Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
But for the first time in my life, maybe I can change that.
I stare at the row of perfect, tiny plants, arranged like a miniature city, and decide: I am going to win my stepbrother at the auction. I am going to make him notice me, even if I have to break every rule in the book.
Even if it means breaking myself a little, too.
The sky brightens through the window, and the plants reach for it, greedy and shameless. I let myself do the same... thinking of Trevor Cahill the entire time.
6
BECOMING CASSIE
Kayleigh
The house is dark and silent. Perfect. I let myself in, the lock whispering shut behind me, and stand for a moment in the hushed entryway, shirt clinging damply to my spine. No voices float from the living room, no TV glow from down the hall, no mother’s remonstration about the lateness of the hour. Victoria and Henry are out for some benefit, a pre-auction party for the Tatler event, so it’s just me and the solemn, empty house.
I leave my shoes at the door and pad upstairs and down the hallway, past the glossy, unlovable oil paintings my stepfather bought in bulk. My old room is at the far end, in its own little nook really, and when I close the door behind me I feel the temperature drop by a whole degree. The space is tidy, too girly for a woman my age—white lacquer desk, a wall of books sorted by color, a canopy bed that I never once used for a sleepover but which remains, I guess, for lack of energy to make a change. The only sign of real life is the mess on the vanity: a drift of cosmetic bottles, stray bobby pins, a tangle of cheap jewelry, and a ring of dustless oval where my phone lives.
I toss my bag onto the bed, let my jeans and t-shirt tumble off my body and pool at my feet, and then just stand there, toes curled into the plush shag rug, staring at myself in the mirror above the vanity. My hair, limp from a day of humidity, is a pale corona around my face, haloed by the LED bulbs Victoria insisted on (something about “optimal makeup lighting,” though she never does her own makeup here). My shoulders are narrow, my Double D’s almost too big for my frame, my waist tight and neat, hips flaring out in a way that people call “womanly.” Every inch of me is soft, rounded, and plush. But my eyes are hesitant. Why?
I don’t know, but I see a girl who looks like she’s waiting for someone else to show up and live her life for her.
I see a girl who could never, in a million years, compete with the Cassie's of the world.
But then, what if I could?
After all, I’m sick of always being second place. I’m sick of always being the “safe choice,” and the “boring pick” when hot girls like Cassie are out there snagging men like my gorgeous stepbrother. And let’s face it: the Trevor’s of the world don’t exactly want someone like me, who’s all nice with no spice. They want the sassy smiles, voluptuous figures, and slutty outfits.
Too bad it’s not me.
But what if I could make it me?
I pick up my phone and swipe the screen. I scroll to the wedding photos—Victoria’s stiff in the church pew, my stepdad wolfing down wedding cake, me blurred and smiling in the background—but it’s not those I linger on. It’s the pictures of my stepbrother and his date that make me go alert: Trevor and Cassie, framed by the floral arch, her body poured into that red slip like it’s the only thing keeping her molecules together. Her eyes are wide and laughing, her mouth a perfect glossy bow. My stepbrother is beside her, hand resting possessively at her waist (on her ass, really), head cocked at an angle that’s both predatory and amused. Even in still frame, you can see the way he looks at her—like he’s a wolf, and she’s going to be devoured when they get home.
I stare at that photo for a long time. I try to figure out what it is about women like that that makes Trevor pay attention. Is it the big tits? The hair? The confidence, the willingness to look like she’d eat you alive and then ask for seconds?
I set the phone down and lean close to the mirror, examining my own face under the harsh white light. Not bad, I think. My lips are full, my nose a little upturned, my eyes a limpid blue that sometimes look grey depending on the day. But it’s all so muted. I remember Cassie’s look at the wedding—vivid, heavy, theatrical—and suddenly I want to know what it’s like to turn myself into that kind of woman, even if just for one night. Even if just for myself.