Watching him walk to his car and drive off with a chipper salute is a special kind of torture, let me tell you. Groaning for about the trillionth time this morning, I head across the parking lot to Maggie’s old Range Rover and jam my bedding into the back seat. The girl knows my weaknesses all too well, becauseshe presents me with the only thing capable of luring me into the vehicle.
A to-go bag from Slippery Pete’s, my favorite Bar & Grill joint near campus.
The delicious comfort food is all I can cling to as I crash into the passenger seat and watch in horror as Maggie pulls out of the parking lot.
It honestly takes everything in me not to throw myself from the SUV as I watch the mileage signs count down to my inevitable doom for the next few hours. My hangover subsides, but the rising panic attack creeping its way into my chest isn’t a welcomed replacement. I swear, the universe is mocking me. If this were a movie, my arrival into town would be met with a grisly overcast sky as lightning and thunder crashed and roared overhead, accompanied by bone-chilling music. It would look and sound as miserable and antagonistic as it feels. Instead, the sun’s high in the sky when we pass the sign welcoming us into town, not a cloud in sight. The air is warm with a soft breeze that invites you to roll down your car windows, and every last lawn is perfectly manicured, filled with flowers and bushes and graduation signs. Idyllic scenery for an idyllic façade.
Sure enough, the high school comes into view, and for the first time this morning, Iwantto throw up. I want to douse my mind’s eye with bleach and scrub the memories away until all that’s left is a blank canvas, but the very sight of this place is like a sledgehammer to my defenses.
“Any chance your mom will let me crash with you guys for the summer?” I grumble.
Fortunately and unfortunately, Maggie lives two towns south of here on a quaint little suburban cul-de-sac. Unlike the seaside castles in Ravenswood, her condo barely has enough space for her and her mom. She’ll be close enough that we can spend asmuch time together as we like, but not enough that she’ll make for a quick getaway driver when shit inevitably hits the fan.
Maggie barks out a laugh, but there isn’t any humor to it. “I wish. My mom invited my cousins to stay with us until the Fourth, which means I’ll be forfeiting my bedroom for the next six weeks. The living room couch and I are about to getverywell acquainted.”
“Wanna trade? I’ll be more than happy to give up my bed.”
“And leave me to deal with your family?” She smirks at me. “Nice try. I’ve heard enough of your phone conversations with Vanessa to know a root canal would be less painful.”
I love my sister. Really, I do, but…the girl’s about as sweet as a wolverine and as huggable as a porcupine.
“Hey, don’t sweat it, Chica,” Maggie says. “It’s the summer. Finals are over. Now, we have three whole months to party, sleep in, and wake up in hot guys’ beds. You’ll be so busy having fun that you won’t have time to even be home. No home, no family drama.”
If only it were that easy…
Maggie lets out an appreciative whistle as she rounds the bend, turning onto my parents’ street. “Damn, girl! Why didn’t you ever mention you live in Bel Air?”
I want to roll my eyes, but it’s really not an exaggeration.
In Ravenswood’s north end, there are no such things as “houses,” especially on Royal Boulevard. There are only chateaus and mansions masquerading as “estates.” People don’t recognize your residence by its street address; they know it by its name. Yes, each houseactuallyhas a name, like this is a Jane Austen novel and all our neighbors are Lords and Ladies. Call me a terrible person, but I’d been praying the entire way here that my parents’ “estate” might catch on fire, leaving it uninhabitable for the summer. But alas, Biltmore comes into view as the Range Rover pulls up to the curb.
The sight only encourages my nausea.
Matured forestry borders the entire property, securing complete and total privacy from any prying eyes of gossipy neighbors. The three-story home is equipped with ten bedrooms, seven baths, and two of the biggest assholes in town.
It’s like watching a car accident happen in slow motion. I knew the impact was coming; I just didn’t knowhowandwhenthe impact would land. As hard as I may try to smother down those past fears, it all comes flooding back the moment my eyes land on the pink Cadillac parked in the driveway.
Shit.
Blythe is home.
While I want to vomit at the sight, Maggie coughs out a sound caught somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Does your stepmom work for Mary Kay?”
“Not unless Satan bought them out.” I pull down the vanity mirror on the sun visor and cringe at my reflection for what has to be the hundredth time.
“Will you stop? You look hot.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s not exactly the impression I was going for.”
When Mags pulled over for a bathroom break halfway through the trip, I still had a hangover and, therefore, still had a case of the fuck-its. My stepmom would be unhappy no matter what I looked like, so why try to hide the changes I made since going off to college? It was my way of giving the middle finger to the entire situation. I hadn’t let my stepmom dictate my appearance for the last nine months, so why start now? I’m actually wearing makeup and contact lenses and clothes that actually fit.
I know what you’re probably thinking:Why would any of those things be a big deal?Well, during my adolescence, my stepmom commonly referred to me as “pretty-if.”
What the hell is that?you may ask.
Well, it goes a little something like, “Ali, you could really be pretty…”
“…ifyou got rid of those glasses.”
