by Cole Gibsen
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Cole Gibsen. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 109
Fort Collins, CO 80525
Entangled Teen is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.
Edited by Liz Pelletier
Cover design by Najla Qamber
Interior design by Jeremy Howland
Print ISBN 978-1-62266-396-5
Ebook ISBN 978-1-62266-397-2
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition April 2015
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Acknowledgments Paper or Plastic
Anomaly
Where You’ll Find Me
Lola Carlyle’s 12-Step Romance
This book is dedicated to everyone and anyone who’s ever been bullied and made to feel less than your amazing worth—whether by peers, family, or even yourself. You are never alone. If you need help, please call 1-800-SUICIDE.
Prologue
“Regan?” Dr. Lee arched an eyebrow and rested the tip of his pen against his pad. The ink slowly seeped into the paper, a small pool of blue against a yellow backdrop. Fitting, because that was what reliving the last three months felt like—ripping open scars so the wounds bled onto the page. “Would you prefer we talk about something else?”
I shook my head. Bitterness burned up the back of my throat. Was that what shame tasted like? I swallowed and licked my dry lips. I was determined to get this out, the truth. “I wasn’t a nice person,” I said. “I mean, I guess I knew it then, too. I just didn’t care.”
Dr. Lee didn’t move. “And you care now?”
I nodded, watching the pool of ink as it swelled around the tip of his pen. How many sheets would he have to flip through to get to one unmarred by the ink? Three? Six? Half the pad? It was funny how damage only appeared on the surface.
“What changed?”
I blinked, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “Everything.”
He wrote something on his pad, but his sloppy handwriting made the words illegible. “How so?”
I shrugged. “I used to think the only thing that mattered was staying on top. I did whatever it took to make it happen. I was using people, but I didn’t think it was a big deal because I wasn’t technically hurting anyone. I had no idea…” My voice caught.
“You had no idea,” Dr. Lee prompted.
I didn’t want to say the words out loud, because giving them voice would only make them more real. “I had no idea that I was…destroying people. But when it happened to me, by someone I thought I loved—”
A sob choked off the words. I squeezed my eyes shut before the tears I felt welling up could fall. “I can’t,” I whispered. And it was the truth.
In the darkness behind my closed eyes, I saw him—the way he’d looked at me, how they’d all looked at me—and the pain crashed into me with enough force that I didn’t understand how I wasn’t dying. “I just…can’t.”
“That’s fine, Regan.” I heard the soft thump of a legal pad falling on a desk. “We can end right there for today.”
“No.” Every breath, every beat of my heart brought a fresh wave of agony, but the only thing worse than talking about what I did was keeping it secret. Secrets were what started the whole thing. I opened my eyes. “I have to do this.”
“All right.” Dr. Lee grabbed his discarded notepad. “Take me back to the beginning. What’s the last thing that happened before it all fell apart?”
Emotions pulled at the already-frayed edges of my heart. There were too many of them. Each memory flashed through my head as fresh as the moment I experienced it. Reliving them was going to suck, but anything was better than letting them fester inside me.
I bit my thumbnail and tried to pinpoint the exact moment everything changed. “It all started with a text.”
Chapter One
Three months ago
The buzz of a cell phone jolted me out of a dreamless sleep. Frantic, I grabbed for it but knocked over my bottle of pills instead.
“Regan!” my mom shouted from the hallway. Her sharp voice dug into my brain like shards of glass. “I expect you sitting at the kitchen table in five minutes. We have things we need to discuss.”
Awesome. Because on my list of fun things to do, lectures from my mother rated just below being stabbed in the eye with a fork. I gave up fumbling for the phone or the pills—I wasn’t sure which one I needed more—and blinked at the ceiling until my room slid into focus. I couldn’t have gotten more than four hours of sleep, judging by my zombielike reflexes. Not good. I couldn’t let my mom get to me. It was too important of a day to be off my A game.
My phone buzzed again, and I managed to snatch it from the nightstand. A text from Payton screamed at me in all caps.
OMG DID YOU SEE CHRISTY HOLDER’S FB POST???!!!!
Christy was the captain of this year’s varsity cheerleading squad. I could only assume, given the number of exclamation points in Payton’s text, that Christy’s post had something to do with the previous day’s tryouts—the same tryouts I’d completely bombed when I fell ass-backward out of a full extension.
Nausea rolled through my stomach. I tried to focus on my phone as I scrolled through my Facebook updates. It only took a second to find Christy’s post.
Tryouts were amazing, but due to the overwhelming number of girls hoping to make this year’s squad, not everyone is going to make it. How will I choose?
I dropped my phone into my lap and chewed on my thumbnail. Would Christy cut me? I’d screwed up the extension, but she owed me. I’d gotten her into Jason Spear’s party last spring. She’d remember that, wouldn’t she? I needed to be on the squad, or I suspected my mom would kill me.
