by Olivia Grey
Copyright © 2019 by Olivia Grey
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
1
Frances
Jemma’s hair was like a waterfall, waving its way down to the small of her back, not a golden strand out of place. Her eyes were like the ocean, this deep and intriguing blue. And her face was nothing less than perfection at its finest. But Jemma’s heart, there had been a darkness cast upon it, repelling all light and all joy.
I always wondered why she chose me to be her best friend. When I say ‘chose’, I do mean that she chose me.
Jemma summoned me, the way a president summons his vice president. The way a commander summons his army. The way the devil summons his demons. I’d done what anyone in my position would have done, I followed her lead. There were hundreds of girls in our school more fit to be her ‘right-hand.’ Prettier girls. Girls who didn’t have bushy eyebrows and untamed hair. Girls whose noses were a lot less pudgy and whose bodies a lot less flimsy. Don’t get me wrong, I was honored to have been taken under her wing regardless of how undeserving I was of her attention.
Within days, she’d transformed me into a girl who the jocks at least gave a once over. I remember it like it was yesterday. She’d grabbed me by the wrist, and pulled me through the long hallway past countless curious eyes. I’d banged my hip against a locker as she made a sharp turn to enter the bathroom. My mind was as blank as the empty spaces in her heart, but my chest, it hiccupped with fear of what was to come. Jemma wasn’t a nice girl and whatever she wanted with me, it couldn’t have been good.
But then, she said, as kindly as she could manage, “you’ve got the potential to be such a pretty girl Frances.”
A smile peeled my lips apart and no matter how much I tried to force them back together, they insisted on revealing my teeth. She had actually called me by my name. Like I was somebody. Like two seconds ago I wasn’t on equal terrain with the gum under her boot.
“Okay,” Jemma said, “hop on the counter.”
I did as I was told, knowing only one thing- no one dared to say ‘no’ to Jemma.
I watched as she removed her pink and purple backpack from her shoulders, set it on my legs and ruffled through it for something small and shiny. Tweezers! She held them up to my face, flashed her mesmerizing smile my way and proceeded to torture me- bit by bit.
Teeth clenched, I sat still as she yanked chunks of hair from my eyebrows, knocking the tweezers on the counter every few seconds. I didn’t squirm. I didn’t tell her that my parents would ground me for life if I came home with an everlasting expression of surprise on my face. Instead, I sat there, tears pooling in the corners of my eyes.
“Stop being such a baby, Frances,” she said, as a single tear tracked down my reddened cheeks.
I nodded, unwilling to unclench my teeth.
Jemma continued, faster now.
Pluck.
Knock.
Pluck.
Knock.
Pluck.
Knock.
My eyes reverted to the area on the sink where she’d knocked away the chunks of hair she was extracting from me. There was a pile of reddish brown eyebrows clinging to the corner of the sink and my stomach flipped inside out, around and around. I wanted desperately to turn around and see what kind of a mascot she’d transformed me into.
Did I have any eyebrows left? There was no doubt in my mind that Jemma had just pulled one of her stupid pranks on me. Like the day she convinced Tabitha that pigtails were in. Offered to do her hair too. One bottle of Elmer’s glue later and Tabitha would never live the day down.
I could run, couldn’t I?
Push her away, save the last few brows that were still attached to my face. What Jemma was potentially offering, however, was my first and my last Hurrah! My one and only opportunity to leave Rebel High with a BANG. A smart girl would have said ‘no’. She would have seen all the blood red flags. I was book smart. In every other way, I was a flaming idiot.
Eyebrows, they could be drawn on, I decided.
“Done,” Jemma declared.
Hesitantly, I turned to face the scum ridden bathroom mirror. I didn’t realize my eyes were closed until I’d opened them, but what I did know was that my heart was revving at an unhealthy rate. I saw Jemma’s white smile before I saw my eyebrows. Yes, I still had eyebrows. Except now, they looked less like the bushes in front of my house.
Who would have thought that a nightmare could start with perfectly plucked eyebrows?
That was the first of many firsts I shared with Jemma. The first drink I had was the one she’d handed to me at my first party with the popular kids. An event I was terrified to attend but reluctant to refuse. It took a lot of convincing and conniving for my parents to agree to my leaving the house at nine and not returning until the wee hours of the morning. But Jemma, she had her way with parents- winning them over with the same bright smile that those of equivalent age were hypnotized by. She’d marched into my home, a mission on her hands and a fight already won.
