Total pages in book: 34
Estimated words: 34243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 171(@200wpm)___ 137(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 171(@200wpm)___ 137(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Her dad, who turns out to be a billionaire...and I’m probably the only one in school who didn’t know.
IT’S EARLY JUNE, AND the campus is already half-emptied. The parking lot down the hill is dotted with parents loading up SUVs, goodbye hugs on every sidewalk, a couple of freshmen posing with their arms around each other in front of the Cornwall sign like they’ve just survived a war and not a single year of college.
Watching normal people lead normal lives around me used to make me question my existence, but everything feels different now. Icelle is the first one to know the worst about my mom, and yet she’s still here. She’s still my friend. And maybe, if Icelle can accept that part about my life, maybe other people can do so, too?
The possibility makes me feel giddy and terrified all at once, and this has me immediately pushing the thought aside like I always do, with things I can’t fully understand or control.
I’m all for honesty 99% of the time. But when it comes to the 1% type of truths that I don’t know how to process?
I don’t think about it so I can tell myself it doesn’t exist.
So this friendship between Icelle and me that has just gained a new layer of depth? And the subsequent hope it gives me about having a normal life?
Not going to think about it.
For now, I’m just going to enjoy the fact that I have a friend. Like, a real friend, and not just because we have things in common like having zero interest in dating, social media, and being popular. In fact, that’s the reason we got to know each other. During freshman orientation, we were asked to vote on a number of things like Mr. and Ms. Friendly, Mr. and Ms. Cool, stuff like that. Icelle and I, with our identical long blond hair and blue eyes, ended up tying for Ms. Barbie Lookalike, and both of us, when approached by the sophomores in private about winning, surprised each other by saying the same thing at the same time:
Thanks, but no thanks.
And that was it. We were friends for life, but now, I guess we can take that up a notch and say we’re best friends forever?
Since the thought has me starting to feel a little sentimental, I think it’s time to redirect my thoughts, like...um, the tall trees lining the walkway. They’re tall and treeish, and behind them are the old stone buildings of Cornwall, which look the way they always do: sturdy and indifferent, like they’ve been watching students come and go for a hundred years and none of it has made a dent.
I’ve spent two semesters here, and even though having Icelle as my friend has changed something inside of me—it’s not enough. When I look around, a part of me still doesn’t feel like it belongs here. Or anywhere else. And I honestly don’t know if that feeling will ever go away.
Icelle leads me toward the front gate, past the library with its tall arched windows that make the whole building look like it’s raising its eyebrows at you, and I’m about to ask her where she parked when I see it.
A limo.
Not a car, not an Uber, but an honest-to-goodness limo, long and black and gleaming at the curb. The driver is already out, wearing an actual uniform, and he takes my duffel bag with a nod and a “good afternoon” like this is all perfectly normal, and he’s either really nice or really well-trained because his smile doesn’t change at all even though my bag, with its duct-taped patch, is probably the most pathetic piece he’s ever had to handle as driver to the super rich.
From there, it just keeps getting more unreal. The private airfield and the red-carpet-treatment that literally comes with a red carpet, zero crowds and zero noise. The small building that looks more like a country club than an airport, and, sitting at the end of a short runway...
Why am I even surprised at this point?
Of course Icelle’s family would own a private jet.
The stairs are already down when we reach the jet, and a woman in a navy blazer stands at the bottom with a clipboard and a smile, welcoming us like we’re expected guests at a hotel and not two college kids with a combined emotional baggage that could fill this entire runway.
We board, and I have to stop in the doorway because my legs need a moment to process what my eyes are seeing. The cabin looks nothing like the inside of any plane I’ve ever been on, which admittedly is a sample size of two. One to Connecticut in September and one back for winter break, both economy, both middle seats. This is different. There are armchairs. Actual armchairs, the color of cream, wide enough to curl up in, with the softest leather I’ve ever touched. And a table between them. As in, the kind you expect to see in a living room, not a freaking airplane, and there’s even a vase with a single white flower—