Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
“You could be building some resistance to your meds. Upping the dosage is something we need to consider.”
I’m not going to up the dosage. In fact, I was going to ask her next time we spoke how long it would be before I could wean myself off of it. It’s an antidepressant, even though I’m not depressed, that works for anxiety, which apparently, I am always anxious. But she taught me all these coping mechanisms over the years that could prove to be useful. Now that I’m away from Dad’s insufferable personality and am officially an adult, the exercises would probably work if I actually did them. Meds are kind of pointless now, right?
I consider how the conversation would go with Maura if I brought this up. Cringing, I decide she’d definitely up my meds.
Sighing, I glance at the clock, anticipating the top of the hour when class will finally be over. I fidget in my seat and skim over the outline for the twelfth time since we typed it up, looking for any error that’s been hiding until now. Thankfully, I find none. Just a basic roadmap about our conspiracy theory topic on secret elite psychological operations—or psyops—and government mind control. Right now, we’re in the investigation phase and will narrow down our thesis by the end of next week.
My rambling thoughts screech to a halt the second chairs start scraping as students begin leaving class. I yank my bag over my shoulder, tuck my collarbone-length blond hair behind my ear, then snatch up my outline. Someone gives me an annoyed look when I nearly plow them over in my attempt to get to Professor Bolton before anyone else.
“Miss Langston,” she says as I approach. “We’ll need to discuss what you want to do with your project going further.”
I hand the paper to her and cock my head to the side in confusion. “Isn’t that what the outline is for?”
“Well, now that your partner is gone—”
“Gone?” I bark out, confused. “What do you mean? Where’s Megan?”
She chuckles. “Don’t be alarmed. Students drop this class all the time. Conspiracy theories aren’t exactly popular subjects of study out here on the West Coast.”
I try to make sense of her words as other students hand her their outlines as they pass. Megan didn’t drop. I just spoke to her.
Did I, though?
She came to my dorm at Birnkrant yesterday afternoon but then left before dinnertime. That was the last time I spoke to her. At no time did she mention she was dropping this class.
It doesn’t make sense.
“She didn’t drop,” I tell Professor Bolton. “There’s obviously a mistake.”
She frowns and then gathers the messy stack of papers on her desk. “Perhaps. I’ll double-check.”
I wait impatiently as she tucks away the outlines in her bag and then grabs her laptop. She sits down at her desk and opens it. After a few taps, she turns it around to show me.
“This here is the dropped list. Megan Benson, Tim Roland, and Jason Colt all dropped this week.” She gives me a closed-lipped smile. “So your choice is to either finish out the project alone or I can match you up with one of the other students who lost their partner too. Since three of you will be missing a partner, one will have to work alone.”
She’s telling the truth.
Megan dropped this class.
What the hell.
“Yeah,” I mutter, mind unfocused. “I’ll, uh, do mine by myself.”
Completely confused, I wave off Professor Bolton as I make my way out of the classroom. Why would Megan drop the class and not tell me?
As I exit the room, I scan the dispersing people, looking for Megan. She’s nowhere to be found. I fire off another text to her.
Me: You dropped! Seriously?!
No reply.
She’s clearly ignoring me. As her new friend, I deserve an explanation.
I won’t let this go until I get one.
Romy
Dread coils in the pit of my belly as I pass by the coffee shop. The cute guy is indeed working, hence the longer than usual line of giggling girls, but Megan isn’t one of them.
As I enter Marks Hall and am met with an overwhelming stench of Fabulosa that makes my eyes water, I consider my words to Megan. If she’s fine and safe, I’m going to yell at her. If she’s not okay, then I’m going to yell at someone on behalf of her.
My gut tells me it’s the latter.
There’s something about Megan that makes me want to protect her at all costs. Maybe it’s because she’s a whole foot shorter than my five-foot-nine. Or maybe it’s how she can never really make eye contact or bring her voice above much more than a whisper. I feel a kinship to her—like we might have some of the same haunting past nightmares that haven’t had time to reveal themselves yet. We both escaped, but where I’m made of thicker skin, she’s fragile like a delicate teacup at risk of getting broken by someone who’s not careful.