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Missy groaned as Kiki handed it over. “Your funeral,” Missy

said.

Constance pulled her cookie out, bit into it, and smiled at Missy.

Missy rolled her eyes and turned her back on us to gossip with her FIRST ENCOUNTER

minions.

Constance was starting to grow on me.

“How were the rest of your classes?” she asked sympathetically.

Translation: “I already know history sucked. Did it get any better?”

Answer: Definitely not.

When I returned to the cafeteria, a mere five hours after my first trip

“Fine,” I said with a quick smile.

there, my attitude had completely reversed itself. That morning I had Even though my French class had been conducted entirely in

felt hopeful and determined. Now I was exhausted and overwhelmed.

French and I hadn’t been able to keep up or form any coherent

As I joined the other girls from my floor at our table—the same one we answer other than “Je ne sais pas.” Even though my art history elec-had claimed that morning—I realized my latest and possibly most tive had been packed to the rafters with teen curators, all of whom alienating mistake of my superterrific morning. On my tray was a knew the artist, year, and medium of every work our teacher flashed heaping bowl of macaroni and cheese and a large Coke, plus three up on the screen. I could only imagine what was going to happen in chocolate chip cookies. Their trays? Nothing but salad and diet my next class—Trigonometry. We’d probably skip right to Calculus Cokes. Constance had already hidden her one cookie under a napkin, because everyone would be bored by sines and cosines.

no doubt in an act of self-preservation.

“I know this is going to sound obnoxious or something, but if

“Do you know how many fat calories are in that?” Missy said,

you ever need any help, I’m totally there,” Constance said. “The flicking her gaze at my food.

school I went to back in the city was really good. Like really good.”

I dropped into the last empty chair at the end of the table and let Okay. Was she offering to help me, or showing off? Neither one

my heavy book bag thud to the floor. I decided not to care what made me feel any better. It was as if everyone here had decided that Missy Thurber thought of my food. I was too hungry to care. And I was stupid and in need of charity or something, but I wasn’t. I was besides, it was comfort food. If there was one thing I needed just a straight-A student for God’s sake. I was the one who always helped then, it was comfort.

out everyone else. What was happening to me?

“Pass the ketchup?” I said.

The girls at my table gabbed about the boys in their classes

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