Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
She could have avoided this. She only has herself to blame.
And maybe now, she’ll be a little smarter about who she shows her attitude to. Maybe she’ll think before she acts like a know-it-all bitch who’s so superior to everyone around her. We all know the truth now. She’s no better than anybody.
At least, that’s what I’m telling myself by the end of class. I don’t think I’ve ever looked forward to the end of class more than I am right now. It doesn’t matter that it’s Friday, the last class, any of that. I want to watch her scurry out of the room. I’m craving her humiliation. For her to know she’s the reason for it in the end.
So when everybody starts getting their shit together and getting up from their desks, I stay put. I’m too busy watching her, clocking every move. Waiting for that inevitable moment when she ducks her head and lifts her shoulders and runs out of here like the room is on fire.
Yet when she stands up and immediately glares hatefully down at me, I’m kind of thrown off. And it’s not just that she glares. It’s that she stands there, holding my gaze, like she’s daring me to say something. Endless seconds pass with the two of us locked in a staring contest that tells me she is anything but intimidated.
I’m so busy asking myself who the hell she thinks she is, the way she still has the balls to stare me down, that I can only sit and stare while she marches out of the room with her head held high.
It’s amazing how quickly rage can harden into something hateful. Something dark and dangerous.
What is it going to take to put her in her place?
7
EMMA
I hate him. I hate him, and I want to die. But not before I kill him first.
Cue ball. How fucking original. Like I’ve never heard that before. Like I didn’t spend weeks searching for the highest quality wig I could afford, just so I could feel like my normal self. Like I didn’t spend hours learning to style it, so I’d look natural, not always stuck looking the same.
Now, here I am, with the weight of dozens of eyes on me and all the judgment behind them. My work was for nothing. The snickers and snorts land heavy on my ears and pummel me until I’ll be surprised if I don’t end up bruised. They might as well throw rocks at me. It might hurt less.
Don’t let them get to you. This will pass. The kind of thing Mom would say to me, if she was here. But this isn’t the same as a fight with my best friend in second grade. This is a bunch of people who are old enough to know better, laughing at me for something I can’t control as I fight my way out of the room and into the hallway. There’s an almost painful pressure behind my eyes and a stinging sensation that goes along with it. I will not cry in front of these people. I won’t.
If only because that heartless prick would hear about it and know he broke me. No way in hell I’m letting that happen.
The sight of a bathroom door marked Ladies is my salvation. I cut across the hall, dodging passing people who will know soon enough why I’m in such a hurry. If they don’t already—it’s like there’s some kind of supernatural connection between these creeps, like they instantly download any mean, nasty news. Like it gets sent directly to their brains. What brains they have, anyway.
Thank God it’s empty in here, with a row of stalls sitting open. I take the last one in the far corner, tears blurring my vision by the time I slam the door shut and flip the lock.
Why? It’s the only question reverberating in my skull as I lean my back against the wall and cover my face with my hands. Tears drip down my cheeks and into my palms. I don’t have the strength to hold them back anymore. I’m so tired. Tired of every day feeling like a battle. I had enough to deal with before the twins from hell entered my life. The spawn of Satan. Why did I have to see them that night? Why couldn’t I have left five minutes earlier or later?
Why won’t the world just leave me alone?
“Looks like Emma is reinventing herself.” I still hear it even now, hundreds of days and thousands of miles later. That was before anybody knew about the leukemia, when I was only the shy, quiet girl whose parents died and who suddenly started wearing a different hairstyle. Back then, I pretty much minded my own business and kept my head down. Not unlike the way I do now.