by Dawn Brazil
I shake my head discreetly. They act like I told them I’m naming my firstborn Freddie Krueger. Which I would do, if I could have kids.
I strum my fingers over my jean shorts and count in my head. Counting reminds me not to speak and further add to the awkwardness of the moment.
“Norman Bates is the best dog name, ever,” Stacey says. She gives me a wink. “More importantly, has anyone seen that new movie? You know… the new romance?” Stacey snaps her fingers like she can’t remember. “Oh, I forget the name. But I heard it’s hot—full of steamy love scenes…” Everyone starts talking, each girl stumbling over the other to get a word in. Like if they don’t articulate what they have to say straightaway, their lives might be in peril.
I don’t understand girls, even though I’ve been part of the gender my entire life.
The only girl I do understand is Stacey. She’s been my best friend since we fell into each other in kindergarten. It doesn’t hurt that we both adore wickedly horrible scary movies, too.
Stacey ordered a shrimp salad and had already instructed me to order the same. Her explanation was something about girls that eat a lot—apparently, she’s referring to me—get the side eye from certain other girls. Wow. Girls can be super judgmental of each other.
The blame for how horrible this lunch is lies solely with me. I begged Stacey to gather some friends from school she thought I’d like, and I was going to charm them—have them all vying to become my best friend this year. She protested. Of course, she’s going to say I’m perfect now. Perfection is subjective… I just want to be normal. Normal, I suppose, is subjective, too, but I measure it by how many people give me the side eye when I cross their path. Right now, that number is too high for anyone to consider me normal.
The truth is hard, I’ve been told.
“I’ll go pay my bill, Stacey,” I say once I’ve finished my salad.
“Okay, hon.”
As I walk away, the booming conversation turns to hush tones. I have a gift for quieting rooms. Once, upon my entry, I silenced an entire gym full of sweating guys.
It’s not a gift I’m proud to claim.
I walk toward the counter, where a freckle-faced girl waits to take the receipt and cash for my food. Just beyond her, a woman stands observing me. She wears an enormous charcoal hat and sunglasses that obscure most of her face. Clearly, she’s trying to conceal her identity, but not too inconspicuously. Though her glasses have a dark tint, I can tell she’s staring at me.
Weird. I meet her gaze head-on; embarrassment doesn’t draw her glare away. Most people I’ve observed will feign humiliation at being caught staring. I shift my head to the side to get a better view of her.
She does the same, like she’s mirroring my movement.
Freckle-face makes a noise with the back of her throat in front of me.
I push my hand into my oversized bag, pull out my MasterCard, and hand it to her. When I look back up, the lurker is gone. I glance around the restaurant, trying to spy her large hat.
I don’t. I shrug.
Once Freckle-face hands me the receipt, I weigh going back to the table or scrambling out the back door. One of Stacey’s friends says something and everyone dissolves into fits of laughter. They grab each other’s hands, gaze meaningfully into each other’s eyes, and toss their hair over their shoulders. All I see is a chore. I don’t want to pretend anymore today.
I throw my arm up and wave good-bye. Stacey’s head pops up… no one else pays attention. I escape out the side entrance of the restaurant.
“Whoa.” I breathe deeply, taking in the aroma of the evergreens and the smell of the delicious burgers the restaurant serves that I wasn’t allowed to eat.
A sharp pain lances through me—like someone ran a searing fire poker up my leg and embedded it in my spine. I stumble into the brick on the side of the restaurant, scraping my hand on the unyielding wall. My eyes slip closed and I grit my teeth until the pain ebbs. The severity of the pain is getting worse. It doesn’t take long for it to dissipate this time, though.
Once it abates, I straighten my blouse, push off the wall, and venture into the parking lot.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the readers – for reading, of course. I thank God for the gift of creativity and the sanity to see it through. I must thank my husband for not kicking me out of our marital bed when I creep into the room at 3 am from a long writing session. I have to thank my children for listening to me babble incessantly about my book characters like they are real people. Thank you to Olga, Kayla, Tara, Yosbe, Sandra, and Diane. Please forgive me if I’ve left your name off the acknowledgements, must be that you’ve not helped much – or that I am a step closer to Alzheimer’s.
About the Author
Dawn Brazil has a degree in English and has always had a passion for words, but had to stumble through a few careers before deciding to do what she loved. She lives in Texas with her husband, three kids, and many, many, many books. Finding Me was her first novel. But definitely not her last!
Contact Dawn:
Website: www.dawnbrazil.com
Twitter: @DawnBrazil
Facebook: www.facebook.com/AuthorDawnBrazil
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/authordawnbrazil
Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/brazildawn/
Blog: DawnBrazil.blogspot.com
Table of 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 1
Acknowledgements
About the Author
