Secret Life (RVHS Secrets) by Bria Quinlan Read Free Book Online Page B

the untrustable guy to get me
through Calculus. Dealing with him comparing me to
every hot girl who walked past. It all got thrown into the cauldron
called my life and equaled a recipe for more than disaster. It equaled a recipe
for meltdown.
    I avoided the mirror as I opened the cabinet and reached for
the pill bottle on the ledge. Popping the lid off, I let one slide into my hand
and rolled it between my fingers.
    Forty-one. It had been forty-one
days since I’d actually taken one of these. I’d thought the camp set up to
handle meds withdrawal would make it easy- peasey . No
such luck, but I was off them. For now.
    I could take one at any time—go back on my dailies. It
didn’t mean defeat. It meant I knew I’d reached a limit. At least, that’s what
Dr. Meadows said.
    But to me, it did. All I’d wanted for the last
three-and-a-half years was to be boringly, averagely normal.
    Not to question what people saw every time someone looked at
me. Not to use every moment, every movement as a way to camouflage myself.
    I dropped the pill back in the bottle and sealed it shut
with a childproof thud. Not today my friend. I could fly solo one more day.
    Closing my eyes, I pictured my morning. I’d put on safe
clothes. Meet Chris. Hash out if he could get me back on the dean’s list or if
I was dumping his plan. Go to Ben’s with a bathing suit tucked in the very
bottom of my bag, which may conveniently have been “forgotten” at home. And
generally have a good Saturday.
    It would be a good
Saturday, damn it.
    Once I found my black skirt I’d feel better. It made me look
more symmetrical. Less disproportionate. Avoiding the
mirror, I brushed my teeth and pictured the perfect day. The
perfect outfit. The perfect me.
    Rule 18: Always, always, always have a safe outfit ready to
go for any occasion.
    I closed my eyes and pictured the pool party. Black
wraparound skirt hanging loose off my hips for balance, fitted tank for
slimming, flip-flops for kicking off. Bangs wispy but out of
my face, check. Pedicure, check. Three favorite
lip glosses, triple check. Now to find my clothes.
    As I headed back to my room, the tattered edges of my robe’s
sleeve caught on the door handle as I went by. I gave it a yank, a harsh rip
overriding the music playing from my iPod speakers. That was not a bad sign. Only good things were
going to happen today. Saturday had no options. I was in charge.
    I turned to my room. It was a mess. Understatement.
    Every night I cleaned it, carefully putting each piece of
clothing where it belonged. Organized and ready to go.
    Only last night I hadn’t put anything away. After the day
from Chaos Grand Central, all I’d wanted to do was crash, so everything lay
where it had fallen before school.
    I waded through the pile, pulling anything out that was
black, looking for my skirt. Nothing. Every time I
found something, I tossed it behind me, sorting through things on the floor,
draped over the chair, at the foot of my bed.
    I got down on my hands and knees and looked under the bed.
    Where the hell was it?
    My hands shook already. I needed that skirt. It was the only
thing I could leave the house in. I’d done all my special visualizing in the thing,
now I needed it like air, water, and a satin pillowcase that wouldn’t snag my
hair. It was like social armor. Never go out in public without the right armor
or you’ll get—emotionally—skewered.
    From downstairs the dim chime of the doorbell echoed up the
hall. Oh, crap. I grabbed at the towel loosely twisted about my wet head. How
did he get here so quickly? What was he, like, Superman now? Only
without the Clark Kent part. Which would make him…what? Besides annoying
that is?
    I faced the pile of black clothes in the corner. Maybe I’d
accidentally thrown the skirt in with everything else.
    On my hands and knees, I rifled through the deluge of black,
throwing things behind me again in such disarray that it made the earlier mess
look show-room-perfect. No