Pain lanced through my thoughts. I pulled my thumb from my mouth and stared at the blood beading along the jagged line where I’d chewed my nail to the quick. Again.
I grabbed a tissue from the box on the nightstand and wrapped it around my thumb. If my mom saw it, she’d add nail biting to her list of topics to cover every morning.
I hauled myself out of bed and across my room. Carrot, my childhood stuffed bunny, watched me from his place of honor on the shelf over my desk. His black button eyes seemed to stare at me with sympathy, as if saying, Remember when you were a kid and we lived in a house half this size? And even though the backyard was smaller than the driveway is now, we’d have the most fantastic adventures there. And the best part was that none of this stuff mattered—not cheerl
eading tryouts or student council, and especially not your mother’s politics.
That was a lifetime ago, I told myself as I turned away. Everything was different back then—I was different. But now? I didn’t have time to waste on wishes, memories, or stuffed toy rabbits. Nothing could change the fact that I was seventeen, and no matter how much I hated it, cheerleading, student council, and my mother’s politics did matter.
Not making the cheerleading team wasn’t an option—at least not according to my mom. And I hadn’t worked so damn hard getting where I was only to lose it because of a stupid botched extension in tryouts.
I grabbed my phone off the down comforter. As any athlete would tell you, a team needed both a stellar offense and a stellar defense. Thanks to the lessons I’d learned from my politician mother, I was my own all-star team. First up, damage control.
I clicked on Christy’s Facebook post and composed a quick comment.
Christy, you’re such a fabulous captain, I’m sure whatever decision you make will be the right one. Here’s to the best cheerleading squad this school’s ever seen. Go Royals!
While the public suck-up post was a good start, it certainly wouldn’t hurt my cause to send another, more personal message. Last month, Christy’s boyfriend had cheated on her with a girl named Mia, who also just so happened to show up at tryouts with the same Gucci purse Christy had last year.
I found Christy in my phone’s contacts and typed out a text.
Can you believe Mia showed up at tryouts? Saw her carrying what looked like your old Gucci purse. Poor Dumpster diver has to shop thrift for both purses and secondhand boyfriends. I say let the trash keep her trash. You’re too good for that shit.
Christy responded a minute later with:
RIGHT? Thanks, girl. I can always count on you for a smile :)
I knew it was stupid, but my mother taught me to never underestimate the significance of flattery to put you on someone’s good side. At the same time, I also knew the importance of a good offense, so I clicked back on Payton’s text and added my other friend Amber to the conversation. My request was simple.
I NEED ALL THE DIRT YOU CAN GIVE ME ON CHRISTY HOLDER
Payton was the first to text back with:
You got it!
Amber responded a minute later with:
OMG Regan. A little early in the morning for a freak-out, isn’t it?
I rolled my eyes and tossed my phone on the bed. I should have known Amber wouldn’t understand. As the most popular girl in the school, she didn’t have to work for anything. She also happened to be the co-captain of the squad. If I could find something to take Christy out of the picture, Amber would be captain. And as one of her best friends, of course I’d make the squad.
I let myself relax a bit. With Payton on the hunt for reputation-ruining information on Christy Holder, I was free to schedule my volunteer hours for Honor Society, formulate a plan for my student council campaign, get started on my pre-SAT studying, and—
“Regan. Time’s up.”
I flinched. My mother. Damn. I’d almost forgotten.
I dragged myself to my closet and slipped on my school uniform. It was a joke that the school thought requiring us to dress the same would promote some sort of equality among the students. What it really did was give us more creative ways to compete, like who had the best designer-label shoes or the most expensive jewelry—a title I was pretty sure I won thanks to the diamond necklace Daddy gave me for my sweet sixteen.
I fingered the necklace to make sure it was exactly where it should be—at the nape of my throat where everyone could see it. Next, I ran a brush through my hair, slid on a headband, and added a spritz of Marc Jacobs Daisy to my neck and wrists. I had just enough time to apply powder and mascara to cover up the dark circles under my eyes before my mom called for me again. My entire look was calculated to exert an air of perfectly sweet, all-American class.
I quickly zipped my makeup case and turned for the door. I knew better than to make her call me a fourth time. But as soon as I stepped into the hall, I paused. My pills. I scooped the pill bottle off my nightstand and zipped it inside my backpack. Technically, it was against the rules to carry prescription drugs in school. I didn’t care. Every time I retrieved a pill from the school nurse, she emailed my parents, leading to unwanted attention from my mother, which brought more anxiety, more panic attacks, and the growth of an already-vicious cycle of stress. No one wanted that.
Besides, who knew? Maybe today would be the day the panic attacks stopped.
