Going Under
Authors: S. Walden
Tags: #fiction, #romance, #womens fiction, #contemporary, #contemporary fiction, #teen fiction, #teen drama, #realistic fiction, #new adult
a novel
S. Walden
Penny Press
Going Under
Copyright 2013, S. Walden
Publisher: Penny Press
This ebook belongs to vzyl at 64 70 67 72 6f 75 70 forum.
The name vzyl refers to an entity and not any registered user with the same name.
I hereby acknowledge that I have shared this book without
permission from the ebook owner if I earn profit or rewards for providing access to this ebook.
Cover design by Alfred Porter.
Editor: Julie Lindy
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities
to real persons, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
To strong girls everywhere.
Table of
Contents
“This dress is bullshit,” I said, observing
myself in the full-length mirror attached to the closet door.
I was swathed in a boxy knee-length black
sheath I bought at T.J. Maxx. It was two sizes too big and hanging
in the “Women’s Active Wear” section. I knew better. I also knew
I’d find nothing appropriate to wear in the “Juniors” section. Not
for where I was going.
I walked right by the trendy low-cut tops
and designer jeans and headed for a group of 40-something ladies
congregated around a circular rack of discounted dresses.
Perfect
, I thought, and began rifling quickly, afraid one of
the women would snatch the dress before I could get my hands on it.
I received a couple of odd looks that turned hostile when I zeroed
in on my target and squealed a triumphant, “Hell yeah!” It couldn’t
be more perfect. A ghastly dress for a ghastly occasion.
My eyes dropped to the black pumps I
borrowed from my mom. They were fashionable for a 35-year-old high
power attorney, but I was just an 18-year-old high school senior.
They gave the wrong impression, I feared. They screamed, “I’m one
amazing person!” and I thought I shouldn’t wear them inside a
church. Wasn’t it appropriate to be humble, or at least give the
illusion of being humble, in the house of God? But I owned no
closed-toe pumps. I don’t know how I made it to eighteen years of
age without owning a pair of closed-toe pumps, especially since I
considered myself a fashionista. But there it was. I was at the
mercy of my mother’s shoes.
“These shoes are bullshit,” I decided,
screwing up my face in frustration.
I turned to the side and looked at my long,
straight blond hair pinned in a messy bun at the nape of my neck.
Strands were hanging loose, but not in a purposeful way. Not like I
pulled them out of the bun to frame my face. No, they were yanked
out after a thirty-second walk outside to get the mail. The wind
was terrible today, and I considered French braiding my hair,
though I knew it would make me look like a 10-year-old.
“My hair is bullshit.”
I stared at myself, imagining Beth laughing
at me.
“
Brooke, where did you get that
horrendous dress?” she’d say.
“
I know, right? Last minute, and I had no
choice,” I’d reply.
“
And those shoes?” she’d ask. “All the
times I tried to get you to buy pumps, and you refused. Now look
what you’ve gotta wear.”
“
I know, Beth. Like I said, I had no
choice.”
“
No, no. You always have a choice. Find
something else. I can’t be seen in public with you looking like
that,” Beth would answer.
“
Beth, I don’t have time. I ran out of
time.”
“
There’s still time, Brooke. There’s
always time to make it right.”
“No, Beth. There’s no time,” I said out
loud, choking on the words.
My eyes glazed over. And then I sank to the
floor and cried away all of the stupid make-up I had just put
on—the stupid mascara on my stupid eyelashes and the stupid blush
on my stupid cheeks. I cried for the stupid pins jabbed into my
hair that pulled painfully on my scalp. I cried for the things I
should have been doing today. The places I should have been going.
I cried for my sad outfit and my sad heart to match. But I
especially cried for Beth.
I cried for Beth.
***
I hung around the doors of the church
sanctuary. I couldn’t bring myself to go in. I couldn’t face
anyone. My eyes were puffy from constant crying. My body swollen
from the heat outside. My hair a whipped-up disaster from the wind.
I felt ashamed. I couldn’t even look nice for Beth.
“Honey, we need to go in now,” I heard my
mother say. She wrapped my hand in hers and squeezed lightly. I
knew she meant it to be reassuring, but it made me panic
instead.
My pulse sped up, and I was certain my heart
would explode. I didn’t want to face Beth. What if her casket was
open? I couldn’t stand the thought of her seeing me like this. An
absolute mess, like I couldn’t even take the time to get my shit
together. I would not do that to her—make her think I didn’t
care.
“I need a minute. I need to go fix my
hair.”
Mom nodded. “I’ll wait.”
I teetered on my heels all the way to the
bathroom. I pushed open the door and fell into the first sink,
clutching the porcelain and hanging my head low, feeling the urge
to vomit. My mouth filled with saliva instantly, and then I heaved.
I knew nothing would come up; I hadn’t eaten in three days. My legs
shook violently, and I realized I had no business wearing heels. I
was weak and worried I’d fall flat on my face.
I heaved again, this time producing a bit of
bile from deep within my stomach that burned my throat on the way
up. I turned on the faucet and cupped a hand underneath the running
water, bringing it to my lips. The water was adequate in soothing
the sting in my throat but not in erasing the vile taste in my
mouth.
