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)
“Aww, someone sounds jealous.”
“Just personally offended by her lack of style.” I smirk.
“Yeah. You seem easily offended. Like yesterday, when you ran to your room when you saw my face. Some things don’t change, Lovebug.”
She claps the overhead mirror shut and pins me with a glare.
I pull into a parking spot in front of All Saints High and unbuckle the seat belt, twisting my whole body to face her.
“We don’t have to be enemies, Sylvia. I know you’re trying to rock the whole Goody-Two-shoes vibe with my family, but it’s not who you are, and it’s not who you have to be to fit in my family. We had our differences in the past, but we were fourteen and competing for the same spot. That spot is yours now if you want it. I have no interest in ballet anymore. We’re only going to have one senior year. Why not make it our best?”
She leans toward me, a sly smile gracing her lips. I forget to breathe as I wait for her words. Forget that the Scullys were born with smiles that can very well kill or at least drastically wound when they’re aimed directly at you without sunglasses. They’re that beautiful.
“Four years ago, you flaunted all you have in my face while I had nothing. Now, I’m going to take every single thing that belongs to you and make a show everyone in town is going to have fun watching while doing it. I want it all, Daria. Your dedicated mom, sweet sister, loyal dad, and popular friends. If you have a boyfriend, I’ll take him, too. And fuck him better.” She grins. I want to LOL in her face when I think about the one and only guy I’ve slept with. Then I feel like throwing up. Marx. What have I done? This complicates things so much. “Oh, and good luck convincing them that I’m a bitch. My brother and me, we have one thing in common. We play a really good game.” She throws her door open.
With one leg flung over the concrete, she releases her hair clip and drags its sharp teeth along the delicate chiffon dress she is wearing, right around the fabric bunching at her cleavage, ripping my garment in the process to show off more skin. “After all, I spent the past four years being good.”
I escort Via to our counselor, feeling as though I’m on death row. On our way there, we pass Colin Stimatzky in the hallway. He gives Via a once-over, sucking his teeth in appreciation. She is fresh meat. The kind that makes your mouth water. She knocks herself against his arm deliberately, like in a bad teenage flick, then turns around and giggles. When she introduces herself, sparks fly. I can practically feel them biting at my skin. I drop her off at the counselor’s office and dash to my class before the bell rings, refusing to contemplate what it all means.
Daria Followhill is no longer the prettiest girl at school.
Sylvia Scully is.
Consequently, Sylvia Scully is going to pay for that little declaration of war.
I spend the first half of the day obsessing over Via’s words and munching on my fingernails, thinking about this unfortunate turn of events. She’s back, and now her brother is ignoring me. Her brother, whom I gave my virginity to. Her brother, who obviously knew she was coming but still took what did not belong to him. At lunch, I force myself to play nice like Dad asked me, so when I hit her hard—and I will hit both her and Penn like a wrecking ball—no one will see it coming, and no one will blame me.
This time, when I strike, no one will suspect it.
I text Via (Dad programmed her new number in my phone) to ask her where she is. She replies that she’s in the art room, and I put two and two together. She’s with a senior class. At least for now. I meet her at the door.
“I’ll introduce you to the ton. You’ll be all the rage.” I loop my arm in hers, pretending to ignore her parting words to me, in which she promised to strip me of everything I care about.
“The ton?” She huffs, pulling away and putting some space between us.
“Yeah. You know, like, fashionable society. Sorry. I’m kind of big on historical romances.” I play humble. I haven’t voluntarily read a book in a decade. Most of my friends use this term all the time, but I like making her feel dumb.
“No, I’m the one who is sorry.” Her lips twitch in annoyance. “I wasn’t allowed to read anything but the Bible for the past four years. I’ll have to play catch-up.”
Great. Now I feel shitty again for having her go through this. What is it about the Scullys that puts me through the emotional wringer?