Page 130 - My FlipBook

L IS A J. L A W R E N C E

Their laughter shifted to something else, Greta already
forgotten.
The tears came before she made it to the bathroom. She’d
tried. She’d really tried. On the Sunday after the party, Greta
had only left her room a couple of times, and always wearing
a turtleneck. She’d scrubbed her body in the shower, the
water scalding hot, and shrunk from her limp clothes on the
bathroom floor. Like they were infected by deadly bacteria

and needed to be burned rather than just washed. After her
shower she’d shoved them deep into the laundry hamper in
her bedroom. But somehow she’d still sensed them there—
not far enough away. Later, when everyone slept, she dug out
the shirt, wrapped it in a plastic bag and dropped it in the
garbage can behind the house. No one would find it there.
Sunday night, lying in bed, Greta gave herself a pep talk. ADVANCE READING COPY

In the tally of reliefs and embarrassments, embarrassments
won by a landslide. Could she even salvage this? Getting
blind drunk on half of what anyone else had consumed.
And who knew how she’d been with Dylan. He’d had a lot
of girlfriends, then her—the drunk virgin. Was she terrible?
Being too sick to help clean up the next morning, not saying
more than three words to anyone. Greta pressed her face
into her pillow to quash the squirming. Monday would be a
Reset button. She’d feel better, dress nice. Act normal. Smile.

Maybe they’d laugh about it.
But then Greta found out she didn’t hold the Reset
button. Angus—who Greta vaguely remembered hitting on
her—came toward her on the way to English that Monday,

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