I stood up and plunged a shaky hand into my
clutch searching for the tin of mints. I found it and popped a
peppermint into my mouth. Then I began the task of fixing my eye
make-up. I was wise enough to pack the essentials in my purse. I
retraced the upper and lower lids of my eyes with black liner,
rubbing a finger over the lines to smudge them, soften them. I
reapplied mascara and swiped my lips with tinted lip gloss.
I exhaled sharply when it came time to fix
the damage to my hair. I pulled a wide-tooth comb out of my bag and
all the pins out of my head. It was instant relief, and I stood
massaging my scalp for a few seconds before running the comb
through my tangled locks. It hurt, and it took forever. I gathered
my hair in a low ponytail. It was too late to pin it up.
I could see Beth nodding her approval now
that I looked presentable again. I took one last look in the
mirror, glimpsing the imitation gold chain reflecting the overhead
light on my pale neck. I reached down the front of my dress and
pulled out a half heart, split in a jagged line down the middle, my
portion reading “Be Fri.” I imagined Beth’s half, the half that
read “st ends” and smiled at the memory of my eighth birthday. She
gave me my half of the charm, made me swear to always wear it, and
I did until the metal started turning green and we grew older.
Years later, we discovered one day that we no longer wanted to wear
jewelry from each other. We wanted to wear jewelry from boys
instead. I felt a pinch in my heart remembering the day I stored
away the necklace for good. Until now.
I left the bathroom in a hurry, turning the
corner for the foyer and slamming into him. The force of the hit
was so great that I stumbled backwards, nearly falling on my bottom
if not for his outstretched hand. I grabbed it before going down
and wobbled on my too-high heels, clutching him as I worked to
regain my balance.
“God, I’m sorry!” he exclaimed.
I looked at his face then, unprepared to see
something so beautiful. I think I gasped. And then I averted my
eyes out of sheer embarrassment.
“I really should watch where I’m going,” he
said.
He still held my hand, and I let him. I
couldn’t remember who I was or where I was going. I couldn’t
remember where I had just been. I only knew that a very cute boy .
. . no, he was more than cute. He was gorgeous. This very gorgeous
boy was holding my hand, and I had only one thought. I wanted to
make our handholding more intimate. I wanted to lace my fingers
with his.
“I think I should,” I mumbled.
I chanced another look at him. I made a
conscientious effort not to gasp as I took in his light blue eyes.
I’d never seen eyes that color. Jared Leto had nothing on this
guy’s eyes, and Jared’s eyes were the color of the Mediterranean.
No, the eyes I looked into now were so light blue they looked
translucent. I thought if I stared a little longer I could see
right inside his head, to his brain, and I don’t know why that
turned me on so much. I wanted to witness the workings of his mind,
the firing synapses, information traveling safely inside neurons to
different parts of his body. A few made it to his hand, and they
must have told him to keep holding mine because he didn’t let
go.
I stared shamelessly, licking my lips at one
point. He stared back just as boldly. I wanted him to like what he
saw. I wanted him to think I was sexy. I wanted him to feel the
same instant attraction I did. I’d never felt it before. Not
really. Not even with Finn. It was unsettling, and I wondered how
people functioned after being smacked upside the head with it.
Instant. Physical. Chemical.
Primal.
Just rip my clothes off
, I thought.
Just rip my clothes off and do me right here in the
hallway!
He smiled and released my hand. I thought he
did it reluctantly, like his brain ordered him to and he finally
acquiesced. I smiled back, a flirty grin. I pulled my ponytail
forward over my shoulder and played with the strands. I bit my
lower lip. And then reality came crashing down like a hailstorm,
large lumps of ice banging my head and screaming at me in
unison.
“
YOU’RE AT A FUNERAL!”
I looked at the gorgeous guy, and my face
went white.
“Oh my God,” I whispered.
He stared at me for a moment before saying,
“Are you okay?”
I shook my head and started towards the
sanctuary doors. He followed behind.
“I’m awful, I’m awful, I’m awful,” I
whispered over and over. I didn’t care if he could hear.
What the hell was I doing? Trying to flirt
with a guy at my best friend’s funeral? How could I even forget for
a second that I was at a funeral? I was supposed to be carrying
around heavy, black sorrow to match my black dress and black heart,
not batting lashes and fantasizing about sex with a stranger. Was I
so ridiculous that a hot guy could make me forget to have any kind
of decency? Or shame?
I rounded the corner and saw my mother
waiting for me. And then I ran to her, threw myself into her arms,
and burst into a fit of tears.
“Brooklyn,” she whispered, holding me in a
tight hug. “It’s okay,” she cooed as she stroked my hair.
“I’m a terrible friend!” I wailed. I saw the
fuzzy outline of a boy walking past us tentatively through the
doors.
“No, you aren’t,” my mother replied.
“Yes, I am! I don’t even know why I’m here!
Beth hated my guts! She wouldn’t talk to me all summer!”
“Brooke,” Mom said. “I want you to calm
down. Now, we talked about this. You knew it would be hard, but she
was your best friend for all those years. Do you think she wouldn’t
have wanted you here?”
“No, I don’t!” I cried.
“Yes, she would,” Mom said. “Now we have to
go in.”
“I can’t!”
“Brooke, Beth was your best friend,” Mom
said, trying for patience.
“No she wasn’t! Not after what I did! I
ruined everything! I’m a freaking slut!” I sobbed, shaking my head
from side to side.