Total pages in book: 174
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Pausing, he drops his gaze to my lips for a second. He studies my trembling mouth.
He studies my red cheeks too, my partially unraveled braid, my ink-stained hands before looking up at me, his eyes more serious than ever.
“But what I won’t do,” he continues, “is let this bullshit continue.”
“I-I’m sorry?”
“You weren’t your daddy’s princess, so you want to be mine,” he rasps, dipping his face toward me. “Don’t you? You’re a textbook case. That’s why you watch me every morning. That’s why you blush and duck your head and pretend to not notice me. That’s why you talk and talk and never stop when I’m around, correct? That’s why you provoked me that first day. That’s why you snuck into my office. Did you think I wouldn’t notice? That I’m the object of your teenage obsession? That my little sister’s best friend is fascinated with me. I did. I noticed. And so let me make this very clear to you because I don’t think slamming the door in your face got the message across.
“I’m not interested in you. I will never be interested in you. In fact, I’m fucking allergic,” he says, his jaw clenched. “To you. I’m allergic to your big silver eyes and your pouty pink lips. To your blushing cheeks and your breathy voice. I’m allergic to the way you can’t stop watching me. I told you I’m not interested in Disney movies, didn’t I? I meant it. So I suggest you find someone else to play damsel in distress with. Someone else to solve your teenage problems. Someone your age, someone who’s probably still going through a fucking growth spurt or someone who spends his weekends playing video games and jerking off. From now on, if I catch you looking at me across the hallway or if I find you within ten feet of my office or me without reason, my sister’s best friend or not, I’ll personally make sure you never see the outside of that brick wall and those black metal gates for the rest of the year.”
And then before he straightens up, he adds, “And I might be closer to your dad’s age than yours, but I do remember what people call you. And I also know what your name is, Bronwyn.”
There’s a row of cottage-like houses on one side of campus.
Away from the school and cafeteria buildings, away from the dorm and the library and the soccer field.
They’re backed up against the brick wall surrounding the school and are supposed to be partially private and for the faculty.
In the olden days — in 1939, specifically — when the school was newly opened, the school was all there was.
Meaning the town of St. Mary’s was built after the school came into existence.
So a lot of faculty members lived on campus, in these cottages. But as time went on, the town grew and teachers started to live off campus. Now no one lives here. These cottages are abandoned and in disarray, with peeling paint and overgrown ivy. There was some talk of tearing them down and building a new hall, but the funding has always been a problem.
I don’t mind though. I actually like these cottages.
I like that they’re shabby and old. And isolated and lonely, because for the most part, girls at school keep their distance. So when I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone or to draw like a possessed girl, I can come here for a little bit and hide out.
That’s where I’m headed.
To get away from everyone. From the loud chatter and from my girls’ concerned eyes.
I’ve told them numerous times since the day in the library, which was two days ago, that I’m fine. There’s nothing to worry about at all. Maybe I’m really coming down with something. And maybe that’s why my eyes are swollen and my nose is red all the time.
It has nothing to do with a man.
A man who so thoroughly broke my heart two days ago.
The man who walks around campus unconcerned. Unaffected by what happened, by what he did.
By how he really crushed me under his boots.
But anyway, I don’t want to think about that.
I’m tired of thinking about it and I just want to get away for a bit, away from everyone else.
But it looks like that’s not in the cards, because when I get to the far end of campus and round the corner to make my way to the dogwood tree that’s located behind the cottages and where I usually sit and draw, I see that there’s already someone there.
Someone so unexpected that for a second I can’t believe what I’m actually seeing.
My guidance counselor, Miss Halsey.
She’s standing under the tree, her head bent and her hands wringing in front of her.
What the hell is she doing here?