Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Rolling my eyes, I sit up. My head is still throbbing, despite the handful of pills I popped when I got to the room. I've had hangovers before, but this is more. This is a fuzziness I can't seem to shake.
"You first," I say. "What happened to you at Timbers?"
"I met a guy. Your turn."
Melody stares at me, awaiting some sort of response as I try to get my thoughts together and decide how much to tell her.
"Same," I respond. "I met a guy, too."
Her eyes widen. "Really? Who?"
"He's nobody," I say, not believing it even as the words leave my lips. That man is indisputably somebody. "So did you leave with the douche in the flight suit or what?"
She eyes me for a moment in silence, as if debating whether to push me for more, but she thankfully shrugs it off. "Yeah. His name's Pat or Pete or something, I can't remember. Maybe it's Parker? We made out and then passed out."
"Same," I say again. "Except for the whole making out part."
"So you went home with a guy and… passed out?"
"Pretty much."
"Well, that's disappointing."
I let out a light laugh as I stand up and stretch, setting my phone down to let it finish charging. "Yeah, it made for one hell of an awkward morning. So tell me about Pat-Pete-Parker-whatever."
She shifts the subject, going back to talking about whatever his name is, as I gather some clothes to take a shower. I don't mention Naz any more. She'll have more questions—questions I don't have answers for.
"Ugh, I have one hell of a hangover," Melody says eventually. "How are you feeling?"
"Like hell," I say. "I think there was something in one of those drinks last night… a roofie or something. I don't know. It's fuzzy."
She looks at me, horrified. "That's scary. Are you sure?"
"Pretty sure." I hesitate. "I think it was the last one… the one you got from whatever-his-name is."
"No way," she says. "He was totally a gentleman. It must've been another."
"Yeah," I mumble. "Maybe, but be careful, you know, just in case."
"Are you sure you can't come?" Melody asks, exaggeratedly frowning as she sits across from me, clothes piled high all around her—this time on purpose. An empty suitcase sits on the floor by her feet, waiting to be filled.
"I'm sure," I say. "If I could, I would, but I can't."
"If it's about money, I—"
Before she can even finish that sentence, my eyes narrow and I cut her off. "I can't go."
She makes a face at me, somewhere between annoyance and pity. I know she's feeling both. It's Sunday, and tomorrow is the official start of spring break. With midterms behind us, we have nothing to worry about until classes start up again next week. Melody's off to Aruba with some old friends from high school—girls I've met but wouldn't recognize if I ever ran into them on the street. Melody's the only one in her group that stayed in New York for college.
So while she's at the beach, celebrating freedom and soaking up the sun, I'll be here alone. It is about the money, yeah… I could never afford to keep up with her lifestyle, even if she insists on including me whenever possible. I'm gracious when she buys dinner, or drags me for a night on the town, but I draw the line at a Caribbean vacation. There's a thin line between accepting help and being a charity case, a line I felt myself toeing earlier in the weekend.
But it's more than that, too.
I can't go.
"I told you I don't have a passport."
"Well, I told you we could go to Florida instead."
"And I told you I won't let you change your plans because of me," I say. "So go, have fun. I'm just going to hang around here, maybe panhandle, you know, make a little money."
She laughs as she starts tossing her clothes in her bag. "You don't want to go see your mom?"
"No, I'll see her in a few weeks for Easter."
Melody finishes packing, cramming more clothes into suitcases than I think I even own, before she walks over and flops down on my bed beside me. She lets out a deep, theatrical sigh, wrapping her arms around me. "I'll miss you, Kissimmee! Don't have too much fun without me."
I laugh at the nickname. She overheard my mother say it one day and completely ran with it. "I'll try not to. Might be difficult, though, with all this excitement going on around here. You know… empty halls and vacant classrooms and closed libraries."
"Sounds like Heaven," she says. "Too bad I can't stay."
"Yeah, too bad. You're gonna miss all the fun."
Melody plants a playful sloppy kiss on my cheek before getting her stuff in order, shoving a few last minute things into her bags. She's ready just as her phone rings, alerting her that a car is waiting down by the curb to take her to the airport.
"I'll call you every day," she says. "Every hour."
"Please don't," I reply. "My mother already does that."
With a laugh, she's out the door, hauling her luggage with her. To be honest, I don't expect her to call at all.
Once she's gone, the door clicking closed behind her, I toss my book aside and lay back on my bed.
A whole week.
Seven days of nothingness.
Melody hasn't even been gone a minute and I'm already bored out of my mind.
I clean, and read, and clean some more, and read some more, before my stomach starts growling. I grab a pack of Ramen noodles from the cabinet in the room, making my way to the small kitchen everyone in the suite shares. Most of the building is empty, save for a few wayward students like me who stayed behind. I fill a pot with water and put it on the stove. As I'm waiting on the water to boil, I pull out my phone and scroll through it to call my mom.
No answer.
Sighing, I leave a quick message. For someone who freaks out when I don't answer, she sure sends my calls to her answering machine a lot. Hanging up, I lean back against the counter and stare at the screen, my eyes drifting to the name beneath hers.