Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 118104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 472(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 472(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
“Based on his grades and performance on the football field, I can assure you that Penn is on his way to Notre Dame on a scholarship.” Melody sends me a tight, this-is-not-how-Followhills-conduct-themselves smile. She hates it when I’m Hulky and spiteful.
“What happened?” Bailey makes a face to Penn.
“My mom passed away,” he explains. Bailey shoots her gaze to me as though I’m the one who killed her. Consequently, I want to die.
“At any rate”—Dad’s eyes narrow on me—“should you girls like to voice any concerns or issues, our door is always open.”
Bailey looks over at Penn, then down at her lap.
“I always wanted a big brother. Is that what you’ll be?”
I choke on my water, spitting some of it onto my plate. Is she freaking kidding me? She is thirteen. Who talks like that? Bailey. Bailey talks like that. She’s goodness and sunshine wrapped in a pink bow. A straight-A student and her mommy’s beloved ballerina. She and Luna volunteer to clean beaches and fold secondhand clothes for charities every summer break.
Penn slides into our lives effortlessly, and no one notices how uncomfortable it makes me feel. Or how he still hasn’t acknowledged my existence since we sat down.
He takes a sip of his water.
“Are you accepting applicants?”
I roll my eyes so hard, I’m afraid they’ll end up on my plate. His smile widens behind his glass.
“Job’s yours.” Bailey’s eyes light up. “We could go bowling!”
“We could, but we won’t because it’s lame,” Penn deadpans.
“Totally lame.” She snickers, breathless.
“But I see you’re a reader.” He gestures with his chin to the stack of books piled on the coffee table in the living room. Bailey is a bookworm. She loves poetry. Another reason she is my personal 2.0 version.
“There’s an open mic place in San Diego where people read their poems. It’s pretty rad, and they serve a sick apple pie there. We could go. Your parents can come, too.”
Everyone grins as though they’re starring in a toothpaste commercial. No one realizes he failed to extend the invitation to me. I slam my water glass on the table. I am ignored. Maybe I’m like the boy who cried wolf. So snappy and short all the time that when I actually have a reason to be pissed, no one gives a damn.
“This is the best,” Bailey says at the same time Mel jumps into practicalities.
“You don’t have a car, Penn. Since you’ll need to commute to San Diego every day, you’re not going to argue with me about this next thing.”
Penn shoots her a look I don’t think I’d ever be able to get away with. Part murderous, all infuriated.
“Is this the part where you’re getting me a car? Because I’m not a toy boy.”
“Already did.” Dad shrugs, popping a piece of steak into his mouth. “It’s nothing fancy, and I forgot to extend my warning about not touching my daughters to my wife, too—that toy boy remark almost cost you your nose.”
“Fine. Correction: I’m not a charity case.” Penn stabs his steak so hard, the dead cow is almost groaning in pain.
“Are you sure about that?” I drone, swirling the water in my glass. “Because you look and dress like one.”
“Daria,” Mel snaps.
Bailey shakes her head at me.
I hate this. I hate him. And I hate that I’m showing off my fake colors, the bitchy ones, in all their insecure glory when he’s around.
Penn pretends he didn’t hear me and steals a Brussels sprout from Bailey’s plate.
“Thank Marx.” She laughs. “I hate them. Do you know you have a hole in your shirt?”
I want to tell her that it’s intentional. Symbolic. Because he always has one, no matter when and where I see him or what he’s wearing. Instead, I count the pepper bits on my piece of chicken.
My sister and I aren’t close.
“There’s a story behind it,” he says.
“A good story?” she asks.
“I don’t have any other types of stories.”
“Let me show you your new car, son,” Dad says. Son.
I roll my eyes to keep from crying.
Marx, this is going to be a long freaking year.
You are beautiful like a song
Ugly like a scream
But beneath your pretty bones
You’re lost from deep within
I want to dig inside the fissures of your soul
Pull out all your secrets
Dump them at your feet
Then devour your expression
For your pain shall taste so sweet
In the morning, I find a green apple with one discolored bite taken out of it on my desk when I wake up. It sits on my open history textbook where a passage has been highlighted, the yellow marker beside it.
The Romans brought apples with them when they invaded Britain.
I want to rip down the walls in the house and scream until I faint.
I settle, however, for skipping breakfast and going straight to school.
Now, in the cafeteria, I’m mostly trying to breathe regularly and survive.