“Mrs. Hilltower,” she’d said, reaching over and touching a hand to my mother’s leg. “You and I can both agree that Frances is one of the most brilliant people we know, correct? A brilliance that you instilled in her.”
She did that often, offer up questions that no one could give an unfavorable answer to.
“But dear,” my mother had smiled, undoubtedly reveling in the compliment, “brilliance has nothing to do with not wanting Frances out at such an ungodly hour.”
Jemma giggled, pushing her long hair over her shoulders, “We won’t just be wandering around. People like us,” she brought me into her equation as though she really saw me as her equal, “everything we do is with a
purpose and with college less than a year away, the connections we build are paramount to the success we’ll reap in the future. And such a social event is not one Frances will want to miss out on. It’s an honor really, to be invited.”
Such an eloquent way of putting a beer guzzling, cock sucking event, I know. But that was Jemma. A slap of butter on her words and everything seemed just that much smoother.
“And what did your parents say?” My mother had asked, sinking lower and lower into her chair, mimicking just how small Jemma made her feel- how small Jemma made everyone feel.
“Oh you know,” she’d flashed her dazzling smile once again and rested her hand on my mother’s knee, “they trust me.”
Trust- that was the word that melted the ice, punched a couple more holes in the coffin. The word that really challenged my mother to say ‘no’. Unfortunately, saying ‘no’ would have been admitting to the fact that she didn’t trust me. And even though no one expected any member of my family- the Hilltower family- to keep up appearances, my mother couldn’t cave. She couldn’t tell Jemma that she knew there’d be drinking; that she knew kids like her were always up to no good.
Instead, mother concluded the conversation with an, “Okay. Well, Frances, I trust that you’ll be on your best behavior.”
I nodded, “yes mom.”
I couldn’t tell if the combination of panic and excitement pulsing through my veins was evident to her and a part of me didn’t care. All that mattered was that she’d said ‘yes’. I guess, in a sense, the embarrassment of my mom saying ‘no’ to Jemma would have been worse than the letdown of not going to the party in the first place. There were countless moments like these; moments where I weighed how happy I would be on the ‘Jemma-Gratification-Scale’. It took a lot of naivety and a huge lack of self-confidence to look up to someone who’d accomplished no more in life than I had, but I looked up to Jemma. The fact that my admiration was wholly superficial didn’t matter.
Three weeks ago, when she cuffed her hand around my wrist and dragged me away into the girl’s bathroom marked the day that I knew senior year wouldn’t be a shadow of a memory- like the rest of high school. People started to know my name, I grew fonder of leaving my print in the yearbook and I no longer longed for the weekend to come. I mattered. Frances Hilltower was somebody. Frances Hilltower would be remembered.
I used to think none of that mattered. People like the person I used to be, are people who’ve never had the chance to shine. They never had the opportunity to stroll the halls hand in hand with Jemma. They’d never been cradled in the bosom of bad decisions, taking shot after shot, and being remembered by memories that alcohol had erased from their own minds.
Contrary to popular belief- I wasn’t a stupid girl. Popular belief meaning the majority, not the beliefs of the popular. Of course, popularity positions in high school are few and truthfully, I didn’t care about popular belief, I cared about the beliefs of the popular. I cared about what Jemma thought because Jemma was the sun and everyone else was just a lonely planet, feeding off her energy.
I was the lucky one out of the bunch. Me, a commoner, a nerd, a nobody, had earned the trust of the most popular girl in our school. Just a few days after our first interaction, we were inseparable. It was as though Jemma had a strong adhesive plastered all over her hip and I-all too willingly- bounded myself to her being. We truly were inseparable. Two peas in a pod. A pair of oddly striped socks- you lose one, the other is worthless. Not that Jemma would be worthless without me. I’d be the lost lamb, not her. Lambs were easy to replace, there were lots of us, waiting for a shepherd to claim us. I was lucky. Right? I was the chosen lamb. Lady luck’s final choice. But how lucky could I have been if Jemma was also the first person to break my heart?
I’d been in love with Axel for longer than I could recall. Far before he was branded a Rebel. Before he became the star of the football team, the jock of all jocks, the moistness between every cheerleader’s thighs. And long before Jemma set her sights on him.
When it came to Axel, time didn’t just pass slowly, it stopped.
When it came to Axel, Jemma would remind me that losers never win.
