Page 93 of The Glass Girl

Somebody else says, “There was a kid in my eighth grade who was taller than everybody else, wore glasses, and was already growing a beard and nobody ever carded him at the store. Bro was popular, I’ll tell you that. He made mad bank on the side.”

Laughter.

“When I was ten, at our family Christmas party, my dad let me drink beer,” Nick says. “Everybody thought it was funny, this little kid staggering around.” He pauses. “That wasn’t right, what my dad did. I’m pretty mad about it now, when I think about it. I didn’t even know what beer was, I thought maybe it was like soda, but it made me feel funny in a good way, like more relaxed, and I liked it. A lot. I mean, before I threw up all over the sofa.”

I think about my grandmother. Our little drinks over Scrabble in the beginning.

Just a taste.

I was keeping her company. She would neverhurtme. And sometimes if she had too much, or started seeming too tired, I put her to bed. We took care of each other. Is that so bad?

“And after that, I just wanted more,” Nick says. “Isn’t that weird? My family isn’t the greatest, we have a lot of problems, so I started sneaking beer every now and then, just to, like, cut the edge. And when I got older, it was still there. Parties. Somebody’s house. Asking someone to buy for you outside the store.”

I look up from my lap. That was me. Shoulder-tapping with Amber and Cherie and Kristen.

“My mom used to put spoonfuls of Bacardi in my milk to make me go to sleep when I was little,” Charlotte says, pickingat the edge of her orange beanbag. She has thick eyebrows and dark roots that fan off into her pink hair. “She had to work night shifts and couldn’t get babysitters for me, so she had to make sure I was out. The first time I had a glass of real milk, I spit it out. It didn’t taste right!”

I think of my grandmother again and get kind of uncomfortable. I don’t want to have to talk about her here. I feel like that would be a betrayal somehow.

“Bella?” Fran says.

Thump­thump­thump­thump

“Bella,” says a kid on a white bag way off in the corner. “Hey, Bella, where’s Edward?”

He’s got brown hair down to his shoulders, like Dylan, and deep blue eyes.

Those eyes are fixed on me. I think I remember him from breakfast.

Josh.

Something in me shifts in a warm way.

My brain says:Oh, for the love of god, really? Really?

My heart says:Sigh.

My god, I’m going to have to look at alternate-Dylan for the next twenty-six days, and that thought makes me so mad I forget about my racing heart, and before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “Oh, that’s so funny. Like I haven’t heard that approximately six million times in my life. What an original thinker you are.”

The kid just smirks at me.

“I was always Team Jacob myself, Josh,” Charlotte says.

I make a mental note to make myself hate Josh for the next twenty-six days, even though his eyes are a perfect shade of blue. He’s still looking at me.

I can feel a furious blush creeping over my face, but then I realize…oh, right. He’s probably only looking at me that way because half of my face is purple and blue. Superb. Way to go, Bella.Pathetic.

I shift my eyes from his. That’s the last thing I need right now. A stupid crush. Another person to eventually tell me I’m not good enough. Fuck that.

“Those movies weregood,” Brandy says.

“Iwould like to sparkle,” Billy says. “No lie. Chicks dig it.”

“Okay, okay,” Fran says. “Back to Bella. Do you have anything to add?”

People looking at me.

Thump­thump­thump­thump­thump.

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