Page 14 of Overtime
“Cool, because we have a Play Station at home, if you wanna join us.”
“Wait,” the third girl cuts in. “I thought we were staying out all night.”
“I mean, we could.” Mark winks.
I give him a look. We have practice early in the a.m.
“It’s honestly too loud in here,” the girls’ head honcho says, wrinkling her nose. “It would be better if we could get to know each other in a quieter place, right?”
“Yeah, that would be great!” Archie says a second before the waiter arrives to take everyone’s orders.
I consider peacing out early, but going home and making my own salad would take much longer at this rate. So I stay for the food and end up getting dragged to some strange apartment just so my friends can try to score. Along the way, I grumble that there is anIin captain, but they ignore me.
CHAPTER 6
MADDIE
Iwish I could say I’m strong enough to not let anyone’s crap sour my mood, but that would be a lie. I am as tender as a half-melted marshmallow.
After they leave, I table the hockey romance plans for another day and wallow in my misery by doing something that is also miserable: I start my homework.
This is one of my hacks for not breaking down. Between a heavy senior-year workload, my job as a subject tutor, the behind-the-scenes work for my debut book, and now all the strategizing for a parallel career as an indie author, I have no time to stop and think about how much of a loser I am.
And I have a massiveLhovering over my head. No friends aside from Wyatt and Melinda—and I’m not even sure they count. No boyfriends outside of the ones on book pages. A relationship with my body that’s more melodramatic than having a bad boy for a boyfriend.
I can only escape from myself through my journal, my laptop, or my work. And I exercise them a lot.
I catch up on my readings for an elective on Women’s Fiction vs. Women’s Studies: What’s Real and What’s Fiction. After that, I need to lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling in silence. Thefresh reminder that it’s hard to be a woman in real life, in books, and in the book industry—for more reasons than bleeding out of our vajayjays every month—knocks the wind out of me for a moment.
With some effort, I pick the pieces of myself back up and sit straight once more. The room is pitch dark, so I make my way around using the dim light from my laptop screen. I flip on the lamp and the fairy lights hanging around the edges of the ceiling. Now bathed in a cozy light, I hop back on my bed, which doubles as my work desk. Unfortunately, my desk is covered in too many piles of books to be used as intended. I didn’t have enough money to buy a proper bookcase, and I don’t dare install shelving on the walls because I’m hoping I can get part of my deposit back.
“Speaking of,” I mumble to myself, opening my bank’s app.
Ugh, it’s time to do math.
So, subtract a mother who is still angry that I’m majoring in creative writing instead of something serviceable like law, like my older sister did. Then subtract the first cut of my book deal advance, which is already spent. But add the next cut, which I expect in March, when my book hits the shelves. Add the extra wage I’m earning now that I’m tutoring one super-hot hockey player. Weigh all that against how much the average rent is, plus the security deposit and the movers’ cost, and…
“April,” I say with a groan. I can’t gather enough cash any earlier. Unless I max out my credit card, kick my credit score to the deepest abyss, and accumulate interest.
Could I handle another student? What if I start donating blood? Should I shave off my hair and sell it? It’s my only objectively beautiful feature but, eh, it’ll grow again.
Just as I’m laughing at myself, my phone starts buzzing against my comforter. I feel around until my hand bumps it to check who the caller is.
I would turn into a raisin if I could cringe any harder. After taking a few bracing breaths, I pick up the call. “Hi, Mom.”
“Madeline Berkley, I know you read my text. Why haven’t you responded?”
“I’m doing great. Thanks for asking. Living my best life as a soon-to-be published author, acing my classes, helping out my fellow students.” My voice comes out in a deadpan.
But Mom knows this is as far as I’ll rebel, so she just snorts in response. “Madeline, this is important. It’s for your sister’s wedding.”
I stifle a sigh. All our conversations are about Megan’s wedding. If not, they’re about my many shortcomings.
“Sorry, I really needed to sort out my semester calendar first.”
“It’s been two weeks since I asked you when you’ll be available for a dress fitting.”
“And it’s been two weeks since the semester started. See the correlation?” I mumble.
