Promiscuous by Isobel Irons

Author:Isobel Irons [Irons, Isobel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Erotica, Romantic Erotica
Amazon: B00HSCZ8Y6
Goodreads: 20509070
Publisher: Vivid IIInk
Published: 2014-01-02T06:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Two days after Margot almost died, I somehow manage to get out of bed.

My mom has already left for work, and I doubt she has any idea that I came home last night for the first time in 48 hours. I make myself some coffee with her French press, and choke it down, hoping it will make me feel human. But it doesn’t. I don’t know how I manage it, or what drives me, but I end up fully dressed and in the car without even really thinking about it. Numbly, I start the engine and put the car into drive.

It’s not until I’ve been sitting in front of Margot’s trailer for a good five minutes that I remember she’s not coming out. Not for a long time. Maybe not even before school is over.

It hits me then that Margot and I might never drive to school together again. But no, it’s worse than that, isn’t it? Forget about high school. What about college? What about her scholarship? Will she lose it, if she doesn’t graduate? Of course she will.

Unless they let her do all of her homework from the psych ward—which I seriously doubt, given Principal Shoemaker’s penchant for screwing over trailer park kids like us—she’s toast, from an academic standpoint. And therefore, from a financial one.

Let’s not even talk about what this is going to do for her socially. When it comes to acting, dating, making new friends? Will she ever be able to stop seeing herself the way she looked in that picture? I know I won’t.

The rage this thought causes me is enough to energize me in a way no amount of coffee ever could.

I drive to school, gritting my teeth the entire way. I shuffle into the locker room, slowly, like I’m afraid I might break. I am a ticking time bomb, a catastrophic event waiting to happen. I get dressed, like everything is normal. But inside, I’m a seething mass of hatred.

All through aerobics class, I watch Becca from afar, watching her roll her eyes and laugh with her friends. She has no idea of the damage she’s caused. Or maybe she does, and that’s what she’s so goddamn happy about.

I try to imagine how someone like her, someone with so much going for her, could become so evil, so cruel. But I can’t.

The first time Becca Foster openly targeted Margot, we were in fifth grade. Margot was so confident back then. She tried out for the elementary school production of ‘The Three Little Pigs,’ which was considered avant-garde at the time, because the whole thing was in Spanish—Los Tres Cochinitos, or something.

Becca tried out, too. But she ended up being the first pig. The stupid one, who built the house out of straw. She only had three lines. Two of which were something lame, like, ‘No!’ and ‘Ayudeme!’

Margot got the part of the third pig, the smart one who built her house out of bricks. I can still remember how hard everyone

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