Speechless(107)

                I stare back, unmoving, fighting the urge to comb my fingers                     through my messy hair. It’s really not fair that I had to run into Tessa like                     this without warning, when I’m such a mess and she’s so well put-together. Her                     wispy light brown hair frames her perfectly made-up face; she’s learned her                     lesson about the bronzer, it seems. Looks like Kristen’s already started on her,                     grooming her to be a proper replacement.

                “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Tessa snaps. There’s a                     newfound conviction in her tone I’ve never heard before, the kind that comes                     from having all the power at hand. “Do you really expect me to feel sorry for                     you, after you went and leaked the pictures of me and Owen?”

                I really, really want to inform Tessa that her new BFF Kristen                     was the one who spread the photos. Instead I set my jaw and stare down at the                     floor. Times like these I wonder if this vow is worth it, but then again, it’s                     not like Tessa would take my word for it anyway.

                Suddenly there’s a hand on my back. Sam stands beside me,                     looking from me to Tessa and back again. “I think I’m done here,” he says. “You                     ready to go?”

                I nod, maybe a little more fervently than I mean to, and Sam                     keeps his hand placed lightly on the middle of my back as we brush past Tessa                     and head toward the store exit. I don’t have to look over my shoulder to know                     that she’s watching me walk away.





                                      day fifteen

                The next email from Kristen arrives in my in-box on                     Sunday evening.

                The subject line is FWD: HOT MESS………MINUS THE HOT, and it takes                     me a minute to get past my trepidation and open it. And as soon as I do I wish I                     never had.

                There’s no text, just a single photo. Of me. Hunched over the                     toilet, looking like I’m about to puke. I recognize the outfit as the one I wore                     on New Year’s; the plunging neckline leaves my boobs halfway out of my top, and                     the camera caught me midblink, my mouth open in what looks to be a gag. The                     flash washes out my already pale skin and catches my monstrous hair in all its                     bushy, frizzed-out glory.