Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 150968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 150968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
She turns the page, before biting into another piece of clementine. Her tongue peeks out, swiping over her lower lip to catch the remnants of the juices.
My heart thuds in my chest.
Riley Johnson sits there, looking like a ray of fucking sunshine.
And I don’t know why — but it pisses me off.
I quietly edge closer to her, and she doesn’t notice me. Riley is in her own little world, reading and eating clementines—the same ones I’m supposed to steal.
Leaning against the tree, I stand behind Riley and peek down at the book she’s reading. The Great Gatsby. Since we were forced to read it in freshman year, I’ve hated that book. The It’s supposed to be some kind of famous classic, but while I can appreciate some intelligent and beautiful writing, I find none of the characters likable. In fact, none of them are even dislikable. They are just merely despicable.
And frankly, I never understood Jay’s pointless obsession over Daisy.
“The ending to this one isn’t very good,” I drawl.
Riley is easily startled and she snaps the book close, before looking back over her shoulder at me. “W-what?” she stammers, but when she notices who has sneaked up on her — her eyes sharpen into a glare.
“Bennett,” she says under her breath, whispering my last name like it’s a damnable curse.
Yeah, we don’t get along. Not that we’ve ever interacted with each other before. She’s a junior, and I’m a sophomore. But Riley Johnson and I have lifelong animosity.
It’s nothing personal between us — but our fathers have been feuding for as long as I can remember. Henry Bennett and Thomas Johnson have a personal agenda against each other. They were rivals in high school, and now both are running in the gubernatorial elections, for the same state. I even heard about how Thomas slept with my father’s long-term girlfriend in college. In revenge, my father burned down Thomas’s vocational cottage. But then again, those are just rumors. To say they have a strong dislike for each other is an understatement.
I think it’s petty, but our feuding families automatically make Riley and me — enemies.
Our fathers would have a stroke if we ever ended up as friends.
But then again, I don’t have any intention of befriending the “fallen” princess of Berkshire Academy. She’s a nobody now — a disgrace and an outsider in the social circle of the wealthy and corrupted.
My father likes to say that we have an exceptional reputation, and that we do not associate ourselves with public scandal.
And damn it all, Riley has scandal written all over her petite frame.
She inhales a shaky breath. “I think it’s a classical ending.”
“Bullshit,” I deadpan, enjoying the way she frowns at my choice of word. I pluck a clementine from the tree and start to peel it. I’m meticulous, taking my time to carefully peel off those little annoying strings from the fruit. I hate those.
“It’s a tragic love,” she defends. Riley acts personally attacked by my remarks, and I safely conclude that The Great Gatsby is probably her favorite book. Since she’s being so defensive about some stupid, fictional characters. “Of course, I don’t expect you to understand that.”
I scoff in response. “Love is always a tragedy.”
“So you think you’re different and special just because you think the book is bad, while everyone else is praising it for being a classic?”
I merely shrug, before popping a piece of clementine into my mouth. A burst of flavor fills my mouth, and fuck, this is good. Sweet and tangy — with a bit of entertainment on the side as I watch Riley Johnson mull over my words.
“I’ve seen your twin around.” Riley brings a hand up to her face, to find shade from the sunlight as she squints up at me. “Why are you here?”
“Why are you here?” I shoot back, but then chuckle. “Oh wait, I know.”
Her body tenses and I watch as her jaw clenches. She grips her book tighter. I chew on my clementine, hiding my smirk. “I was there that night, at the Christmas gala. I had a front-row seat to your downfall. I was practically disintegrating with boredom. But I have to say, you puking all over your father’s expensive shoes sure made my night more interesting.”
Riley sucks in a shocked breath, and I see the exact moment her composure changes. Her body jerks as if I slapped her, and her cheeks flush with embarrassment. I don’t miss the anxious twitch in her jaw, or the fact that her gaze slides away from me. I study her with quiet interest.
Riley Johnson is something for sure.
She was fierce a minute ago, but the moment I mentioned that night, she’s all meek now. Like a kicked puppy — small and easily spooked.
You see, I’m always drawn to broken things; it’s a peculiar interest. I’m not drawn to fix them — but to watch as desperation bleeds out of them, to see just how far they’ll go. And just how thin the veil of life and death is. One time, Cole and I found an injured bird. While he rushed to help, wanting to fix it — I, on the other hand, was simply captivated by the bird’s broken wing and its struggle to fly again.