First there was the guilt that gnawed at my self-esteem like a leech whenever I didn’t live up to my parents’ expectations. That guilt could be triggered by the smallest of things. Like when I snapped at Mom before school because I was late and she didn’t appreciate my lipstick shade, and she looked back at me with wide eyes as if wondering whether I was her real daughter or an imposter from outer space. Or when I pulled a B on a chemistry test (my least favorite subject) instead of the A Mom and Dad wanted. For the rest of the day, my anxiety was on overdrive.

Second, because I’ve had to overcompensate for my loser older brother for, like, ever, old habits were hard to break. The worse he behaved, the better I behaved, because I was the Designated Good Daughter, remember? So when Ryan would come home reeking of cigarettes and beer, or sometimes not at all, and Dad would corner me about him in the family room, I’d make excuses for him. “He had to go upstairs” or “He’s getting a cold” were my standbys as I feigned interest in whatever was playing on television. Being the perfect daughter, I got away with my little white lies, and my parents overlooked my brother’s shortcomings. It was easier that way. And even though Ryan had recently achieved Good Son status thanks to his new girlfriend, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had to continue to be the glue that kept my family together.

Which was why it made no sense that I’d been going out of my way the past few months to be the Undesignated Bad Daughter. It was like there was another person inside of me with her hands on the controls, pushing my arms and legs, my mouth. My brain. She was definitely stronger than the normal, good me. But this strong part of me kept my confused and frustrated parts together, the ones that I tried to keep hidden from everybody.

You see, being the good daughter wasn’t something I wanted. It was just the way the universe arranged things. No rhyme or reason. I’d give anything for a do-over, a chance at some normalcy. A chance to make mistakes and not always feel like bad behavior meant I deserved banishment to a black vortex.

“Just one teeny prick, Riley. Maybe two, at most. Between your eyebrows. You’ll never feel a thing,” Drew said. “It’ll make you look hot.” Drew Zuniga had been in dance club with me at Lone Butte High School since freshman year. She was pretty much my only friend, but I was a quality-over-quantity kind of girl—at least, that’s what I told myself. It made my friend situation seem Zen instead of serving as reminder that I wasn’t very popular, despite having a popular older brother. We had gotten into the habit of chilling at her house after dance practice. It totally beat walking home, especially during the hotter months which, in Phoenix, Arizona, was pretty much every month. And walking was for freshman. The best part was that Drew had gotten a car for her sixteenth birthday and could ferry us around. I had to wait three more months before I’d get to pick out my own car, which was as good as waiting for forever. Today we were standing in her bathroom as I watched her point a clear syringe-like thingy at my face. It was freaky crazy, actually, but Drew was my friend. I trusted her.

The syringe was filled with some type of BOTOX concoction, pilfered from her dad’s medicine cabinet. Dr. Zuniga was a plastic surgeon and brought home BOTOX injections for Mrs. Zuniga, who, in her defense, did look like she could fit in with the popular seniors at our school. From a distance, at least.

“But this is creepy.” I leaned away from the shiny pointy end as far as the edge of the bathroom counter would allow. “You don’t even know what you’re doing.”

“Sure I do!” Her brown eyes widened with indignation. “I’ve watched my dad do it a ton. One time I even practiced on an orange. It’s just a tiny prick.” She paused. “And one time my dad even did it on me. Right here.” She pointed to her chin.

“No way.”

“Way. See how smooth the skin feels?”

I squinted at her chin. It did look a little different, maybe rounder. Softer. It might have been my imagination but I thought Drew’s chin used to look square. Like a boy’s. “But this stuff is supposed to be for moms. With wrinkles,” I said.

“And you’ve got a few already, I hate to tell you, chica.” Drew’s eyes swept over my face in full I’m-not-really-a-dermatologist-but-I-play-one-on-TV mode.

“Where?” I turned toward the mirror.

“Right there.” She pointed to the skin between my eyebrows, which, okay, had a few stray blond hairs that needed plucking.

“Those are freckles.” I frowned at her. Teeny orangey-brown spots dotted my forehead like a dartboard.

Drew ignored me. “It’ll tighten that skin right up. This stuff is totally preventative. You’ll see.”

I swallowed as my knees weakened. I could use a little help, that much was certain, but would it make me look pretty? Jenna Gibbons-pretty? Jenna Gibbons was without a doubt the most gorgeous girl in our sophomore class. To make matters worse for every other girl at school, she had a twin sister, Jeniel, who looked exactly like her but wasn’t as outgoing—which was a good thing, because two perfect Jennas on the planet would be more than any girl could handle. With their wavy black hair and killer blue eyes, the twins could seriously be teen models. Why did some girls have all the luck? “But won’t it leave a scar?” I said, weakening beneath Drew’s unrelenting gaze.

“No scars. It’ll just leave a little red mark. Like an ant bite. It’ll

Скачать книгу