The Ruining by Anna Collomore

Author:Anna Collomore
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Young Adult, Thriller
ISBN: 9781595144706
Publisher: Razorbill
Published: 2013-02-07T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter thirteen

“I ONLy wIsH yOu’d INdICATEd that you were allergic to nutmeg,” Libby said the next day, her face looking more drawn than I’d ever seen it. “I would have omitted it from the recipe. My god.”

“I did,” I insisted. “At least, I thought I did.” I could have sworn I’d mentioned it, but my head was so foggy that I couldn’t be certain of anything anymore. My throat still felt swollen and scratchy, but the welts in my mouth had completely disappeared. Yet I couldn’t argue about it. I didn’t feel like suffering Libby’s anger. I was too exhausted. I’d been allergic to nutmeg for as long as I could remember, so it was weird that I hadn’t been clearer about it with the Cohens. I always made a big deal out of it and even wore the information on a thin, silver ID bracelet, which is probably how Owen knew exactly what was happening. Nutmeg, for me, was the culinary equivalent of being bitten by a black widow. It could very easily have become lethal. It was actually kind of miraculous that he’d gotten me to the emergency clinic on time. From there, once they’d administered antitoxins, I’d been transported to the hospital, where I’d spent the night.

Now I was back at the Cohens’. I felt extremely exhausted. But more than that, something like depression was wrapping its talons around me. I’d had to skip classes today because of the episode. I’d skipped classes before because Libby had needed me at the last minute. I was falling behind at school and failing at my job, and it was only the first semester. I could feel everything—the life I’d waited so long to live—slipping from my grasp.

“Don’t.” Libby’s voice was cold. “Don’t make excuses. And don’t think you can blame it on me. We have done everything to make you feel welcome. Everything! We have overlooked every incident that should have given us pause. We’ve accepted your eccentricities, we’ve—”

“What . . . eccentricities?” My voice was faint-sounding. It came from another universe a million miles away.

“The sleepwalking, the way you whisper to yourself, all of it! Don’t you think this worries me? You’re sleeping under our roof, handling our children . . . it’s unthinkable! Yet we’ve made every single concession. I have actually fought with my husband over whether to keep you on. And now this.” I couldn’t focus; her words were like thick sludge I couldn’t wade through. Sleepwalking? I’d never sleepwalked, not that I knew of. And although I did have a habit of talking to myself on occasion, I never did it around other people. Or at least not usually. And I didn’t remember any times where they’d caught me doing it when I thought I was alone. Her words weren’t making sense.

“But remember that first time we talked?” I insisted. “During my phone interview. You asked me if there was anything you should know about me, and I mentioned my allergy. I mention it everywhere I go, anytime I eat anything I don’t prepare myself.

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