Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 188957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 945(@200wpm)___ 756(@250wpm)___ 630(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 188957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 945(@200wpm)___ 756(@250wpm)___ 630(@300wpm)
All I know is that the moment he essentially kicked me out of his office after those photos, I knew.
In my heart. In my bones. In my very soul.
Like a realization that had been living deep inside of me but only now floating to the surface.
But again, I’m not going to do anything. I promised to stay away from him and I will.
And there are plenty of things to keep me occupied.
First are classes.
Now that I’m committed to finishing summer school and I’m not actively trying to plot and plan things, I’m giving classes a shot. And I have to say that they aren’t that bad. Or tough even.
I mean, I’m still not a fan of sitting inside a classroom and listening to lectures, but if I pay a little attention, I could do this thing. I could pass all my classes and graduate the right way. And I honestly think that it might be good for me, for my self-esteem and for my confidence in my own abilities.
I’m not shy when it comes to most things but I’m only now realizing that Charlie’s rejection of my creativity has hurt me in a lot of ways. It has made me aimless and uninterested. So yeah, taking something seriously and seeing it to the end may boost my belief in me.
Not to mention, now that people know about this secret hidden talent of mine, I’m feeling more and more creative every day. My head is brimming with ideas, with necklines and bodice patterns, with flowing skirts and wavy hems. With sequins and polka dots and lace and silk. I’m constantly sketching and coming up with designs.
In fact, when the weekend arrives I go shopping.
It was actually a pleasant surprise that I even could, because I don’t have any privileges in summer school. But my guidance counselor called me into her office one afternoon and told me that in a surprising turn of events, I have my privileges back. That I could go out if I wanted over the weekends.
I wanted to ask her all the questions. Why and how and who. But I guess I already knew all of them.
I already knew that it was him.
He did it.
The new principal.
Who also told me to stay away from him so I couldn’t go and thank him even.
But I do take advantage of the freedom he gave me.
I go out and I drag Echo and Jupiter out with me as well. We spend hours roaming around and hitting all the thrift stores. I buy all the clothes that I want to, all the clothes that I want to cut up and use to make new ones. I get all the colors and fabrics that I think might look good on my friends because watch out, I’m going to sew like crazy and shower them with all the gifts.
I also buy a particular kind of fabric: tweed.
A brown color — a couple of shades down from chocolate — with a very particular checkered pattern done in dark maroon.
It’s quite beautiful actually. Very masculine. Very commanding.
Very… him.
And yes, I’m aware that I said I’d stay away from him and I will — I am. But nowhere does it say that I can’t make him a tweed jacket with his patent elbow patches if I want to, does it?
I can sew him a jacket on the sewing machine that he bought me, and I can still stay away from him.
I could leave it with Mo when I go back to New York at the end of summer school. Or I could just mail it from New York. It could be a parting gift. Something for him to remember me by. Tangible proof that once upon a time, I was here.
I was in his life.
Once upon a time, he was my guardian and I was his ward and we hated each other.
And then we stopped. And it could’ve meant something but it didn’t.
Anyway.
So yes, days pass and I study. I design. I sew. I spend time with my friends.
And I watch him being all principal-y from afar.
Until one day I have to break the promise and I have to go to him.
In my defense, it’s a school matter and he told me that I could come to him for that.
It’s for my friend. Echo, specifically.
So she’s been moping around for a couple of days about something. She heard through the grapevine that her ex-boyfriend, Lucas, is back in town for a few days, and he’s going to be at this bar this Saturday. And she wants to go see him.
“I realize that it might sound stalker-ish,” she said last night in my dorm room, where we were spread out on the bed and on the desk, doing our homework. “And I’m not a stalker. I promise. I just… want to see him, you know? I haven’t seen him in so long and he never comes to visit. Like, ever. And now he’s back for a few days and I’m stuck here and I just, I wish I could go see him. Like even from afar. I’m not going to do anything. I’m not going to like chase him or —”