Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 129986 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129986 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
I didn’t sleep much. I just watched her, made sure she kept breathing.
When the sun came up, my eyes were burning. I knew I would regret staying up all night, but I knew I wouldn’t, too.
I made coffee and consumed the whole pot by myself. I no longer feel the exhaustion as I tap the button on my key fob to unlock my car.
The car looks strange, though. I can’t put my finger on it. Does it look lower to the ground? Did I drink too much coffee and now I’m losing my mind?
I stop beside the car and drop my backpack. Dread fills my belly as I realize the car looks lower to the ground because it is.
My tires have been slashed.
“Fuck,” I whisper, bending down to look for the damage, but I don’t know what I’ll do if I even find it. I know there’s canned stuff that fixes flats if they’re not too bad. Maybe Dad left some in the garage.
There’s not just one clean cut, though. There was rage behind this stabbing. A blade was plunged into each tire multiple times. This was definitely intentional, and definitely malicious.
Something maroon and glittery catches my eye. It’s on the ground by the tire.
I pick it up and inspect it.
An acrylic nail?
It looks strangely familiar. I try to think of anyone whose nails I might have looked at lately. I’m not into fake nails, personally. I had them done once for a wedding and I was really excited because they were so pretty, but then I couldn’t do anything with them on my fingertips. I ended up taking them off after just a few days.
I straighten up as something flashes across my mind.
Is that where I saw them?
To make sure, I pull out my phone and pull up Anae’s social media account that I scrolled through last night. Sure enough, there’s the picture she posted right after she texted me, her with her manicured fingers splayed across Dare’s tanned skin.
Motherfucker.
Anae slashed my fucking tires. She must have broken a nail stabbing through the tough rubber.
I don’t know how I’ll get to school now—or, more importantly, work—but when I get there, I’m going to kill her.
I’ll press charges. This is fucked up, and I have proof it was her.
I can’t afford to replace the tires, and I don’t know what to do about it. That’s probably hundreds of dollars. My God, my credit cards are crying keeping up with my monthly expenses as it is, but adding this on top of it?
I’m so fucking overwhelmed, it’s hard to breathe for a moment. I force myself to stop, to breathe, to think.
I don’t have another car. I used to have my own, but I had to sell it over the summer because we needed the money to pay a medical bill before it got sent to collection.
I refuse to cry. I want to, but I don’t.
I would just go back inside and stay home, but I have a biology test today. Making it up would be a pain in the ass. I need to go to school today.
There’s no one to call for help, though. I don’t have a support system anymore. My neighbor Josie helps out with Mom and even cooks us food sometimes, but I feel guilty about asking for so much of her help when I have nothing to give back.
I could call Janie, but I don’t want to. I’d feel like I’m using her asking for a ride when, again, I have nothing to offer of myself.
Who am I fine with using, knowing I have nothing to give back?
Nobody.
Well… maybe somebody.
Somebody who wouldn’t hesitate to do the same to me.
It’s batshit crazy, but I click on Anae’s picture and scroll down, looking for his screen name. No comment on that photo, so I go to the next one, then the next one. It takes about 12 pictures before I finally find engagement on one of her posts—damn, what a shitty boyfriend—then I click on Chase Darington’s profile.
This is a long shot. I don’t even know if he checks DMs, but I shoot him one asking if he’s at school yet.
He must have had his phone in his hand because he answers promptly. “Nope, about to leave now. Why?”
I sigh, hating to ask him for anything—it seems dangerous—but I need to get to school, and his stupid girlfriend is the reason I can’t. “Could you possibly pick me up on your way?”
“Oh, now you want to spend time with me,” he shoots back playfully.
I’m tempted to smile, but my day is off to too tragic a start for any of that. “I told you I was busy last night,” I remind him.
“You also told me you would come. When should I believe what you say?”
“When the answer is my own and you’re not forcing me to give you the answer you want,” I type back.