Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 116028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
“Stop being so dramatic,” she orders in a snarky voice. “And don’t act like we’re to blame for the fact that you burned down your former house. Excuse us if we don’t want to live with an arsonist.”
I struggle to keep my temper in check. “I didn’t burn anything down.”
“That’s not what our Brown sisters said.” She tightens her lips. “Anyway, we have a house meeting in ten minutes. It’s time for you to go.”
“Another meeting? Look at you! A packed schedule today!”
“We’re organizing a New Year’s Eve charity event tonight to raise money,” Kaya says stiffly.
Ah, my bad. “What’s the charity?”
“Oh.” Bianca looks sheepish. “We’re raising money to renovate the basement here in the mansion.”
Oh my God. They’re the charity? “You better get to it, then.” With a mocking smile, I flutter my fingers in a careless wave and march out of the room.
In the hall, I feel the first sting of tears.
Fuck these girls. I don’t need them or their dumb sorority.
“Summer, wait.”
Bianca catches up to me at the front doors. I quickly paste on a smile and blink away the tears that had begun to well up. I won’t let them see me cry, and I’m so frigging glad I left all my suitcases in the car and only came in with my oversized purse. How mortifying would it have been to lug my bags back to the car? It would’ve taken multiple trips too, because I don’t travel light.
“Listen,” Bianca says, her voice so quiet I strain to hear her. “You should consider yourself lucky.”
I raise my eyebrows. “For being homeless? Sure, I feel blessed.”
She cracks a smile. “Your last name is Heyward-Di Laurentis. You are not, and will never be, homeless.”
I grin sheepishly. Can’t argue with that.
“But I’m serious,” she whispers. “You don’t want to live here.” Her almond-shaped eyes dart toward the doorway. “Kaya is like a drill sergeant. It’s her first year as Kappa president, and she’s on some crazy power trip.”
“I’ve noticed,” I say dryly.
“You should’ve seen what she did to Daphne! She acted like it was the alcohol thing, but really she was just jealous because Daph slept with her ex-boyfriend Chris, so she made Daph’s life miserable. One weekend when Daphne was away, Kaya ‘accidentally’”—Bianca uses air quotes—“donated every piece of her clothing to these freshmen who were collecting stuff for the annual clothes drive. Daph eventually quit the sorority and moved out.”
I’m starting to think that alcohol poisoning was the best thing that could’ve ever happened to Daphne Kettleman, if it got her out of this hellhole.
“Whatever. I don’t care if I live here or not. Like you said, I’ll be just fine.” I put on the cavalier, nothing-in-life-ever-ever-gets-to-me voice that I’ve perfected over the years.
It’s my armor. I pretend that my life is a beautiful Victorian house and hope that nobody peers close enough to see the cracks in my facade.
But no matter how convincing I am in front of Bianca, there’s no stopping the massive wave of anxiety that hits me the moment I slide into my car five minutes later. It stilts my breathing and quickens my pulse, making it hard to think clearly.
What am I supposed to do?
Where am I supposed to go?
I inhale deeply. It’s okay. It’s fine. I take another breath. Yes, I’ll figure it out. I always do, right? I’m constantly screwing up, and I always find a way to unscrew myself. I just have to buckle down and think—
My phone blares out its ringtone rendition of Sia’s “Cheap Thrills.” Thank God.
I waste no time answering the call. “Hey,” I greet my brother Dean, grateful for the interruption.
“Hey, Boogers. Just checking that you made it to campus in one piece.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Gosh, who knows. You might’ve run off to Miami with some hitchhiking wannabe rapper you picked up on the interstate—or what I like to call a recipe for becoming a serial killer’s skin-suit. Oh wait! You already fucking did that.”
“Oh my God. First of all, Jasper was an aspiring country singer, not a rapper. Second, I was with two other girls and we were driving to Daytona Beach, not Miami. Third, he didn’t even try to touch me, let alone murder me.” I sigh. “Lacey did hook up with him, though, and he gave her herpes.”
Incredulous silence meets my ears.
“Dicky?” That’s my childhood nickname for Dean. He hates it. “You there?”
“I’m trying to understand how you think your version of the story is in any way more palatable than mine.” He suddenly curses. “Aw fuck, didn’t I hook up with Lacey at your eighteenth birthday party?” A pause. “The herpes trip would’ve happened before that party. Dammit, Summer! I mean, I used protection, but a warning would’ve been nice!”
“No, you didn’t hook up with Lacey. You’re thinking of Laney, with an ‘N.’ I stopped being her friend after that.”