Page 2 of The Favorite Girl

That’s when all the pain surfaces, when the anxious thoughts overtake any rationale and suddenly, it’s easier to lift the metal between your fingers and peel down the fitted leggings.

It’s easy to spread your legs and squeeze your inner thigh, hoping you’ll be able to find a place that hasn’t been marked so heavily, and that’s when it’s easy to slice the scissors into your skin until the blood seeps out and you can remember…

I’m actually alive.

Because I feel the fucking pain that I’m inflicting on myself, but at least… at least, I’m the one inflicting it this time.

CHAPTER

TWO

The sunlight seeped in, and my head was pounding. Clenching my eyes shut, I cursed the heat of the malodorous motel room. It was the middle of summer in North Carolina, and between the sticky humidity and suffocating heat, the room had essentially become a hot box with complimentary flies buzzing around my sweat-covered body the entire night.

Sliding up, I reached for my water bottle and shook it. Nothing.

“Damn it!” Crushing it in my palm, I threw it to the ground. The floral, thin comforter—that definitely had never been washed—was piled on the floor, and when I glanced down at the sheets, I saw a giant puddle of blood by my thighs.

I passed out after playing a game of operation on my legs and decided an entire bottle of three-dollar wine would take the edge off. A bottle I was able to steal by sliding into my tote bag and using a gas station bathroom. The clerk was Indian so he didn’t think twice when he saw me. He didn’t think a well-raised Indian girl would steal from one of her own. Sadly, I wasn’t raised right. I was barely raised at all. I just existed.

But this was a milestone moment for me. I was officially no longer going to be this girl.

Today was the day I was going to prepare for my interview with the Ivory family that was to be held tomorrow.

After using the computer from the dial-up days, I finally created a new email address and messaged Dr. Ivory from the newspaper listing. His assistant, Carla, replied immediately and gave me detailed information on the interview. I thought it was a bit dramatic considering I was applying to be a housekeeper and not a nurse, but beggars can’t be choosers.

The e-mail was peculiar because she listed things I needed to do before coming in tomorrow. Luckily, I was able to convince the sleazy front-desk clerk here at the motel to print it out for me, even though the cheap bastard made me give him a dime.

Sliding it off of the nightstand, I studied the list once more.

Dear Miss Rao,

We are pleased with your interest in the position available with the Ivory family. Dr. Ivory asks that you arrive tomorrow, at 6207 Knights Place, promptly at noon. Lunch will be served. As per the Ivory family policy, please dress accordingly:

Simple white dress, or white slacks and a white blouse.

Hair must be neatly pinned up, no jewelry, and minimal makeup preferably a nude lipstick.

Nails must be trimmed and unpainted.

Thank you for respecting the aesthetic of the home and family.

Best wishes,

Carla Cross

After reading it at least ten times, I dug the crumpled newspaper from the trash bin, which was covered in sticky ketchup and grease from the McDonald’s French fries that had been split to become both my lunch and dinner. I ran through the classifieds one more time and even scoured multiple online listings. The number one most requested job that didn’t require an education was either a nanny or a housekeeper. I’d rather scrub toilets and potentially splash bleach in my eyes than have to care for young children.

“The aesthetic of the home and family? What does that even mean?” I wondered out loud. Bougie-ass rich people.

Stretching my arms over my head, I sighed. I really needed to stop over-analyzing everything. Truthfully, the live-in aspect had me sold; I just had to hope I, somehow, was the most appealing to the family.

But then again, who was lining up and pleading to be a housekeeper?

I quickly showered, feeling grateful even though most would consider it a shower from hell—the water never heated up properly, and I was using a small bar of soap from my scalp to my toes that was left behind by the last tenant of this room.

Standing in front of the mirror, I swiped away the layer of steam. Blowing out a breath of air, I felt defeated at what a mess I was. My skin was dull and lackluster, my long, thick black hair was in terrible knots. Brushing one of my eyebrows with my index finger, I clenched my teeth at how overgrown they were.

I wasn’t near presentable to go to Charlotte’s most prestigious country club neighborhood and plead my case for a job.

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