why doesn’t he deserve the same benefit of the doubt.