Chapter 1
Lindsay
"You coming over tonight, Rebecca?"
I make the question casual, like it's no sweat off my
back if my best friend can't come over tonight. Inside my
gut twists and rolls with the thought of being alone. She
plays with her dyed blonde ponytail, pulling the strands
tight to her head to fluff it up higher. She's not paying
attention to me. Rebecca's one focus is Blair. Blair's main
focus is Rebecca. They make me sick.
"Can't Linds. I've got plans."
I hate that nickname and no matter how many times I ask
her not to call me that she doesn't listen. She dismisses
me with a swish of her ponytail and walks over to plant one
on Blair's lips. I cringe with disgust. For the life of me
I can't understand what she sees in him, besides his
muscular body. Muscle or not, he's not something I'm into.
I re–read the text from my mother and resist the
urge to type a pleading note back to her not to spend
another night away. Mom's been at a conference all weekend.
I had Friday, Saturday and even Sunday night covered. It's
Monday. She was supposed to come home tonight. Now I'm left
scrambling for an excuse to spend the night somewhere else
or begging a friend to come to my house for a sleepover.
Worse, I have to make my impromptu sleepover sound casual,
like it's an afterthought that me, the so–called
perfect girl in this Prep school, wants a friend or better
yet friends to spend Monday night at her house. No one has
sleepovers on Monday. Even I know that. Thing is, I'm all
into bucking the trend. Especially when a friend will keep
me safe and they won't even know it.
Taking the time to look at my reflection staring back at
me thanks to my handy–dandy locker mirror I reapply
my pink lipstick, add a bit more black eyeliner around my
bottom lids and flick my long blonde hair off my shoulders.
I look cool and sophisticated thanks to Mother's recent
shopping spree and my practiced ‘I'm fine' look. I'm
totally decked out in designer duds, from my shoes to my
new hot purple matching bra and underwear, although no
one's going to see that. It's the top of the line on this
bod. But just once I wish I didn't feel like trash. They
say clothes make the woman. My clothes, like the makeup I
carefully apply, are my body armor. They protect me and
conceal me. Even my scars—carefully hidden thanks to
my long–sleeved sweater. They are my shame. My dirty
little secret I can't tell anyone.
Armed with my new Coach purse, another gift from
Mother–dearest, I saunter to class. It would not be
cool for me to be late so I never am. Appearances must be
maintained and just like my good grades, which are totally
expected, I play my part to a T.
The class is totally boring and I can't absorb one
freaking word the teacher is droning on about. Something to
do with DNA, mitochondria and cellular fusion. I hate
biology. You of course would never know that. My last test
was a ninety–eight percent and I participate in class
even though inside it kills me.
"Mr. Turner, I didn't catch the last part of what you
were saying, do you mind repeating it?" I make sure to bat
my eyelashes at him and throw in a flirty smile. Sometimes
using the way I look makes me sick. Not today.
"Sure Lindsay, as I was saying..."
This time I take notes. It helps me concentrate on his
class, forcing my mind not to wander into that dark place.
An itch starts on both of my wrists but I don't scratch.
Scratching would ruin the plastic surgeon's work and piss
my mother off to no end. My mother and I don't talk about
the "incident". That's her word, not mine. I have another
word I like to use, but uttering that makes her angry.
Trust me, that's not pretty.
We went from Halifax, Nova Scotia to Mexico, just the
two of us, but not once did we talk about anything
important. The five and a half hour flight might have never
happened. But it did. The "incident" happened and
now...now, I am supposedly all better. As if! And like all
mistakes, we wiped all memories of it clean from our lives.
Well, that's how Mother viewed it. Me, I'm not so sure.
Now we live in Toronto. To say I hate this place would
be an understatement. Gone is my tree. The one tree that
grew up with me. Mother planted it in our backyard,
blubbering away about "us" making our own memories when my
father walked out on us. She never once looked back at that
relationship, except to look at me. I should have been the
wise one. Make one stupid mistake Lindsay and voilà, you'll
get taken away from all you know, including the stupid
silly things that shouldn't matter, but do. Like that tree,
which had been on a piece of property in my mother's family
for close to two hundred years. She sold off the acreage to
some developer, but not before we trekked an hour back into
the bug–infested woods for that damn shrub. Cedar.
That's it. We didn't think it would survive but that tree
did. It grew and grew, so much so, that it became my own
special tree. Now, that's gone. After all the shit that's
happened in my life, I honestly can't believe I miss that
stupid tree.
My mother couldn't live with the shame of my
so–called accident. The reality is she couldn't live
with the gossip and still to this day, a full six months
later, she is not interested in learning the truth. I tried
to tell her it wasn't an accident. That didn't go so well.
