Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 46914 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 235(@200wpm)___ 188(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46914 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 235(@200wpm)___ 188(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
After a quick shower, I make myself a coffee attempting to feel human, every instinct yelling at me to go back to bed.
Natasha emerges from her bedroom a few minutes later, listening to a podcast on her phone.
“…procedure is surprisingly simple, and not as expensive as some people may think….”
It’s a plastic-surgery podcast I’ve heard her listen to many times before.
I suppress a sigh.
She has no idea how beautiful she looks, her hair seemingly styled, even though messy from bed, her face full of life and vivacity. Everybody in high school agreed she was the hottest girl in her grade, and she never wanted to get surgery until Mom died.
It’s weird, that connection, and I wish we had money for a therapist.
“Want some coffee?” I ask, as she drops onto the couch, immersed in her podcast.
“Sure,” she says absentmindedly. “Thank you.”
I carry two mugs over, sitting next to her, not having to leave for ten minutes or so.
“Are you ready for school today?” I ask as the woman’s voice continues to talk, filling the living room with facts and temptations about plastic surgery.
“It’s not as expensive as you think,” she replies.
I stifle a groan. “Natasha, you know you’re beautiful, don’t you?”
“I’m getting wrinkles.”
I stare in disbelief at her smooth cheeks and her flawless skin.
“Okay. Show me.”
She points to the corner of her eye. “Right here. Can’t you see them?”
I look closely, wanting to make sure I take her words seriously since she’s clearly taking them seriously.
I don’t want to discard her concerns like they mean nothing, but the truth is, there are no wrinkles. Her skin is flawless.
“Oh, Nat,” I murmur, sighing.
“Nat, what?” she snaps. “Do you think I’m making it up?”
“I just think it’s a shame you look so hard for imperfections in yourself. You’re beautiful. You always have been. That didn’t change just because Mom died.”
I want to snatch the words back the second I say them.
It’s the way Natasha’s face crumples up like I’ve just spit in her face. Her lip curls, a glint of the Queen Bee entering her eyes, reminding me of the phase in high school when she could be truly vicious.
I hate that I was ever like that, she said to me once. I wish I could take back every nasty thing I ever said.
But now, she leans forward, her sneer getting even more severe. “You just don’t want to pay for it. That’s all this is about. Money. You’ll lie to my face and let me walk around like an ugly freak just to save a few dollars.”
A pulse moves through me, nothing like the one Weston provokes in me, nothing like the one I felt last night while texting, hardly believing he was responding… and all the while reminding myself he wouldn’t be responding if he knew who I really was.
“That’s not even remotely true,” I say, trying to keep my voice level. “And it’s not a few dollars. It’s thousands.”
“Weston’s never going to want me when I look like this. Have you seen Kennedy?”
I rise to my feet, resisting the urge to yell at her.
She’s still grieving from Mom’s death, the senseless pain of it. The other driver died… there’s no one to blame, nobody we can aim our rage at.
It’s just pain, existing.
“I have to leave for work,” I tell her.
Her features soften. For a second, I think she will tell me she’s sorry.
But then she waves her hand dismissively. “Whatever.”
Reaching down, I place my hand on her shoulder, ignoring the niggling in my mind telling me I’ve got to stop texting Weston.
It’s enough that he’s already publicly proclaimed he wants social media climber Kennedy.
How would Natasha react if she knew my true feelings?
I give her shoulder a squeeze.
After a pause, she reaches up and lays her hand on mine, pressing down with warmth.
“I love you, sis,” she says, making my eyes prick as though tears might come. “I hope you know that.”
“I just wish you could love yourself,” I reply. “I know it’s been hard since Mom… but there’s nothing wrong with you.”
After a short hug – which cools the anger trying to rage in me – I leave the apartment and head down to the bus.
As I’m waiting at the stop, my anxiety increases the longer it takes, my phone vibrates from my pocket.
I snatch it out quickly, knowing I’ve got no right to expect it to be Weston.
I told him texting was a mistake. He doesn’t even know who I am.
But it is him, and I smile… suddenly, the nerves that erupt from waiting for the bus drift away, no longer mattering.
How’s Miss Mystery doing this fine morning?
I look around the grimy street, the California sun doing little to make it seem brighter and more cheerful. I reply, It’s not so fine from where I’m standing.
Oh, right, and where’s that?