Cherry Red Summer (Emely and Elyas Book 1) by Carina Bartsch Page A

his when he looked at me that way. It was probably better I didn’t know.
    I swung my feet around a bit. Trying to ignore Elyas, I looked around the room. Eventually I noticed the clock and realized it was much later than I had thought. I had been putting off my long-overdue call to my mother for a week now, and had to finally get it over with this afternoon.
    “Sorry,” I said to Alex. “I’ve got to get going. My mom is waiting. And since the average IQ in this room has tanked in the past five minutes, for once I think I might prefer talking to her instead of hanging out here one second longer.”
    “Well, who am I dicing vegetables for then?” She put her hands on her hips.
    “I’ve been wondering that, too,” I said, casually hopping down from the island, stumbling, and nearly running into the refrigerator. If that weren’t embarrassing enough, the idiot across from the island chimed in with a gloating laugh.
    “Um, the door is that way,” he said pointing. “Or do we have a hidden elevator in the fridge I don’t know about?”
    “Very funny,” I growled, blushing. If only he would pop his thick head into the oven and see if there was an elevator in there.
    I straightened my clothes and decided it was definitelytime to go. I gave Alex an embarrassed hug good-bye, ignored the still-amused jerk watching me, and walked toward the door—the actual one, this time.
    “Elyas, at least you’re going to stay and eat, right?” I heard Alex ask, and I turned around to look at them both.
    “Oh,” he said, scratching his head. “You know, sis, I’m not really hungry. Plus, I was just about to go take a shower.” He scurried out of the kitchen.
    Apparently I was not the only one unimpressed by Alex’s cooking. Bon appétit , I wished her in my thoughts as I left the apartment to make my way down the five flights of stairs. Not exactly fun in this hot weather, but going down was easier than going up. That much was sure.

    Back in my dorm room, I managed to overcome my inhibitions and call my mother. My procrastination was just making it harder, after all. Better to get it out of the way.
    My mom wa s . . . well, my mom. She was a special case. I didn’t have an easy time with her, and she seemed to take advantage of my good nature on a regular basis.
    Whenever I talked to her, I spent most of the time tuning her out, letting her go on and on about whatever oh-so-important detail she absolutely had to get off her chest, without interruption. Importance was in the eye of the beholder, and my mother and I had long had different perspectives on this issue. Nonetheless, I bravely held out, providing her with enough “hmms” and “uh-huhs” to make her think I was listening and positively bowled over by all the latest village gossip.
    It was not without reason that I usually put off our phone calls as long as possible, or called when I knew my father would be home alone. Talking to him was so delightfully uncomplicated, and often just hearing his voice was enough to calm me down from even peak-level college stress.
    I did not dislike my mother, Carla. On the contrary, I loved her from the bottom of my heart. But she was an extremely trying person and stressed me out so much sometimes that I practically ripped my hair out.
    Tonight she prattled on and on about the latest news, without stopping. After about an hour, she finally got to the subject of me. I closed my eyes, tilted my head back, squeezed the bridge of my nose, and braced myself for the barrage of questions, whose content could be inferred by listening to my side of the conversation alone:
    “Yes, I’m fine.”
    “Yes, it’s very hot here today too.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “No, Mom.”
    “No, really, Mom.”
    “No.”
    “Yes.”
    “No!”
    “Mom, are you crazy? The professors are all over fifty!”
    “No, there’s definitely not anyone for me there!”
    “No, I’m totally sure!”
    “Mom!” I said interrupting her. “Please stop trying