"What did he say?"
Without turning my head I answer Megan. She's sitting
next to me, only because she got assigned that seat. Megan,
with her mousy–brown hair, is about as boring as you
can get. The cosmetic ladies would have a field day with
her face. I bet she doesn't even own lip gloss. I look at
her for a good twenty seconds.
Beggars can't be choosers.
"You doing anything tonight?" I turn my head slightly,
giving her a bit of my attention but not all of it. Inside
my head I am still going through all my friends, trying to
figure out who might say yes to coming to my house tonight.
Most of my friends have cheerleading practice on Monday
night. Since I couldn't even try out for the team because
of my "weak" wrists lie, I'm not on it. Neither is Megan.
She hasn't answered me, so I'm forced to look at
her. "Megan, you busy tonight?"
She gives me a puzzled expression. "No. Why?"
"Want to come over?"
"Over. Like, as in to your house to do homework or
something?" I can't help notice how her uni–brow
furrows in frustration and she's got a pack of whiteheads
on her nose that could seriously use some medication. What
she really needs is a good makeover. Oh. My. God. I am a
genius.
I move my chair slightly closer to her. "Look, come to
my house tonight and we'll give each other makeovers."
Her eyes widened and honestly the biggest smile on the
planet lights up her face. I feel like a heel. What the
hell am I thinking? Oh, I know; I'm not thinking. I'm
desperate. I can't believe Megan is my last hope.
"Sure. That would be great. I can come over for a bit."
A bit. I need her to commit for the night. "I was
thinking...you know, there's nothing going on...why don't
you spend the night?" I gulp. It's too late to swallow back
the words but I know I have just committed social suicide.
For a second I wonder which is worse—home alone or
having Megan over.
"A sleepover?"
Thank god she asks the question in her
whisper–like voice. "Yeah," I nod. "A sleepover,
that's a great idea." I am so royally screwed. I made her
think sleeping over at my house was her idea. It's not, but
if it will get her to commit, I don't care what she thinks.
"You sure?" she asks.
Not really, but I don't have anyone else to ask and
you're my last hope. I nod, making sure my smile is bright
and full, stretched taut across my face. I notice she's
still taking notes. How the hell can she concentrate on
this boring stuff when my guts feel like they are being
twisted into pretzel shapes?
"Just you and me, tonight at my house for a makeover.
Come around six and we'll have time for a movie later."
"You sure your parents won't mind? It being Monday night
and all."
"My mother's away at some stupid work conference. And my
stepfather doesn't care what I do." And that's the truth.
He only cares about one thing but that's not going to
happen—if she comes over, that is.
"You are so lucky. By the way, I don't have any makeup
to bring."
"Don't you worry. I have enough stuff to outfit my own
store. When I'm done with you tonight you can take whatever
you want home with you."
"I wish I had your life."
I gulp. A flash of terror slides through my skin at her
words. If she knew my real life, if she knew what went on
in the dark, when Mother's not home, she most certainly
would not want my life. I can't say anything for a full
minute. Instead, I start to take notes again. My heart's
hammering away and sweat glides down my new shirt. I'm glad
now I put on my sweater.
"You okay?" she asks.
"You bet. Just plotting out in my head what we're going
to do tonight."
The bell rings. Class is over. I gently close my laptop.
No one carries scribblers or school books at this school.
It's high–tech all the way. The sickening part is
that with it being mid–morning, religious class is
next. I am not one bit Catholic, even though my mother said
we were. I fake my way through religious class much like
how I pretend being happy. Guess I learned how to lie from
a pro. The worse part about my next class is with it being
Monday it's mandatory confessional. Honestly, some of my
best lies take place in the privacy of a wooden closet.
Just me and the priest, separated by a silly wooden
barrier. I should journal some of the "indecent" things I
confess. They sound exciting even to me so, I can just
imagine the hard–on they give that fat, disgusting
priest. If there's one thing I have learned in the past
year it's how to spot a pervert. Trust me, he's just like
Greg, my stepfather, who ever since I turned fourteen has
snuck into my room to show me his idea of loving. The
concept of that type of love is not something I want. If
that's loving, I will take hate any day.
I know something the priest and most of my fellow
students don't know. There is no hell in the afterlife.
I've been there. Died for a good three minutes. I didn't
feel a thing. Only this life is living hell.
"See you at six," I remind Megan, as we casually join
the mass exit from class.
"Can't wait," she says.
I can't help noticing the bounce in her step. It should
make me happy. It doesn't. I don't even like Megan. She's a
pathetic excuse for protection but she will have to do.