A vision of pigs flying had me smiling to myself when I entered the kitchen, but the moment I spotted my mother glaring at me from a chair at the table, the smile died on my lips. She wore one of her many suits tailored to fit snugly on her slender frame. Her hair was pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck, revealing the lines of her face—angles sharp enough to deflect any argument.
“Regan,” she said coolly while motioning to the empty seat to her right. “Let’s have a chat, shall we?”
“Where’s Dad?” I asked, ignoring her question. He’d taken on the job of buffering my mother’s assaults, and I wasn’t about to suffer through this one without him. This morning, however, Dad wasn’t sitting at his usual chair beside Mom. I glanced around the room and saw he wasn’t at the coffeepot pouring a refill, either.
A look of annoyance flickered across her eyes. “Gone,” she answered. “He had to perform an early-morning root canal. It’s just you and me.”
Her words echoed inside my head.
Just you and me.
I had no idea what my mother was about to say, but I knew one thing: somehow, I was letting her down. Anxiety wove through my body, pulling my muscles tight.
Recalling my doctor’s instructions, I sucked in a deep breath, held it for the count of ten, and slowly exhaled until the coils wrapped around my body unwound.
She narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing? Why are you breathing like that?”
I didn’t bother answering, because she knew exactly what I was doing. She drove me to my appointments and held hushed conversations with my doctor after I left the room. God forbid she acknowledge my stress. I mean, why would she when it was so much easier to play dumb than admit something was wrong with her daughter?
“I think I’ll make myself a bowl of cereal,” I said, faking pleasantness.
My mom reached for the purse looped on the back of her chair, withdrew a protein bar, and tossed it onto the table. “Regan, dear, you should be cautious with carbs. Girls with curves like yours walk a fine line between flattering and flabby.”
I pressed my teeth together so hard my jaw ached. Still, I didn’t move. The last thing I wanted to do was sit at the table with that woman. I had a better chance of making it out alive if I covered myself in blood and dove into a shark tank. “Coffee, then.”
I turned for the pot and tried to remember that my mother wasn’t always this critical. She’d given me Carrot, after all. I knew the political arena—the constant fear that your enemies would spot an opening—had changed her. In fact, I knew exactly how she felt, but that didn’t make being her daughter any less stressful.
“I threw out all the coffee,” she said.
I froze. Her tone implied she didn’t know she’d just tossed a live grenade in our kitchen.
A spark of anger burned through me, and I embraced it. Besides my pills, anger was the one thing that effectively kept my panic attacks at bay. I bit out, “Why would you do that?” She knew I needed coffee in the morning more than air. Without that extra kick, I’d be lagging in first period, and I had an exam coming up. Was this some sick test to make me stronger?
She paused before replying. “Coffee stains teeth. It’s campaign year, Regan. There will be commercials and interviews. We all need to look our best.”
I turned to face her, folding my arms across my chest. “You’re worried about my teeth?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Must I remind you that image is everything
in politics? Do you want me to lose the next election?”
Actually, the last thing I wanted was for her to lose the election. Typically she spent half of every week in Washington, DC. The 791 miles separating her from our house in Illinois was the only thing keeping me sane. But come on. My damn teeth? At her insistence, I had them whitened on a regular basis, so I knew that was not the problem. And I needed that caffeine if I was going to stay on top…
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You’re absolutely right. The economy is in shambles, people are out of work, but God forbid I have stained teeth.”
Something almost resembling apologetic flickered in her eyes. “You know it’s more than that. Your doctor says caffeine isn’t good for your…nerves.”
I knew I shouldn’t push it. That was as close to an I love you as I was ever going to get from her. Still, I couldn’t help but add, “You mean my anxiety disorder?”
She lifted her chin and leveled me with her stare. “Sit, Regan.”
Reluctantly, I trudged over to the table and dropped into the seat across from her. She motioned to the protein bar, and all I could think was, Mmmm, chocolate-covered cardboard, as I unpeeled the wrapper and dreamed about the cola I was going to grab from the vending machine at school.
I bit into the bar, but it took a minute to convince my throat I had actual food in my mouth and I should swallow instead of spitting it back out.
My mom watched me before shaking her head. “I just don’t understand it, Regan. You’re such a beautiful girl. Why won’t you put more effort into your appearance? A little blush and lipstick would keep you from looking like you just rolled out of bed.”
I frowned at her and kept chewing my cardboard. I had made an effort.
“Anyway”—she waved a hand dismissively—”that’s a conversation for another day.”
I swallowed hard. I can’t wait.
“The real reason I want to talk to you,” she continued, adjusting the small American flag pinned to her lapel, “is that with your senior year only a year away, we need to devise a game plan. This is your last chance to impress a college admissions board. Not to mention, with my upcoming election, the public will be watching, too.”
