Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 79183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
And now I’m back at square one.
On a happy note, I’ve figured out a way to keep my hands from shaking while I carry the white tray. You see, I clench it so tight that it keeps it stable. It’s the same thing I do with my teeth. I clench them until my jaw hurts, then I take a step every two seconds.
It works.
I appear confident.
Cool.
Ready for anything.
I even time the way I eat.
For example, if I have carrots, I chew at least ten times before calmly swallowing and taking a drink of water. If we have something messy, I use a fork and count to three, even though I’m starving, to cut another bite. If they have milk, I attempt to keep myself from putting an extra in my bag just in case I get kicked out.
I’m ashamed to say that I’ve done that a few times; I even saved my carrots once when I was scared Ambrose’s mom would kick me out. I had no money, and I was worried about food since I had already turned eighteen.
Thankfully, even though I never see her, there’s always food at the house, then there’s Ambrose, with his perfect friends, always leering behind me, ready to kick me when I’m down.
I know he’s angry.
But he has no idea.
He has no clue I’m doing what’s best for him.
And I’ll take it to my grave.
Because regardless of what I’m going through, it’s the right thing to do, and I can’t go past that, there are a lot of lines I’ve obviously crossed, but this is one that needs to stay firm.
For him.
I mean, maybe, I won’t have the perfect life, maybe I’ll end up dead—he has the best chance at doing something great, and I believe in him, so I’ll take the hits again and again.
Until I’m bloody, bruised, dying because isn’t that what this world needs? More heroes?
Mine will be sacrifice.
His will be acceptance.
I chew on a carrot and look down at my tray.
I tell myself that tears are useless; what purpose have they ever served in my life other than to tell my body that I’m sad?
I keep them in, though I struggle, then take another bite, then another. Someone comes and sits next to me. I don’t acknowledge them. What good is it to make friends when nobody cares? Nobody’s loyal?
“Hey,” a male voice sounds. “You’re either high or really hate carrots; never seen someone eat them so slowly. You good?”
I look up.
It’s Quinn. We have Math together. He’s really smart, nerd hot with black-rimmed glasses, dark hair, dimples, and super tall yet weirdly built like he has a home gym but is embarrassed to tell anyone.
I look down at my tray—I’m used to that by now, looking down, hiding my face with my hair as much as possible considering how short it is now.
Being invisible. “Sorry, just hate carrots.”
“Why?” He laughs, popping one into his mouth and crunching.
“They’re hard.”
“Life’s hard,” he answers back right away, running his hands through his glossy black hair. “Isn’t there like this whole boomer saying about life’s hard get a helmet.”
I try not to smile and fail.
The guy’s even got dad jokes.
“Ah, I got you! Wow, I just won Monday. Do I get a high five now, or are those allowed? I mean, I don’t want to make you look less cool while you suck on carrots and stare into the oblivion that is high school.”
I shake my head and offer him a side glance, my hair still covering part of my face. “Why are you sitting here?”
“Got bored. I’m too smart for the smart kids’ table; they get super competitive when we play frisbee golf. I got kicked off the team yesterday for a foul I will still say and take to my grave was miscalled. Plus, I mean, at least take in the wind, right? So yeah, I saw you sitting here looking all depressed, chomping on carrots like your world depended on it, and thought, damn, she’s clearly having a worse day than I am, and sat. So… how’s it going?”
I don’t even know what to say. I gape at him. “You talk a lot.”
“You talk too little.”
I smile, maybe for the first time that day. “It’s going okay. I have carrots, meaning I have food. Whenever you have food when you haven’t had food, your perspective changes.”
He’s quiet, then leans back. “Deep for an eighteen-year-old.”
I scoff. “Eighteen going on thirty.”
“Ohhhh, you’re one of those? Good to know. Also, I’m Quinn; just in case you forgot, captain of the Mathletes—we have jackets just like in Mean Girls. I’ll give you a minute to catch your breath, so you don’t pass out from the sheer awesomeness of our popularity. Last year we did a car wash to raise money. Made bank…”
I laugh. “Did you, though?”