Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
I look over to see Lavinia eyeing me curiously, but not in a nice way. It’s more like how she would inspect someone who’s escaped the looney bin. In her mind, I should be kept behind glass, observed from a safe distance.
Unfortunately, she’s not alone. I hear the whispers about me around St. John’s. I could set them straight. I’m not a witch, you idiots—or a ghost, for that matter. Just because my hair is dark and my eyes are an eerie pale green…just because I’m quiet and shy…just because I keep to myself…people fill in the blanks with the very worst. My mother would insist that I correct them. Set them straight and scratch your way out of this torment. Fight like hell, kid. She was fiery like that. She’d never allow anyone to walk all over her. It’s a constant war, remembering and imagining what she would want me to do while balancing the very real advice from my grandmother, the woman I’m wholly dependent on now.
It’s important to keep your calm. Decorum above all else. Girls should be polite and modest, timid and quiet. Speak only when spoken to.
In other words, smack yourself in the head with a rock and pretend you’re living back in the 1800s. Women’s suffrage movement? Yeah, it never happened.
I stare back at Lavinia, wishing I were bold enough to call her out.
What?
What is so interesting over here?
Blythe sighs when she notices our little standoff. “Lavinia, don’t bother. You’ll only encourage her.”
Encourage me to what? Stand up for myself? Not likely.
I might think rebellious thoughts from time to time, might dabble in the idea of telling them all to go fuck themselves. I might sneak off into the woods to get a glimpse of Emmett Mercier, but at the end of the day, I’m still Elaine Davenport, all-around good girl, rule follower, straight-A student. Oh yeah, and depressed.
I’m not actually sure if I have clinical depression. That would require a diagnosis, and I won’t be getting one of those anytime soon because I won’t be visiting a counselor anytime soon. Sure, I lost both my parents earlier this year in tragic ways and sure, it’s been a bleak landscape inside my head lately, but my grandmother thinks I need to keep a stiff upper lip. Whatever that means.
Only the strange thing is, I’m not all that sad. I’m just…exhausted. Exhausted by the idea of dealing with girls like Blythe. Exhausted by the thought of trying to meet my grandmother’s expectations. Exhausted by the routine of St. John’s in general. I’m thinner than I should be because I’d rather stay away from the dining hall during meals to avoid the stares. I bought a rice cooker the last time I went into town and I use it to make food every now and then, especially when I’m desperate. To further avoid everyone, I study in a corner of the library that’s rarely used. So what if there’s poor lighting and a few spider families that fight me for the territory? I make do.
But the real secret, the embarrassing truth about what has kept me afloat this year is that I use Emmett Mercier the way some people use alcohol and drugs. I’ve built him up in my head. The way you can count on a favorite meal, a favorite book…Emmett is my reverie.
Chapter Three
Emmett
I’m the first to admit I don’t play fair on the soccer field, but apparently neither does the guy trying to defend me. This whole game, he’s been an asshole, faking injuries, shouting for the referee to call fouls, jabbing me when he thinks no one can see him.
Now, he nearly trips me up as I’m headed downfield, and I curse but break away. When he catches me again, he shoves me, playing dirty. It makes no sense. There are only a few seconds left on the clock and they’re up two goals. Still, I’m not one to back down from a challenge. Some of these guys need soccer to keep their athletic scholarships. I don’t. I enjoy the sport. I enjoy running until sweat is dripping into my eyes. I love the ache of a hard-earned victory. So when he shoves me, I go low and slam my elbow into his stomach hard enough to send him keeling over in pain, but not for long. He’s up and swinging before I step back, landing a solid punch to my jaw before the ref gets ahold of him. My teammates don’t have to pull me back. I know when to quit. I smile like a prick as they drag him away from me, tacking on a departing remark because I just can’t help myself.
“Sac à foutre.”
French is my native language, so the insult rolls off my tongue in such a pleasing way. Nobody but Alexander understands it. He laughs beside me.