grab clean underwear and a pair of jeans from the drawers. Socks of two different colors come next, and then a white camisole. I spin, scramble over the bed, grab the first sweater my hands brush against from the closet and pull it over my head. It’s pink, with brown yarn knots on the front. I grab brown shoes to match the knots, making some effort to look as if I’m not falling apart. Romeo could be at school today.
I swallow, my throat tight, the memory of my dream making me shiver. I can’t let him know I’m afraid, can’t let him see that I’m lost, abandoned. I hurry to the vanity, pull my brush through hair that still smells of baby wipes. Ben was right; they really do clean up everything.
Ben
. My cheeks burn. I dreamt about him, too, about the way it would feel to … love him. I’ve never loved anyone but Romeo; I know I will never love anyone again, but still the dream felt so real.
“Ariel!” Melanie’s shout startles me from my thoughts. “Move it! Gemma’s waiting.”
I throw the brush back onto the vanity, grateful that Ariel’s hair is stick straight. It doesn’t look as if I bled on it, wiped it clean with baby wipes, then slept on it while it was damp. I look pretty, considering I’ve dressed in less time than it takes most people to roll out of bed. I know Melanie won’t be pleased to see me leaving the house without makeup, but what she doesn’t know …
I wait until I hear her bedroom door slam before slipping out of my room and hurrying down the hall to the bathroom. I brush my teeth and smear on sunscreen, remembering that Ariel has to be careful to protect her skin, and am running through the kitchen less than five minutes from when I woke.
I grab my backpack and Melanie’s cell and consider trying to find something to eat, but then remember the way the hunk of cheese rolled in my belly and dash out the door. There’s a bakery not far from school. Maybe Gemma will want to stop there. We’ll have time; I haven’t kept her waiting for long. Five minutes isn’t unreasonable.
Unfortunately, she doesn’t seem to agree.
“What the hell were you thinking, Ree?” Her first words don’t inspire faith in our lasting friendship; neither does the shocked look she shoots me from the driver’s side as I slide into the cool leather seat. Gemma Sloop’s sleek BMW is as luxurious as Ben’s car is plain and worn, and Gemma herself makes me feel shabby in comparison.
Her rich chocolate-colored hair swings around her shoulders, gleaming even in the gray morning light, the jagged layers emphasizing the lovely planes of her face. A gypsy shirt encrusted with hundreds of stones flutters around her torso, and fitted jeans hug her narrow thighs. Hunks of sapphire toobig to be real—but I know they are—sit in her earlobes, and another chunk perches on her right hand, gifts from her father for her sweet sixteen.
“And wow … no makeup.” She shakes her head. “That’s a choice. One I would recommend
not
making in the future, FYI. I haven’t seen you look that scary since sixth grade.”
“I didn’t want to make you wait,” I say, too stunned to be angry. I’d been prepared for Ariel’s mother to be a monster, but not her best friend.
This
is Gemma, the girl Ariel is so terrified to lose?
“You could have brought it with you. I have mirrors in the car, Freak.” Her tone is light, teasing, but I know the words would hurt Ariel. Ariel hates that word,
freak
, the nickname the kids at school gave her in fourth grade, after something awful happened. At recess. Something … The memory is fuzzy, and I can tell Ariel’s tried hard to forget it. All I know is that was the moment she became the Freak, an outcast only another outcast would befriend.
To look at Gemma, it’s hard to believe she’s an outcast, but she is. Her parents own the largest winery in the area and employ most of the town as factory hands, vineyard workers, tasting-room experts, distributors, and
I swallow, my throat tight, the memory of my dream making me shiver. I can’t let him know I’m afraid, can’t let him see that I’m lost, abandoned. I hurry to the vanity, pull my brush through hair that still smells of baby wipes. Ben was right; they really do clean up everything.
Ben
. My cheeks burn. I dreamt about him, too, about the way it would feel to … love him. I’ve never loved anyone but Romeo; I know I will never love anyone again, but still the dream felt so real.
“Ariel!” Melanie’s shout startles me from my thoughts. “Move it! Gemma’s waiting.”
I throw the brush back onto the vanity, grateful that Ariel’s hair is stick straight. It doesn’t look as if I bled on it, wiped it clean with baby wipes, then slept on it while it was damp. I look pretty, considering I’ve dressed in less time than it takes most people to roll out of bed. I know Melanie won’t be pleased to see me leaving the house without makeup, but what she doesn’t know …
I wait until I hear her bedroom door slam before slipping out of my room and hurrying down the hall to the bathroom. I brush my teeth and smear on sunscreen, remembering that Ariel has to be careful to protect her skin, and am running through the kitchen less than five minutes from when I woke.
I grab my backpack and Melanie’s cell and consider trying to find something to eat, but then remember the way the hunk of cheese rolled in my belly and dash out the door. There’s a bakery not far from school. Maybe Gemma will want to stop there. We’ll have time; I haven’t kept her waiting for long. Five minutes isn’t unreasonable.
Unfortunately, she doesn’t seem to agree.
“What the hell were you thinking, Ree?” Her first words don’t inspire faith in our lasting friendship; neither does the shocked look she shoots me from the driver’s side as I slide into the cool leather seat. Gemma Sloop’s sleek BMW is as luxurious as Ben’s car is plain and worn, and Gemma herself makes me feel shabby in comparison.
Her rich chocolate-colored hair swings around her shoulders, gleaming even in the gray morning light, the jagged layers emphasizing the lovely planes of her face. A gypsy shirt encrusted with hundreds of stones flutters around her torso, and fitted jeans hug her narrow thighs. Hunks of sapphire toobig to be real—but I know they are—sit in her earlobes, and another chunk perches on her right hand, gifts from her father for her sweet sixteen.
“And wow … no makeup.” She shakes her head. “That’s a choice. One I would recommend
not
making in the future, FYI. I haven’t seen you look that scary since sixth grade.”
“I didn’t want to make you wait,” I say, too stunned to be angry. I’d been prepared for Ariel’s mother to be a monster, but not her best friend.
This
is Gemma, the girl Ariel is so terrified to lose?
“You could have brought it with you. I have mirrors in the car, Freak.” Her tone is light, teasing, but I know the words would hurt Ariel. Ariel hates that word,
freak
, the nickname the kids at school gave her in fourth grade, after something awful happened. At recess. Something … The memory is fuzzy, and I can tell Ariel’s tried hard to forget it. All I know is that was the moment she became the Freak, an outcast only another outcast would befriend.
To look at Gemma, it’s hard to believe she’s an outcast, but she is. Her parents own the largest winery in the area and employ most of the town as factory hands, vineyard workers, tasting-room experts, distributors, and
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