Sweet by Emmy Laybourne Read Free Book Online

fork.
    â€œAren’t you eating yours?” Luka asks. “Dude!”
    â€œI tasted it. It’s great,” I say. And the people at the table take notice.
    â€œBaby Tom—I mean, Tom—you’re not eating it?” Jenny says. She looks horrified.
    â€œI tried it!” I lie.
    Tamara glares at me like she’s out for blood.
    â€œI’ll eat yours!” Luka says and, in three bites, he’s cleared my plate. Jerk.
    Now the army of waiters is bringing around coffee and tea, pouring it into the cups already set at our places. I see there are some little pitchers of cream set around each table, but no sugar.
    Then a waiter sets down a little sterling dish at the center of each table filled with packets of Solu. They are the trademarked shade of lavender.
    The color was blended by an exclusive French color expert. It’s supposed to be a shade that gives hope and comfort.
    I know this because it’s on my list of talking points, along with their motto, “Solu: Life’s delicious.”
    Tamara picks up the dish and takes a packet. Then two.
    She passes it to the next person.
    The attention of everyone at the table is focused on that little silver dish and those slim lavender packets. It goes around the table and everyone, politely, takes two packets.
    When it comes to me, I plan on passing, but I see Tamara glowering at me. I take two packets.
    There were exactly two packets per person at the table. So that’s that.

 
    LAUREL
    DAY ONE
    I AM STARING AT AN ÉCLAIR.
    My stomach is seizing up sporadically. Clenching up to let me know that if I lay one fork tine on that slender little pastry, I’m gonna blow bile all over the beautiful linen tablecloth.
    So, yeah, I’m still really seasick.
    I’m also horribly underdressed.
    Viv was right—my wardrobe is completely inadequate.
    I don’t know what I’m going to do. It’s not like I can write home and ask my mom to send me a care package of better clothes (to a ship at sea!).
    Apparently there’s a boutique on board, but I’m quite certain the fifty dollars my parents gave me for an emergency won’t buy me the evening dress I’m wishing I’d packed.
    I am wearing, instead, a form-fitting black tank top and my very nicest black jeans.
    Around my neck, I have a set of dog tags that actually were a free giveaway at the mall. (They say, ARMY OF RAD GIFTS AND NOVELTIES! but I’m hoping that no one looks at them closely.)
    Viv is wearing a trendy little dress made of neon lace over navy-blue material and matching heels. It’s maybe a twitch too tight on some of her more curvy aspects.
    â€œHere it comes,” Viv says. “My first taste of a new future!”
    She digs into her dessert.
    Around the table, everyone follows suit.
    When we were first seated at the eight-top, I saw Viv’s face fall when she saw who shared our table. I am a nice person but even I have to say—it’s a table of losers.
    Rich losers.
    There’s one family with two ninth-grade boy twins, and a fat couple who look like they’re at retirement age. The two teenagers just look at their phones through the whole meal. I guess their parents aren’t concerned with the exorbitant fees for data usage on board. The mom and dad look like they wished they were looking at their phones and the two old people just kept their heads down and ate everything that was put in front of them without saying a word.
    There was not a celebrity in sight.
    Well, I could see Tom Fiorelli. He was in my sight. Sort of. He was seated way in the center of the room, with good old Sabbi Ribiero and other people of his kind.
    I flushed red with embarrassment, even just seeing him at a distance.
    â€œThere he is,” Viv said, under her breath. “ El beb é T. T.”
    â€œObviously, I need to avoid him for the rest of the cruise,” I said.
    â€œI dunno. It’s a pretty small ship,” she