Read Online #Scandal by Sarah Ockler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sarah Ockler
Tags: Juvenile Fiction, Social Issues, Love & Romance, Friendship, Dating & Sex, Adolescence, Emotions & Feelings, Social Themes, Dating & Relationships
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say, ladies. When it comes to dueling lances, it’s not the shape or the size that matters, but the velocity of the projectile and the angle of the trajectory!
As for the bash at that undisclosed mountain locale, wowza. Someone’s putting Angelica Darling to shame! Good God (and by God I mean inclusively God, Goddess, Buddha, All ah, Mother Earth, Zeus, universal force, and any and all past, present, and yet-to-be discovered deities), tell me there’s more to this tale than meets the bloodshot eye. Despite intense bribery of the sugar cube nature, Prince Freckles isn’t saying a word.
Start talking, peeps. Miss Demeanor is always listening.
xo ~ Ciao! ~ xo
Mis Demeanor
76
HOW MANY TARTS DO ES IT TAK E?
P lay dumb, Lucy. You never even saw those pictures.
So goes the strategy my self-appointed publicist devised last night. She wouldn’t even let me change my Facebook password or delete any photos. “You’ll just look more guilty,” she said, like, straight from her How to Duck-and-Cover in a Shit Storm manual.
Of course, this morning’s CelebStyle features a close-up of Jayla in the Denver airport terminal, all Louis Vuitton bags and angry middle fingers and white leather napkin trying not quite hard enough to be a dress.
J-HEART’S HIGH TIMES IN THE MILE HIGH!
So much for duck-and-cover.
I snatch up the remaining copies from the newsstand at Black & Brew while the barista bags my order. Ellie might 77
be ignoring my desperate e-mails, but no way can she stay all deep freezy if I show up on her doorstep with coffee and Tarts of Apology.
Doubt is a hard lump in my throat, but I swallow it down, pay for the breakfast and tabloids, and make my way to Ellie’s neighborhood on foot. I timed my arrival for after Ellie’s moms left for work, but as I step onto her front porch and press the doorbell, my body vibrates with fear. Maybe it would’ve been better to have witnesses. . . .
“What do you want?” The main door was already open, and now Ellie’s face appears behind the screen. Her eyes are red and puffy, her chocolate-brown hair wrapped in a messy topknot.
My words bail, and I shove the carton of coffees and paper bag forward, hoping they convey everything. I’m sorry. Can we talk? Don’t hate me. Tart? Coffee? Still friends?
She scrutinizes the bag.
“Chocolate raspberry,” I manage. “And white chocolate kiwi?” The last part comes out uncertain.
“You must be really sorry.” She opens the screen door and steps out, blocking my entrance into the place I’ve considered a second home for six years. “Again. What do you want?”
“I just . . . I thought we could talk and . . . Can we go 78
inside?” I maneuver the coffees and pastries and inch closer to the doorway. She doesn’t budge.
“I trusted you.” Her voice breaks on the last word.
I open my mouth to answer, but everything in my head twists and tangles.
I didn’t mean to. I care about him. We were drinking. I totally meant to. I’ve loved him forever. I didn’t want to go to prom. I’m glad I went to prom. I hope you still want to do our summer road trip. And college. And you lied to me . . .
“You should probably just get to school,” Ellie says.
“What about you?”
“I’m staying home to enjoy a delicious breakfast.” Ellie grabs the bag and the carton with both coffees, and before I can choke out another word, the door slams shut.
“So not how it looks,” I whisper, but my best friend is already gone.
With twenty minutes to go before homeroom, the sprawling Lavender Oaks campus is a ghost town, save for a small knot of students gathered on the front steps.
Absent Kiara, the now four-membered (e)lectronic Vanities Intervention League marches in a circle around their leader in his wheelchair, wordlessly pumping their poster board signs.
79
MAKE LOVE, NOT STATUS UPDATES!
REAL FRIENDS DON’T NEED BATTERIES!
GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF THE CLOUD!
Franklin Margolis, valedictorian and editor of the
As for the bash at that undisclosed mountain locale, wowza. Someone’s putting Angelica Darling to shame! Good God (and by God I mean inclusively God, Goddess, Buddha, All ah, Mother Earth, Zeus, universal force, and any and all past, present, and yet-to-be discovered deities), tell me there’s more to this tale than meets the bloodshot eye. Despite intense bribery of the sugar cube nature, Prince Freckles isn’t saying a word.
Start talking, peeps. Miss Demeanor is always listening.
xo ~ Ciao! ~ xo
Mis Demeanor
76
HOW MANY TARTS DO ES IT TAK E?
P lay dumb, Lucy. You never even saw those pictures.
So goes the strategy my self-appointed publicist devised last night. She wouldn’t even let me change my Facebook password or delete any photos. “You’ll just look more guilty,” she said, like, straight from her How to Duck-and-Cover in a Shit Storm manual.
Of course, this morning’s CelebStyle features a close-up of Jayla in the Denver airport terminal, all Louis Vuitton bags and angry middle fingers and white leather napkin trying not quite hard enough to be a dress.
J-HEART’S HIGH TIMES IN THE MILE HIGH!
So much for duck-and-cover.
I snatch up the remaining copies from the newsstand at Black & Brew while the barista bags my order. Ellie might 77
be ignoring my desperate e-mails, but no way can she stay all deep freezy if I show up on her doorstep with coffee and Tarts of Apology.
Doubt is a hard lump in my throat, but I swallow it down, pay for the breakfast and tabloids, and make my way to Ellie’s neighborhood on foot. I timed my arrival for after Ellie’s moms left for work, but as I step onto her front porch and press the doorbell, my body vibrates with fear. Maybe it would’ve been better to have witnesses. . . .
“What do you want?” The main door was already open, and now Ellie’s face appears behind the screen. Her eyes are red and puffy, her chocolate-brown hair wrapped in a messy topknot.
My words bail, and I shove the carton of coffees and paper bag forward, hoping they convey everything. I’m sorry. Can we talk? Don’t hate me. Tart? Coffee? Still friends?
She scrutinizes the bag.
“Chocolate raspberry,” I manage. “And white chocolate kiwi?” The last part comes out uncertain.
“You must be really sorry.” She opens the screen door and steps out, blocking my entrance into the place I’ve considered a second home for six years. “Again. What do you want?”
“I just . . . I thought we could talk and . . . Can we go 78
inside?” I maneuver the coffees and pastries and inch closer to the doorway. She doesn’t budge.
“I trusted you.” Her voice breaks on the last word.
I open my mouth to answer, but everything in my head twists and tangles.
I didn’t mean to. I care about him. We were drinking. I totally meant to. I’ve loved him forever. I didn’t want to go to prom. I’m glad I went to prom. I hope you still want to do our summer road trip. And college. And you lied to me . . .
“You should probably just get to school,” Ellie says.
“What about you?”
“I’m staying home to enjoy a delicious breakfast.” Ellie grabs the bag and the carton with both coffees, and before I can choke out another word, the door slams shut.
“So not how it looks,” I whisper, but my best friend is already gone.
With twenty minutes to go before homeroom, the sprawling Lavender Oaks campus is a ghost town, save for a small knot of students gathered on the front steps.
Absent Kiara, the now four-membered (e)lectronic Vanities Intervention League marches in a circle around their leader in his wheelchair, wordlessly pumping their poster board signs.
79
MAKE LOVE, NOT STATUS UPDATES!
REAL FRIENDS DON’T NEED BATTERIES!
GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF THE CLOUD!
Franklin Margolis, valedictorian and editor of the
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