Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76272 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76272 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
“I like your s-shoes,” I go with. Anything to distract her from sniffing out that I actually was mooning over a guy. And not just any guy.
“Sophia Webster. Feel free to borrow them any time you want. In fact, you’d be doing me a favor. Anything to spare my gag reflex from seeing you in those heinous penny loafers again. I swear I get depressed just thinking about them.”
She picks up two pieces of clothing off my bed. Gingerly. As if they’re infected with Ebola. Her slender diamond-covered fingers dangle my favorite white button down shirt in one hand and my tan khakis in the other.
“Not even the Salvation Army is desperate enough to take these.”
“Y-you’re not donating my f-favorite shirt and pants. I wear those the m-most.”
I’ve stuttered ever since I can remember. No one knows why or how it started. At least, none of the therapists I’ve seen over the years could explain it. Inside my head everything is tidy, succinct, and clear. Forceful even. But as soon as the words are ushered out of my mouth they turn into a pile-up of letters.
Most people I meet assume I’ve suffered a traumatic experience or that my parents had something to do with it––both of which couldn’t be any farther from the truth. Have I been fat shamed? Of course. Have I been bullied at school? Hasn’t everyone? But nothing serious enough to justify the anxiety I’ve felt all my life when I’m forced to speak.
I’ve tried the medication. The cognitive therapy. Some of it worked, most didn’t. So after years of struggling to control it, I’ve given up and come to accept that it’s just part of who I am. It doesn’t mean I don’t get self-conscious about it, though…because I do.
Zoe blinks. Her brow bunches, incredulity dueling with amusement on her refined features. They finally settle into a determined frown. “I’ve changed my mind. We’re burning them.”
She tosses my favorite shirt and pants onto the rest of the pile on my bed and I snatch them back, clutching them protectively to my breasts. Not to be outdone, Zoe grabs them and tugs. Backing down from a fight would never in million years occur to her.
“Let. Them. Go,” she orders.
“No.” I tamp down the urge to laugh as she pulls harder.
“Did you, or did you not beg me to help you fix this shit stain of a wardrobe?”
I exhale audibly. I mean…I don’t know if I’d call it begging, but I also don’t want to hide anymore. Either behind a Halloween mask or my baggy clothes. I don’t want to disappear into the background. For better or worse, I want to be noticed. I’m well aware that I may be setting myself up for a lot of heartache, but I’m willing to face the challenge. If this is going to be a new and improved me, who better to help me spruce up my image?
“How long would you like to hold on to your hymen? Till you’re dead? Because if I had a dick, it would go limp looking at this outfit.”
“Fine.” My head drops. My grip loosens one finger at a time. “I wouldn’t be surp-prised to find a p-pentagram under your bed.”
“I don’t need sorcery, Ramos––” She extends a hand and makes a circle near my face. “The virgin is all over you.”
I swat it away and immediately flush red hot because the thought of everyone knowing…
“Really?”
She makes a face and smacks my forehead. “No, not really, you weirdo. I’m just super, super intelligent.”
“And humble,” I add, my lips trembling into a smile.
Alice’s head pops in, her brown eyes wide and glassy with amusement. “What are you guys up to?”
“I’m Eliza Doolittling, Ramos’s ass,” Zoe deadpans while she takes the clothes out of my hands with undisguised glee and tosses them on the discard pile. Not a second later, she’s back in my closet, pulling out a shopping bag.
“She’s helping me up-pdate m-my wardrobe.”
Alice eyeballs me and a silent question passes between us. She wants to know if she needs to intervene, and I shake my head. I asked for this, after all.
“With a flamethrower!” Zoe cuts in.
Alice grins. “I’ll be up late––History of Italian Film exam tomorrow––let me know if anyone wants to order take-out.” That said, she disappears into the room across from mine.
“What’s this?” Zoe continues unabated. Before I have a chance to answer, her face is half inside the bag. “What is THIS? Blake! Blaaaake! You gotta see this.”
I went a little crazy the day I received the email from my birthmother. I thought I had experienced rejection and disappointment in my life. I thought a person whom I didn’t know and didn’t love had no power to hurt me. Well, I was wrong. Every cut I’d received until that day paled in comparison to what it felt like to see those words.