2
Jemma
Some people are meant to lead. Others are meant to follow. It’s like with presidencies- not everyone is equipped to run a country and thus, a leader is appointed. The same holds true for friendships, some of us lead and others- like Frances- follow. There was no competition to be had, she was content with her position in our relationship and well, I was not exactly interested in her role.
I watched as she turned to catch a glimpse of Axel and after the question I’d asked her, it was no surprise that she needed to look at him. Though her taut shoulders proved that my question had filled her with tension, I knew she wouldn’t let me down.
Her head swiftly shot back around. Without hesitation, she emptied the remainder of her drink into her mouth- her cheeks swelling as she expelled the liquid to the sides so she wouldn’t have to swallow it all at once.
Frances had come a long way, and for that, I commended her. Not too long ago, I was unshackling her from her mother’s chains. Now, there wasn’t an event Frances missed. She guzzled beer like she was born with a bottle in her mouth. Replace that bottle with a cock and she was bound to be the life of the party.
There was still work to be done.
But senior year wasn’t over.
Oh no it was not.
Frances shook her head, proving that she still wasn’t used to the tinge the alcohol left on her tongue, down her throat and eventually, the sting in her stomach. But she was getting there. Willpower is all it takes to get the things you want out of life. And Frances wanted a life rather than an existence. She told me so herself.
She wandered over to the kitchen, popped open a beer and pressed her lips against the opening of the bottle. Every once in a while, she’d steal glances in my direction, examining Axel, but avoiding me. I was okay with that. She needed some time to process and I was already in her head, I didn’t need to be in her eyes too.
Even over the booming of the speakers, I felt like I could hear Frances’ thoughts whizzing around in her brain. Can I really say ‘no’ to Jemma? Is this right? Is this holy? Is this religious? What would momma say?
God wouldn’t forgive Jemma for the sins I’d have her commit.
I fisted a hand in Axel’s shirt and closed the space between us. My eyes were still on France’s and hers were now on mine. Good. This one’s for you, Frances.
My lips found Axel’s, his mouth parting and his tongue greedy in its search for mine. I kissed him slowly. Tauntingly. Teasing him. Teasing her. And only when she turned around did the curtains come down and the show find its end.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I whispered into Axel’s mouth, practically prying myself away from him.
Frances had now seated herself on the kitchen counter. Her back turned to me and a freshly opened beer clenched in her palm.
“Frances,” I said, tapping a finger on her shoulder.
She jumped, as though she’d forgotten she was in a house with twenty other people. ‘You okay, sweetie?’
“Yeah. Yeah. I’m fine.” She smoothed a hand over her dress, then wrapped both hands around the beer.
“Enjoying the party? Thomas has an awesome house, doesn’t he?”
“It’s definitely nice here,” she answered. Her words were hesitant, her eyes filled with the kind of rage that couldn’t be masked. “I like the umm… the fireplace.”
“You know what you’ll like even more?”
She pressed the beer to her lips. Took one sip. And then another.
“The bedroom,” I grinned. Frances didn’t. The smile she forced looked constipated, but at least she got an A for effort.
Even after spending every day with me for the past few weeks, Frances was still a nervous wreck. “I’m just messing with you, Frances. Tonight’s not the night we make your little cherry go pop!.” I ran a ha
nd up her thigh, feeling as goosebumps rose in the places I touched. “Why don’t we go out to the pool? My ears could definitely use a break.”
She nodded, pulled her dress down one more time and hopped from the counter. So self-conscious.
“The dress fits you nicely. But it would do you well to remember that it is a dress and not a fucking blanket.”
Frances gripped the end with her fingers and pulled it down again.
I slapped her hand away. “Stop acting like you’re hoping the dress will grow a couple more inches if you keep tugging at it. You look great. The dress looks great. Stop being such a prude.”
She nodded and forced a smile.
We walked through the living room, squeezing past the table where the boys were bundled together- some playing beer pong and others acting as spectators. I threw a few smiles here and there, rubbed my hand over Axel’s leg as I went by and ventured out into the backyard. Frances was close behind, taking one step for every two steps I made.
It was a decent night out- not too hot, not too cold. Good enough to sit outside for a while, but not good enough to take a dip in the pool.
I settled down on a lounge chair and instructed Frances to pull hers over to me. If only she wasn’t still so star struck. She was genuinely interested in being my friend, that wasn’t a question. And her loyalty was also something that didn’t need to be questioned. But you could cut through the tension with a butter knife. That needed to fix. You don’t get a girl to open her legs if she’s intent on putting a mountain between you.
