Page 9 of Stay Toxic

“Right!” I readily agree. “I hate that. But I tend to read a lot of indies. They price their ebooks affordably.”

Who would have thought I’d have so much in common with someone who does…what she was doing last night? I figured she’d be a party animal, only attending college to get guys or something. I can be judgmental, apparently. I decide I don’t like it. One of the many things I’ll have to work on.

Now that she declined my help, I get started on unpacking my own stuff. I didn’t bring much. Clothes, my laptop, e-reader, and tablet. That’s about it. The sparse decor of my side of the room stands out in stark contrast to Ari’s books, her potted cacti, and colorful pillows. I didn’t think to bring any personal effects. Or rather, I don’t have anything I’m emotionally attached to in my room at home. How sad is that? But an interior designer took care of every room in my mother’s house, and I never bothered to put my touch to it.

Maybe I should go shopping. Grab a few things to liven up the area.

I’m done with all my stuff much faster than Ari’s done with her books, so I set up the little desk next to the bedside table and log into the university’s portal to check my schedule.

Classes start Wednesday, which gives me tomorrow to get acquainted with the campus. Maybe I should try to find the classrooms ahead of time, so I don’t get lost.

I click on my university mailbox and find it empty, which means my Dear Stranger pen pal hasn’t replied to me yet. They’ll tell me when I can go pick up the next letter.

“What’s that music?” I ask.

The beat is catchy, and I find my head bobbing up and down, though I don’t recognize it.

“Oh, should I lower it?” Ari asks bashfully. “Sorry, I always tidy up with something blasting in the background, sorry.”

“No, no,” I’m quick to say. “I like it. I just don’t think I’ve heard it before.”

She beams. “An indie band, local. They’re playing this weekend, in fact. Do you want to tag along? It’s Saturday at eight.”

The offer comes fast, not forced at all, and I’m touched by it.

“I’m hanging out with a friend Saturday,” I improvise.

That’s not untrue, necessarily. I’m likely to go out with Tanya. If she doesn’t have a show, that is. What I don’t say is, the music sounds trendy, sexy, and everything I’m not. I remember the last time I tried to go to a concert with some friends. The looks. The snickers. The insults. I can get away with looking like I’m on my way to Sunday church service most of the time, but it’s completely out of place at night amongst my peers.

I’mout of place.

“Oh, nice! You’re new in town, right? I figured you wouldn’t have friends yet.”

“My bestie just started at the Thorn Falls corps de Ballet. I’m going to their opening on Thursday night, actually.” Shyly, I add, “I have a spare ticket if you want to come?”

Because Tanya’s suggestion—that I could ask Sebastian—is out of the question. I never have asked any guy out in my entire life, and if I were to start, it wouldn’t be that one. I mean, I could technically ask a guy friend, I suppose, but Sebastian doesn’t strike me as friend material. He’s too…tall? Sexy? Sinful? Teasing?Gorgeous? I shut down every single one of my brain’s suggestions.

Intimidating. He’s way too intimidating.

I don’t expect my roommate to want to go, so I’m startled when she squeals.

“To the ballet?” Ari gasps. “Hellyes. Those tickets are, like, a hundred bucks apiece, right? I’ve never been.”

I smile back, though I’m self-conscious about the fact that she’s so happy to jump out of her comfort zone when I can’t seem to. I want to be the kind of person who says “yes, sure, I’ll go to the concert” and not think twice about it. But one glance down at myself—the tweed skirt, the two-inch kitten heels, the cardigan over a silk blouse, and the lace undershirt beneath, all picked by my mother—and I’m reminded why I’m not that person.

The fashion sense of Ralph Lauren models in commercials is daring compared to mine. And I know, without a single doubt, that the moment I change that, I might as well pack my stuff and head back home.

“Right. I’ll text you the time,” I say, returning to my side of the room.

5

“Good morning, Hestia.”

I do my best not to cringe. The screen shows my daunting mother, behind her daunting desk, her terrifying bodyguard to the side. Terrifying, because I know the strength of his grip on my wrist. When I grew too big for Mother to drag me through the rooms herself, she got him to do it. And he liked it. Ifeltit more than once. He freaking loved grabbing hold of me and dragging me through pristine, white, light rooms as I screamed for help.

I learned to stop protesting. Follow. Let them lock me up in the cupboard without a sound. To only scream in my mind. It’s better than letting those people put their hands on me, and enjoy it.

“Mother,” I reply, faking a smile. “Hope you’re well.”