The First Lie by Sara Shepard

Author:Sara Shepard [Shepard, Sara]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Novela, Intriga, Juvenil
Publisher: ePubLibre
Published: 2012-12-18T05:00:00+00:00

8

BEAUTY SLEEP IS OVERRATED

I open my eyes and look around. The room is cast in a blue-black haze, images shapeless and sounds muffled, as though the entire scene were unfolding underwater. Wherever I am, it’s nighttime, and I am not alone.

In the dim light, I make out the four walls of a small, nearly bare room, a curtain-less window looking out into a parking lot. The air smells of pine-scented room spray and stale cigarette smoke. I hear a banging, then murmurs of conversation coming from somewhere nearby, some place outside of this room.

I’m not sure where I am. I’m not sure how old I am, either. Not seventeen, certainly—more like four, five. I look down and see a threadbare floral nightie that barely skims my knees on my body. The elastic cuffs of the sleeves cut into the flesh of my upper arms, and a stiff, scratchy, polyester motel blanket is pulled up to my chin. When I look over, I see a shadowy figure sitting at a small metal table by the window, drumming her fingers across the surface, staring into space.

“Mom?” I call out.

The figure turns, but I can’t see her face. I try my hardest—I want just one memory of my real mother, something I can hold on to. Only, this makes no sense: I was adopted when I was only a few weeks old, not four. I don’t have any memories of my mother. I have no idea who she is or what she looks like. Still, I struggle to see. Then, a hand that’s the exact shape and size as my own taps me on the shoulder. I turn again and look into another face. A mirror.

“Hello?” I ask. My mirror image doesn’t speak.

I start awake with a small scream. This time, I’m in my regular bedroom. My butter-soft Egyptian cotton sheets are tangled in a sweaty ball at my ankles. My bare legs are cool and sticky from the blast of the air-conditioning. I look at the clock—it’s not even midnight. I fell asleep early tonight, exhausted after several hours of playing tennis with Charlotte at the court down the street; I don’t want to give Nisha the satisfaction of being rusty when the season starts next week.

I stretch and sigh. There’s no way I can go back to sleep now. I quickly slip on a waffle-knit hoodie and make my way downstairs, stepping softly as I go.

I fill a glass of water at the sink. Suddenly, something behind me catches my eye. At the far end of our immaculately landscaped backyard, a soft yellow light glows from within the latticework of crisscrossing branches.

The clubhouse. Laurel and Thayer are out there, looking up at the stars. I can picture their silhouettes in profile. They’re tilted toward each other, whispering in the dim space. About what, I wonder. What would it be like, to be the one curled up in there, with Thayer all to myself?

“Did we wake you?”

I jump at the figure in the doorway, dropping my glass of water in the process.

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