Page 67 of Ruthless Rose

Surprise registers in her voice as she says, “We’re in the kitchen, honey.”

I hope my face doesn’t betray the fact that I just heard my parents discussing how they did the nasty in my grandparents’ bathroom with everyone in the next room. I won’t ever be able to look at that bathroom the same way again.

Entering the kitchen, both of my parents look up. “Hey. We got the call from the nurse that you’d gone home with a migraine.” Dad tilts his head to the side, assessing me.

Mom takes a sip of whatever is in her mug, also taking time to scan my face. “Did you take something for it?”

I nod. “Yeah, some Excedrin Migraine. I still don’t feel very good.”

“You look a little flushed.”

No shit. “I do?”

“Daph?” Mom folds her hands into her lap, glancing quickly at my dad before meeting my gaze again.

“Yeah?”

“We also heard about the homecoming queen nomination.”

“Oh …” I shake my head and shrug. “That’s nothing.”

Dad’s brows draw together. “Why do you say that?”

“I just—” No way am I telling them that I’m pretty sure it’s a setup, courtesy of a girl who hates me. I wave a dismissive hand in the air. “It’s no big deal. There were a whole bunch of people nominated.”

“Maybe we can go dress shopping?” Mom actually looks hopeful. I’m sure she figured that she’d never get a chance to go homecoming dress shopping with me since I’m usually such an introverted stick-in-the-mud.

“I’m sure I can borrow something.” Actually, I’m not. But maybe I can find something at the secondhand store on the outskirts of town.

“Oh no, honey. This is a special occasion.”

I look at Dad, who just shrugs. “Get what you need. We’ll figure it out.”

Gesturing over my shoulder, I smile. “Thanks, Dad. Um. I’m going to go back to bed.”

“You don’t want to eat dinner?”

I shake my head.

“Okay, honey. Feel better.”

But I definitely don’t feel better now. We don’t have money for a fancy dress like the ones I imagine all the Roses will be dancing around in. All the way back up the stairs, I feel more and more like crap.

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