mother had shared. She used silver for the little girl’s ice cube–shaped tears; Sara shaped the tears as ice cubes to signify the emotional paralysis she had felt after her mother’s passing. And she used orange for the moon; everyone always used yellow, so Sara thought she would mix it up a bit.
She had the music player on her phone going as she worked. The song currently playing was Tori Amos’s “Me and a Gun.” When Sara was done, she studied her painting to appraise its quality. She thought it was one of the best pieces she had ever done, but looking at it made her feel strange: shy, even though she was the only one in the room; naked, even though she had on clothes; relieved, even though the painting depicted one of the most painful memories in her life. Sara, the feelings the painting had caused overwhelming her, turned the painting around so that it was facing the attic window. She went to the bathroom to wash the paint off her hands.
I shouldn ’ t have done that painting , she scolded, as she scrubbed her hands clean. She should have spent her time working on pieces for her Wesleyan art portfolio, not being self-indulgent. Early-admission applications were due two months from now, and she needed to get her ass in gear: She only had one piece, besides the one she had just done, that she felt was good enough to show. And she hadn’t even started on her essays yet. Taking care to avoid her reflection, she dried her hands using the towel hanging on the hook by the bathroom mirror and returned to the attic.
Christina Aguilera’s “Fighter” was now playing on her phone. She hit the pause button. The time on her phone revealed Sara had two minutes to spare before the start of her first tutoring session with Jason Pruitt, so she darted down the stairs and into the dining room to set up, arranging her calculus book, graphing calculator, notebook paper, and mechanical pencil on the dining-room table.
Sara’s punctuality ended up being all for naught: it was now twenty minutes past the time Jason should have been there, but he still hadn’t made it. Where the hell was he? A pretty girl probably sidetracked the moron, and he expected Sara to wait for him, because he was Mr. Do it Pruitt, and everyone should work around his schedule and meet his needs.
She flounced toward the kitchen, opened the pantry, and took out a bag of taco-flavored Doritos to snack on. She wasn’t hungry, just angry and bored, and chips had always made her feel better: they had made her feel better when she first started school, and none of the other kids had wanted to play with her, because she was fat; and they had made her feel better when she was in eighth grade and had suffered humiliation via laxative-laced cookies. And they would make her feel better now, once she ate enough. Sara found herself halfway through the bag of Doritos when her doorbell rang. She put the chips back in the pantry, wiped her mouth, and answered the door, eager to give this entitled asshole a piece of her mind.
CHAPTER NINE
Jason pulled up in front of Sara’s two-story brick house, a half an hour late for his first tutoring session with her. He always liked to keep girls waiting for him. It kept them sprung on him, and he especially wanted to keep Sara waiting to teach the bitch a lesson for refusing to give him her number.
He checked his appearance in his sun-visor mirror: his short black hair was neat and crisp, and it accentuated his baby-blue eyes; his skin was clear, and it had retained its tan from the summer, but the bruises his father had given him marred the skin around his chiseled jaw line (although the bruises did make him look badass—well, more badass); and his lips were in desperate need of a wipe and a little Chap Stick (his make-out session with Emily had left them a little worse for wear). He used a napkin to remove Emily’s lip gloss, and then he pulled his tube of Chap Stick out of his pocket and applied a thin coat.
He
She had the music player on her phone going as she worked. The song currently playing was Tori Amos’s “Me and a Gun.” When Sara was done, she studied her painting to appraise its quality. She thought it was one of the best pieces she had ever done, but looking at it made her feel strange: shy, even though she was the only one in the room; naked, even though she had on clothes; relieved, even though the painting depicted one of the most painful memories in her life. Sara, the feelings the painting had caused overwhelming her, turned the painting around so that it was facing the attic window. She went to the bathroom to wash the paint off her hands.
I shouldn ’ t have done that painting , she scolded, as she scrubbed her hands clean. She should have spent her time working on pieces for her Wesleyan art portfolio, not being self-indulgent. Early-admission applications were due two months from now, and she needed to get her ass in gear: She only had one piece, besides the one she had just done, that she felt was good enough to show. And she hadn’t even started on her essays yet. Taking care to avoid her reflection, she dried her hands using the towel hanging on the hook by the bathroom mirror and returned to the attic.
Christina Aguilera’s “Fighter” was now playing on her phone. She hit the pause button. The time on her phone revealed Sara had two minutes to spare before the start of her first tutoring session with Jason Pruitt, so she darted down the stairs and into the dining room to set up, arranging her calculus book, graphing calculator, notebook paper, and mechanical pencil on the dining-room table.
Sara’s punctuality ended up being all for naught: it was now twenty minutes past the time Jason should have been there, but he still hadn’t made it. Where the hell was he? A pretty girl probably sidetracked the moron, and he expected Sara to wait for him, because he was Mr. Do it Pruitt, and everyone should work around his schedule and meet his needs.
She flounced toward the kitchen, opened the pantry, and took out a bag of taco-flavored Doritos to snack on. She wasn’t hungry, just angry and bored, and chips had always made her feel better: they had made her feel better when she first started school, and none of the other kids had wanted to play with her, because she was fat; and they had made her feel better when she was in eighth grade and had suffered humiliation via laxative-laced cookies. And they would make her feel better now, once she ate enough. Sara found herself halfway through the bag of Doritos when her doorbell rang. She put the chips back in the pantry, wiped her mouth, and answered the door, eager to give this entitled asshole a piece of her mind.
CHAPTER NINE
Jason pulled up in front of Sara’s two-story brick house, a half an hour late for his first tutoring session with her. He always liked to keep girls waiting for him. It kept them sprung on him, and he especially wanted to keep Sara waiting to teach the bitch a lesson for refusing to give him her number.
He checked his appearance in his sun-visor mirror: his short black hair was neat and crisp, and it accentuated his baby-blue eyes; his skin was clear, and it had retained its tan from the summer, but the bruises his father had given him marred the skin around his chiseled jaw line (although the bruises did make him look badass—well, more badass); and his lips were in desperate need of a wipe and a little Chap Stick (his make-out session with Emily had left them a little worse for wear). He used a napkin to remove Emily’s lip gloss, and then he pulled his tube of Chap Stick out of his pocket and applied a thin coat.
He
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