night of drinking, another morning of a vise tightening around my temples. I don’t know how these people do it. None of them are sore and groggy in the morning. When the pain eases, I reach below the bedframe for my purse.
With a thud, Leigh jumps down from the bunk above me, practically landing on my head. I jerk back and smash my skull into the wall. Just what my hangover needs.
“Oops, sorry,” she says.
Nothing about her looks apologetic. Her lips curve in a smirk, her dark eyes squint. Her prominent cheekbones sharpen. Distaste is the word I’d use. Or loathing. Or disgust. Over the years, I’ve catalogued twenty-seven adjectives to describe the emotion behind that look.
The good Canadian I am, I deal with her animosity by being really, really super nice. “No, no. Sorry. It was my fault. I was in the way.” I rub my head and grin until my mouth hurts.
She makes a choking sound, rolls her eyes, and struts to the bathroom in her loose tee and boxers. Her swinging arms could power a light bulb.
This huffy girl is hindering my reinvention. The sweeter Reese is to me, the edgier Leigh gets. Words are swapped for grunts, answers for shrugs. My retaliation: Act like Father Christmas threw up a pile of good cheer on my face. Clearly, my lack of social interaction is inhibiting my ability to defend myself.
I yank my purse from under the bed and fish out my cell. I texted Mom last night that I made friends and was traveling to Pahia. No mention of surly Leigh or One-syllable Sam, who’s taken to ignoring me.
Whatever chemistry I thought I felt between us that first night was one-sided. He avoids my eyes and sits at the opposite ends of tables. He barely acknowledges me. For me, having him around has been…challenging. Instead of getting used to his presence, the more I see him, the more I envision his hands on my skin, my skirt around my waist, his thick erection straining for me. (Bow-chicka wow-wow.) Once, Callum had to grab me before I walked into a pole.
I power on my phone, and two messages from Mom appear.
The first one reads: Pininfarina Gabri. Real live friends? With moving lips? And pumping hearts? Whatever will I tell Skippy the Bear? Or would you like to break the news upon your return?
I laugh and duck my head, worried people are watching me, but the dozen girls are going through their morning routines. All except for Brianne, who’s snoring on the bunk across the room. I wrap my arms around my knees, the sheets bundled over my bent legs.
I type: Don’t you dare! He needs to be let down gently.
Her next message is less amusing: Be good, baby girl. And FYI, I’m dangerously close to mastering the art of the chocolate soufflé.
Oh, God. The possible news report flashes in my mind: Tragedy strikes in the ritzy Bridal Path neighborhood of Toronto. In the early hours of the morning, five children and their parents were discovered with carbon monoxide poisoning…
The year I was born, Mom had an epiphany and decided to write a baking cookbook. Why? I have no idea. She says it unleashes her “inner light” and gets her in touch with her “true self.” If I had to rate Mom’s cooking skills from one to ten, one being nonexistent and ten being perfect, she would earn a whopping 0.2, mainly for effort. In the nineteen years since she started this project, she has mastered just as many recipes. One per year. With the amount of charred food I’ve ingested in that time, I probably have early-onset cancer.
I type quickly: Stop. At once. All cooking halts until I return. If you do not comply, I will never again perform my Age of Aquarius dance number.
“EEEEE!” Reese’s high-pitched screech sets my teeth chattering as she lands on the bed beside me. The entire bunk sways.
I manage to hit send before she grabs my shoulders. “Hurry, girl—I need a new pair of shades, and you’re coming with. We have half an hour to speed shop, so get your ass in gear.”
Arms limp at my sides, I lean back to avoid being hit by the bubble gum expanding from her mouth. With the way my head is feeling, the simulated strawberry smell turns my stomach. “What’s wrong with those?” I ask, nodding to the sunglasses on her head.
“These? So last year.” She jumps up, plucks them off her head, and tosses