Nice Girls Endure by Chris Struyk-Bonn

Author:Chris Struyk-Bonn [Struyk-Bonn, Christina]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Obesity; Juvenile fiction; Bullying; Motion pictures; Singing; Fathers and daughters; Mothers and daughters; Self-confidence; High schools; Friendship; 9781630790479; 9781630790462
Publisher: Capstone
Published: 2016-07-14T00:00:00+00:00

Forty-one

On Saturday morning at ten o’clock, I’m out of bed, sitting at the table in the kitchen eating Dad’s blueberry pancakes. He tops them with slices of strawberry, banana, and gobs of whipped cream. I’m thinking I might take a shower today — wash my hair. Maybe I’ll even paint my toenails. It’s spring break. I don’t have to go anywhere — especially to school, especially to accounting.

And then the doorbell rings. I stop chewing and look out the kitchen window. Our kitchen window is right beside the driveway, but I can’t see the front door from where I sit.

Dad, still wearing his cooking apron, wipes his hands on it and hums his way to the front door.

When I hear Melody’s voice, and Dad’s answering murmur, I examine the nooks in the kitchen, looking for a place to hide.

Dad leads Melody into the kitchen.

“I have been trying to get a hold of you ALL WEEK,” Melody says, plopping down in the chair beside mine. Our table is round, making it harder for me to turn away from her. “Have you been sick?”

I finish chewing my mouthful of food and nod.

“Your mom told me where you live,” she says, looking all around the kitchen. I follow her gaze to the cherry wood cabinets, tile floors, and stainless steel fridge. “Awesome.”

Her cheeks are red, artificially rosy, and she’s wearing a little Heidi outfit with a short wide skirt, a white embroidered shirt, and green suspenders with red embroidery on them. Her hair is ribboned into two tight ponytails.

“You have got to tell me you’re better,” she says, looking at me again. She takes in my rumpled sweatshirt, greasy hair, and missing smile. “Are you?”

I raise my eyebrows. Am I? My breasts have been publicly plastered all over the Internet, and everyone at school has seen them without my permission. I am an object of ridicule. An outcast. Pariah. I have been assaulted and manhandled; I no longer know who I am.

I shrug.

“Good enough,” she says, a grin pushing up her red cheeks, “because look what I have.”

Melody holds up two strips of paper that she’s clutching in her hand. They’re a bit bent and damp, but she lays them on the table and flattens them.

“Les Misérables. Tonight. Mom got them for free and we are soooo going.”

“I can’t go,” I whisper.

“Of course you can,” she says, her grin not slipping.

My heart starts to thump in my neck. I instantly turn sweaty, feel a flush of heat racing across my chest, and know that I stink. She is so stupid. She just doesn’t get it. She’s cute, thin, uncaring, and full of energy. I stand up and walk to my room.

“Chelsea?” Dad says. “Baby?”

I pick up my pace, throw open the door to my room, and slam it behind me. I climb back in bed and pull the covers up over my head. I hear murmuring outside my door. Then the doorknob turns and someone comes in. The floor doesn’t creak when this person enters.

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