Blythe.
And it may just be my imagination, but she doesn’t seem happy—not when she callsmyname.
Even with the window only cracked an inch at the bottom, it’s enough to let her voice filter out to me as I hear the unmistakable clack of her heels pounding down the hall toward my room.
I’m still five feet shy of reaching the window ledge, and to make matters worse, my shoe gets caught on something!
I tug furiously, far too willing to abandon the footwear outright, but my laces are tied too tightly. Not to mention, I don’t exactly have a spare hand to assist me, unless I’d like to take a swan dive onto the lawn.
I feel the trellis rattle beneath me, and sure enough, I peer down to find Jase scaling up to meet me.
“Ali!”
Shit.
There’s no mistaking it.
Blythe is in my room.
And I’m not.
Jase grabs my foot, angling it and giving a hard enough tug that I hear fabric tearing.
I don’t care—not when my foot comes free and I’m able to climb the remaining distance.
Only when I hear Blythe’s voice coming from further down the hall do I poke my head up into view of the window and lift the bottom section of the glass.
My “ninja” skills are rather lacking, since I practically fall inside, but again, I don’t care. All I can focus on is the sharp clacking of heels making their way back to me from down the hall.
As expected, Blythe comes to a halt at the entrance to my room, ready to yell again, when she freezes at the sight of me. “Where have you been, young lady?”
“…Here,” I murmur lamely. It sounds more like a question, but I can’t help it. My anxiety and exhaustion are sparring fortop spot, and it takes everything I have not to collapse on the floor shaking.
“Then why didn’t you answer me?”
“I…I was in the basement,” I say, “and I had earbuds in, so I didn’t hear you until just now.”
My stepmom studies my body, clearly not liking what she sees. “And whatexactlywere you doing? You’re all sweaty.”
A flash of inspiration strikes at the sight of my sister’s old tennis racquet I’d placed behind my bed earlier. It had been taken with the intent of becoming my unofficial bird swatter, in case another raven invasion arose, but Blythe doesn’t have to know that. I lift up the racquet and hug it to my chest like a shield. “I was practicing.”
She opens her mouth, as if to argue, but inevitably settles for a shake of the head. “I won’t even dignify that with a response. Just make sure to shower and be presentable by six. Senator Walker and his wife are coming over, and we all need to make a good impression, so you can’t just sit there and not say anything.”
Yes, that proves to be a problem for me, quite frequently.
Because of my social anxiety, I’m always too scared that I’ll say the wrong thing, or that I’m not enunciating, or that I’ll make an ill-timed joke and embarrass myself. But then if I don’t talk, people can get the wrong impression and believe I’m a snob.
That’s still better than the alternative.
When I’m forced to talk to strangers and actually manage to get involved in a conversation, Blythe says I tend to ramble on and never know when to shut up.
“Do I really have to be there?” I ask, trying to mask the timidity overtaking my voice.
The reason why Derek and Vanessa get out of these things is because they assert confidence. They declare what they want, and they’re willing to bargain and argue their way to get it. Rightabout now, I’d rather get a root canal than endure the stress of a dinner as crucial as this. I already know I’m going to mess up, and if anything goes wrong for my dad, I’ll be up Shit Creek without a paddle.
“You know I’m not good in those situations, and it’ll be one less thing for you to worry about if I’m not there,” I add.
“Mr. and Mrs. Walker already know about your ankle. How do you think that reflects on us if you are here but can’t bother yourself to come downstairs to greet our guests?” says Blythe, not needing an answer.
