Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
She grabs hold of my left hand, and a shard of glass tumbles to the floor. She forces my fingers to close over the pieces and then begins to squeeze. “Nothing?” She tightens her grip around my fist. Sharp splinters of pain cut through my skin. “Seriously? What will it take to get a reaction from you?”
Blood trickles over the sides of my palm, and I watch as it drips to the floor.
When she lets go of my hand, I let out a slow breath. She shoves me hard, and I stumble before I fall down. Somehow, I managed to keep hold of the glass pieces, but the sudden movement makes them cut deeper.
“Clean up,” she snaps.
I don’t move and wait for her to pour the cosmopolitan into a new cocktail glass. As she saunters out of the kitchen, I hear her say, “I can’t believe I’m stuck with Kingsley’s lookalike. I should dye your hair and get you contacts to wear. Maybe if you look more like me and less like that bitch you’ll grow a backbone.”
I wait until she’s gone before I climb to my feet. Walking over to the trashcan, I gingerly pick the shards from my hand. When I rinse the blood off in the sink, I shut my eyes as the cuts burn.
At least it’s not my right hand. I can still draw, and that’s really all that matters.
I wrap a piece of paper towel around my palm and fingers, then wipe up the mess on the floor before I go to my bathroom, where I keep a first aid kit.
I clean the cuts as best as I can, then wrap a bandage around my hand. Wanting to finish my homework so I can climb in bed, I go sit at my desk and read through the essay one last time. I move it to the side and pull my English book closer.
“I’ve made an appointment for you at the hairdresser tomorrow to get your damn hair colored,” Mom suddenly says.
I didn’t hear her come in and caught off guard, I instantly dart up and move to the side.
She glances down at my school work and shakes her head. My heart drops to my feet when she picks up the essay I just spent hours working on.
With a sigh, she says, “It’s such a waste of money to have you in that private school.” She crumples the papers, her eyes boring spitefully into mine, daring me to challenge her, and my body jerks in an immediate reflex to save my essay. But my survival instinct wins out, and my shoulders slump.
She lets out a disappointed sigh as she drops my crumpled assignment to the floor. “Such a waste of… everything really.”
As soon as she’s out of my room, I rush to shut the door, wishing I had a key to lock it. Hurrying back to my essay, I pick it up and do my best to straighten the papers. I bite my bottom lip to keep from crying as misery weighs heavily down on me.
Just one year. Hopefully, I’ll get accepted to an art school, so I can get out of here.
Hopefully.
Things are weird at school. The day is almost over, and no one has picked on me. There were no snide comments about me or my mother. Not that I’m complaining. The reprieve is welcome, especially after last night.
During art class, I work to finish the sketch I started yesterday. When it’s completed, I sit back and stare at the self-portrait. Yesterday, Miss Snow told us we could use any form of art as long as the work represented us. Now that I’m done with mine, I feel apprehensive about showing her.
I glance around at the other students to see how far they are and whether I have time to draw something else.
“What’s wrong, Brie?” Miss Snow asks, and as she moves in my direction, I quickly close my sketchpad.
“Ahh… nothing,” I mumble.
Crap.
She stops by me and reaches for my sketchpad.
“I’m not done yet,” I try to stop her, but she opens the book and thumbs through the two pages I’ve drawn on.
My eyes anxiously dart between her face and my sketchpad, and I almost wring my hands, but the painful cuts under the bandange stop me.
Emotions flash over her features, and then her eyebrows draw together. When her gaze moves to me, I quickly look down. Her hand settles on my shoulder as she places the book down in front of me. I smell her soft perfume as she crouches next to me.
“Please stay after class. You’re talented, and I’d like to talk to you about your options for college.”
Not what I expected. I let out the breath I was holding and nod.
I thought she was either going to lay into me for drawing depressing stuff or ask me to see the counselor, which would be a total waste of time.