Read Online The Real Real by Emma McLaughlin, Nicola Kraus - Free Book Online
Authors: Emma McLaughlin, Nicola Kraus
Tags: Fiction
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crappy people doing crappy things to save an opposite-of-crappy person so she could do a not-crap thing? With me! And get money for college!
I avoid my reflection and turn to where the yellow parking lot light slices through the blinds onto the bulletin board of wardrobe photos of Nico and Jase and—God, why do I even care? They’re not my friends. Nico flat-out said so. And Trisha’s such a bitch, and Jase’s so . . . so—
it’s not like I told about his dad hitting him. Seriously. It’s not my fault Kara’s face lit up like I’d given her next week’s Powerball numbers.
67
I push myself toward the trailer door. I mean, I couldn’t even answer most of her questions. Like I would even know the details! Like I was in the sleeping bag with them . . .
ugh. I freeze, my hand on the handle. That’s what this feels like, like I cheated in that frigid half-built guesthouse.
Suddenly the door whips open, jerking me down the little steps and into the freezing cold. I trip forward, one foot over the other, narrowly missing the icy pavement before I right myself. It’s Jase—red-faced and sweat-streaked from basketball. He grips the door wide open against the side of the trailer, his rolled-up mike pack in his other hand. His blue eyes lock on to me.
“Hey!” My voice too loud in the empty lot, I feel my shoulders dart protectively to my ears. “I just forgot to drop off my mike pack, too! That’s what I’m doing here.”
His expression hard, he stares down his nose, his hand resting on the handle, his stillness implying when I move—he’ll leap.
“So . . . so, see you,” I sputter. There’s no way he could know what I just did.
His chest rises and falls in his damp T-shirt, vapor from his nostrils visible in the frigid air. I lift my foot to walk backward a few feet. He watches, silent. I turn away and, abandoning my bike, not letting myself break into a run, steady with the exception of chattering teeth, make it to the brick columns that frame the exit and then pivot onto the sidewalk home. I don’t look back once.
68
REEL 5
“
What’s there to eat in this kitchen that’s not on my person?” Caitlyn yells over the music, adjusting the Saran Wrap keeping her wild-honey-and-chamomile-tea-soaked hair from falling into her oatmeal-and-yogurt face mask.
“What’s on my person.” I run my finger across my jawline for some mashed banana to offer her. Declined, I lick it off and join Rihanna in the dance bridge, sock-sliding across the wood floor to check what Dad left for us in the fridge.
“I feel like a mozzarella stick.” Caitlyn peers in over my shoulder.
“Well, you smell like a cereal bar.” I pull open the freezer door and halfheartedly poke through the tinfoil69
wrapped restaurant leftovers. “Let’s order pizza.”
“Brilliant. How much guilt money did your folks leave?”
“Are you kidding? I’m the one who didn’t go to Grandma’s ’cause I have to work Sunday. I practically had to pay them. I have, like, fifteen bucks.”
“But it’s so worth it to spend the night avec moi .” Caitlyn bats her eyelashes, flaking oatmeal onto the countertop while I grab the phone. “Let’s watch the scary one first and then the funny one to calm ourselves down,” she mouths over the Blockbuster cases while I rest my elbows on the counter to place the order, careful not to get the phone sticky with banana or the avocado mask in my hair.
“All Johnny Depp, all the time,” I say after hanging up.
“Jack the Ripper or Peter Pan, it’s all good.” The timer on the ancient wall stove buzzes.
“You’re done!” Caitlyn switches it off and leans over my iPod station to pick our next number. “Go rinse, then step aside, ’cause I’ve got”—she glances up at the glowing numbers ticking down on the microwave—“sixteen minutes to go until gorgeous.”
I give her a thumbs-up before jogging through the living room and up the stairs, pumping my fists in time to the opening
I avoid my reflection and turn to where the yellow parking lot light slices through the blinds onto the bulletin board of wardrobe photos of Nico and Jase and—God, why do I even care? They’re not my friends. Nico flat-out said so. And Trisha’s such a bitch, and Jase’s so . . . so—
it’s not like I told about his dad hitting him. Seriously. It’s not my fault Kara’s face lit up like I’d given her next week’s Powerball numbers.
67
I push myself toward the trailer door. I mean, I couldn’t even answer most of her questions. Like I would even know the details! Like I was in the sleeping bag with them . . .
ugh. I freeze, my hand on the handle. That’s what this feels like, like I cheated in that frigid half-built guesthouse.
Suddenly the door whips open, jerking me down the little steps and into the freezing cold. I trip forward, one foot over the other, narrowly missing the icy pavement before I right myself. It’s Jase—red-faced and sweat-streaked from basketball. He grips the door wide open against the side of the trailer, his rolled-up mike pack in his other hand. His blue eyes lock on to me.
“Hey!” My voice too loud in the empty lot, I feel my shoulders dart protectively to my ears. “I just forgot to drop off my mike pack, too! That’s what I’m doing here.”
His expression hard, he stares down his nose, his hand resting on the handle, his stillness implying when I move—he’ll leap.
“So . . . so, see you,” I sputter. There’s no way he could know what I just did.
His chest rises and falls in his damp T-shirt, vapor from his nostrils visible in the frigid air. I lift my foot to walk backward a few feet. He watches, silent. I turn away and, abandoning my bike, not letting myself break into a run, steady with the exception of chattering teeth, make it to the brick columns that frame the exit and then pivot onto the sidewalk home. I don’t look back once.
68
REEL 5
“
What’s there to eat in this kitchen that’s not on my person?” Caitlyn yells over the music, adjusting the Saran Wrap keeping her wild-honey-and-chamomile-tea-soaked hair from falling into her oatmeal-and-yogurt face mask.
“What’s on my person.” I run my finger across my jawline for some mashed banana to offer her. Declined, I lick it off and join Rihanna in the dance bridge, sock-sliding across the wood floor to check what Dad left for us in the fridge.
“I feel like a mozzarella stick.” Caitlyn peers in over my shoulder.
“Well, you smell like a cereal bar.” I pull open the freezer door and halfheartedly poke through the tinfoil69
wrapped restaurant leftovers. “Let’s order pizza.”
“Brilliant. How much guilt money did your folks leave?”
“Are you kidding? I’m the one who didn’t go to Grandma’s ’cause I have to work Sunday. I practically had to pay them. I have, like, fifteen bucks.”
“But it’s so worth it to spend the night avec moi .” Caitlyn bats her eyelashes, flaking oatmeal onto the countertop while I grab the phone. “Let’s watch the scary one first and then the funny one to calm ourselves down,” she mouths over the Blockbuster cases while I rest my elbows on the counter to place the order, careful not to get the phone sticky with banana or the avocado mask in my hair.
“All Johnny Depp, all the time,” I say after hanging up.
“Jack the Ripper or Peter Pan, it’s all good.” The timer on the ancient wall stove buzzes.
“You’re done!” Caitlyn switches it off and leans over my iPod station to pick our next number. “Go rinse, then step aside, ’cause I’ve got”—she glances up at the glowing numbers ticking down on the microwave—“sixteen minutes to go until gorgeous.”
I give her a thumbs-up before jogging through the living room and up the stairs, pumping my fists in time to the opening
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