Page 1 of The Favorite Girl

PROLOGUE

Darkness. It’s interesting how, as humans, we are conditioned to be fearful of the dark. As children, we fear what could be lurking. What if there’s a monster under our bed? What if the boogeyman is hiding in the crevice of our closet between our winter coat and rain jacket? What if the squeaking floors and doors are due to an intruder? But now, I’ve learned I’m more afraid of the dark when I know what’s really waiting for me.

As women, we are conditioned to be in a constant state of fear. Leaving a place and it’s dark out? You must check your surroundings. Home alone? That creaking must be someone breaking in. About to get into an Uber? Double check the license plate and ask the driver their name. Is someone following you for far too long while you’re driving? Don’t you dare think about turning onto your street; you’ve got to loop around until you lose them. Going to the bathroom… well, you already know we’re already taking a friend or two. It’s as if the universe sets the stage for us to be frightened.

Yet, even with the precedent of an innate need to be hypervigilant, we also occasionally have a fatal flaw. We are too trusting. We trust that humans aren’t capable of heinous activities. We trust that our lives have the potential to be smooth and stable. We trust that someone will love us, protect us, and save us.

Except, there’s a reason we are conditioned to be in a constant state of fear.

Because humans are capable of committing atrocious crimes, wrecking lives, and making sure the dreams we hoped for never comes true. The biggest mistake we make is to believe that our lives are solely ours to control. We are often mere puppets even in our own stories and I’m positive there is nothing more terrifying than that.

CHAPTER

ONE

If there is one thing in life that I know with absolute certainty, it’s that there is a vast difference between surviving and thriving. When two cars crash, you’d think that the only ones with repercussions are the two cars involved, but that’s not true. When they collide, traffic piles up and nosey drivers rubberneck. The crash causes chaos all because one person may not have been paying attention, or someone was texting while driving; maybe a drunk driver was involved… or simply Murphy’s Law was in effect. That’s how I felt about my life. My life was a series of things going wrong because of decisions made for me. Or honestly, just terrible luck.

People who don’t believe in luck are lucky, while those of us who believe in it are unquestionably unlucky.

Same with fate. If you have an amazing life, you’re not crediting fate to be on your side, you’re just crediting yourself and the wonderful job you did to make it all happen.

Now, here I was, holed up in a shitty, Super 7 Motel, ingesting a line-up of vending machine junk food and praying that I could maybe alter my fate. Maybe, just maybe, luck would actually work in my favor.

I took an obnoxious bite of the Twinkie in front of me, the cream splattering against the corners of my mouth. I tilted my head as I lifted the small, spongy cake.

“You little bastard, you should have stayed discontinued. You’re far too delicious for this world.” I sighed.

Go ahead, mark this as an all-time new low. Demi Rao, nineteen-year-old female, is speaking to a Twinkie.

Please, luck, I need you to change… now.

Propping my feet up on the cheap vinyl table, I stared at the yellowing wallpaper that was clearly put up in the 1970s. Shuddering, I looked down at the green shag carpet and nodded in confirmation.

Blowing out a breath, I knew I needed to stop pretending I was some interior designer and look for an actual source of income. All things considered, I was talking to a Twinkie and had only about two hundred dollars hidden inside my sock.

“Nanny? No way.” I tapped the neon green highlighter against my chin while I flipped through the classifieds section of the Charlotte Observer.

The scent of bleach and cigarette smoke felt suffocating to me, but I knew I was just looking for any distraction.

“Does everyone need a nanny?” I drew my finger in a straight line down as the word repeated down the column. Why do people have so many kids if they can’t watch them? As I continued to scan the section, I saw there were some positions open as gas station clerks, front desk receptionists, and my personal favorite, used car model.

“Yea, no thanks, pedophile.” I shook my head and was about to toss the paper away when a listing that seemed a bit more promising caught my eye.

Live-in housekeeper for prominent Dr. Ivory and family. Gated community. Wonderful stipend. E-mail your resume and information to [email protected].

“Well, hello lucky stars…” I highlighted the listing excitedly and pushed the cap back on. My fingers were stained neon green, junk food crumbs were scattered across my black leggings, and I knew I probably looked like I hadn’t showered in days. Because I hadn’t. I spent most days on park benches or walking aimlessly until I collapse under a tree. Getting to stay in a motel was a luxury.

But this… this was going to be amazing.

I needed a place to stay, I needed a steady income, and I needed a job that wasn’t going to require learning new skills. My educational background was… missing, to say the least. Not to say I wasn’t naturally smart, and honestly, I loved to read to the point where I devoured books. I always dreamed of going to school, maybe becoming a psychologist and helping girls, especially girls like me. The ones whose fate had been altered and tainted; the girls who didn’t even get a chance to dream. Maybe that’s why I loved to read so much. I could escape my reality and live a thousand lives through the pages and words of others. Thanks to the library, I could actually have a warm place to read.

I could be anyone and anything.

I could be loved. I could explore. I could feel…

Looking back down at the worn table, I tilted my head and licked my bottom lip while staring at the tarnished scissors. Spinning it around and around, it scratched against the surface, making the thin plastic layer of the table indent slightly.

“Don’t,” I whispered to myself. But that’s when depression and anxiety like to rear their ugly heads—when you’re at your weakest. Even though you fall to your knees and tears line your eyes as you pray to a God you don’t even know exists, because truthfully, how could a superpower allow the brutalities that have happened in the world—especially when you lived through some of them before you had even lived at all.

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