Read Online Fall to Pieces by Vahini Naidoo - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Vahini Naidoo
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settles, drinks more punch
.
Pet sets out the ground rules. “So I’ll ask a question and whoever I ask answers, and then they get to ask their victim of choice something.” She’s already tipsy. Her words blur into one another, blend into the crashing music that
thump-thump-thumps
in the next room. “Amy, you can keep count. When everyone’s answered twenty questions, game’s over.”
She starts with me. Lucky number one
.
“
Why’re you such a bitch, Ella?”
She didn’t have to wait until I was playing a game to ask this
.
“
When I was in grade school, there was this kid who used to pinch me every day. She sat next to me, and she’d call me ugly and shit. And then one day I just got sick of it. She had a Coke in her bag. And I slipped my hand into the bag and shook up the soda so, so, so hard. It exploded. I guess that’s when it started.”
I guess. But I’m not quite sure. I’ll never be quite sure. Because when I look back sometimes, it seems as if I’ve just always been this way. And then other times it feels as if I’ve never been this way. As if I’m not a bitch, no matter how much people tell me I am
.
Outspoken, maybe. Harsh, maybe. Bitch? Not quite there
.
I shrug away the thoughts. “Maybe bitchiness is just in my blood. I mean, my mom’s a huge bitch. So it could be genetic.”
Amy meets my gaze. Red clouds the whites of her eyes. She gulps
down more punch. What’s the point of playing for drinks if Amy’s going to keep downing them?
She wants to get wasted. I can see it in the arrows pulling down from the corners of her mouth
.
“It’s weird that you can pinpoint a certain event like that,” Amy says
.
I shrug. No need to tell her I’m not sure that’s the event that actually triggered it
.
My fingers tighten around my glass of punch. Suddenly, my mouth is parched. I wait for someone to give me the go-ahead, though—because drinking games are no fun if everyone drinks, anyway
.
“That was a punch-worthy answer,” Pet declares
.
I scoop some punch into my cup and drink it all at once. It slides down my throat, a cool burn. “Right. Your turn, Ames. What did you think of me when you first met me?”
“A lot of things.” She shifts in her seat, looking uncomfortable. Drunk and uncomfortable. Oh, god, whatever her answer is, it’s going to be so good that it’s bad
.
“Like what?”
She sighs and buries her head in her hands. Dark strands of hair straggle into her cup of punch, floating in the barely-there light that filters in from the party. “Okay, so you have to know that I don’t think this anymore. I don’t, really. But back then I thought you were just that perfect girl. You know? The one everyone hates secretly but pretends to love. Because, come on, Ella, you have to admit that you look the part.”
I give her the finger. “Drink some punch. Or I’m going to punch you.”
Eight years, she’s been one of my best friends. By now she must have realized that I’m far from perfect
.
“Your turn, Marquis.” Amy’s been calling Mark that for the past couple of weeks. She’s developed a thing for French novels or something. “So, if you could change one thing about your life, what would it be?”
“I’d have a hippie van instead of my crappy car.”
“
Be serious.” She leans across the table, long limbs slightly lazy, slightly out of control. “Be serious,” she repeats
.
“Okay,” he says. “Um. I don’t know what I’d change, to be honest. I screw stuff up a lot; but to tell you the truth, I kinda like it that way.”
I just keep staring at my punch. I wanted Mark to say that he’d give up the drugs if he could have had it any other way. Because his using went far beyond recreational last year, and it was fucking scary
.
Something snaps, shattering glass, behind Amy’s eyes. She looks away
.
Petal laughs loud, because she’s too drunk to even notice the tension. “Me, too.”
“Your turn.” Mark grins at her. “Who was
.
Pet sets out the ground rules. “So I’ll ask a question and whoever I ask answers, and then they get to ask their victim of choice something.” She’s already tipsy. Her words blur into one another, blend into the crashing music that
thump-thump-thumps
in the next room. “Amy, you can keep count. When everyone’s answered twenty questions, game’s over.”
She starts with me. Lucky number one
.
“
Why’re you such a bitch, Ella?”
She didn’t have to wait until I was playing a game to ask this
.
“
When I was in grade school, there was this kid who used to pinch me every day. She sat next to me, and she’d call me ugly and shit. And then one day I just got sick of it. She had a Coke in her bag. And I slipped my hand into the bag and shook up the soda so, so, so hard. It exploded. I guess that’s when it started.”
I guess. But I’m not quite sure. I’ll never be quite sure. Because when I look back sometimes, it seems as if I’ve just always been this way. And then other times it feels as if I’ve never been this way. As if I’m not a bitch, no matter how much people tell me I am
.
Outspoken, maybe. Harsh, maybe. Bitch? Not quite there
.
I shrug away the thoughts. “Maybe bitchiness is just in my blood. I mean, my mom’s a huge bitch. So it could be genetic.”
Amy meets my gaze. Red clouds the whites of her eyes. She gulps
down more punch. What’s the point of playing for drinks if Amy’s going to keep downing them?
She wants to get wasted. I can see it in the arrows pulling down from the corners of her mouth
.
“It’s weird that you can pinpoint a certain event like that,” Amy says
.
I shrug. No need to tell her I’m not sure that’s the event that actually triggered it
.
My fingers tighten around my glass of punch. Suddenly, my mouth is parched. I wait for someone to give me the go-ahead, though—because drinking games are no fun if everyone drinks, anyway
.
“That was a punch-worthy answer,” Pet declares
.
I scoop some punch into my cup and drink it all at once. It slides down my throat, a cool burn. “Right. Your turn, Ames. What did you think of me when you first met me?”
“A lot of things.” She shifts in her seat, looking uncomfortable. Drunk and uncomfortable. Oh, god, whatever her answer is, it’s going to be so good that it’s bad
.
“Like what?”
She sighs and buries her head in her hands. Dark strands of hair straggle into her cup of punch, floating in the barely-there light that filters in from the party. “Okay, so you have to know that I don’t think this anymore. I don’t, really. But back then I thought you were just that perfect girl. You know? The one everyone hates secretly but pretends to love. Because, come on, Ella, you have to admit that you look the part.”
I give her the finger. “Drink some punch. Or I’m going to punch you.”
Eight years, she’s been one of my best friends. By now she must have realized that I’m far from perfect
.
“Your turn, Marquis.” Amy’s been calling Mark that for the past couple of weeks. She’s developed a thing for French novels or something. “So, if you could change one thing about your life, what would it be?”
“I’d have a hippie van instead of my crappy car.”
“
Be serious.” She leans across the table, long limbs slightly lazy, slightly out of control. “Be serious,” she repeats
.
“Okay,” he says. “Um. I don’t know what I’d change, to be honest. I screw stuff up a lot; but to tell you the truth, I kinda like it that way.”
I just keep staring at my punch. I wanted Mark to say that he’d give up the drugs if he could have had it any other way. Because his using went far beyond recreational last year, and it was fucking scary
.
Something snaps, shattering glass, behind Amy’s eyes. She looks away
.
Petal laughs loud, because she’s too drunk to even notice the tension. “Me, too.”
“Your turn.” Mark grins at her. “Who was
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