How It Ends by Catherine Lo (classic novels to read .txt) 📗

the rows of cookie-cutter houses lining the street. If life was fair, I’d be dressed in my kilt and combat boots right now, headed back to Highland Girls Academy to meet up with my friends, the Highland Heretics (or Highland Nonconformists, as we renamed ourselves once the office freaked out. Turns out private Catholic schools are a bit touchy about the word heretic). This was supposed to be the year I’d finally get to take the subway to school on my own. I should be dodging commuters and homeless people at Union Station on my way to campus instead of trekking halfway across this pathetic excuse for a town.

I get why Madge wanted to move, but I’m still pissed that Dad agreed. According to Madge, there were too many memories at the old place, and we needed a new start as a new family. But those memories are sacred to me. I don’t get how Dad could just sell the only house we ever lived in with Mom like it meant nothing, just to make his new wife happy.

And our new place. Fucking Madge. Our house in the city was more than a hundred years old. It had heart. Personality. Sure, the basement was full of mice and the fourth stair up from the landing was in danger of cracking open at any moment, but it was a home. Our new place is a plastic replica of a house. It’s all glossy surfaces with nothing underneath. It doesn’t even make noise. That’s just messed up. There are no creaks or groans, the pipes don’t rattle . . . even the dishwasher is absolutely silent. That’s not a house. It’s witchcraft.

My old English teacher, Mr. Berg, would appreciate the metaphorical significance of this place. A silent pseudo-house for a silent pseudo-family.

When my alarm went off at six thirty this morning, it was basically mocking me. I was up all night obsessing about what to wear today. It’s crazy—I’d been dying to break free from my school uniform for years, but now that the chance was here, I was paralyzed by too many choices. Should I be Preppy Annie, with skinny jeans and ballet flats? Or Studious Annie, with horn-rimmed glasses and cardigans? What about Cool Annie, with band T-shirts and a stack of cuff bracelets up my arm? I tried on outfit after outfit at the mall this summer, but they all felt false. Like I was trying on costumes.

So this morning, fueled by the kind of manic energy that comes with lack of sleep, I settled on being Pissed-off Annie, and I dressed all in black. I even layered on the black eyeliner and mascara in protest.

I was hoping for a reaction. I thought Dad might tell me to get upstairs and scrub off the makeup, or that Madge would disapprove of my angst-ridden appearance. Alas.

When I strolled into the kitchen, Dad greeted me with a kiss and a wink. “Good morning, little raccoon. Have you seen my daughter?”

Ha.

Madge dipped her head to hide a smile, and I fantasized about tipping my plate onto her perfectly pressed suit.

I slumped down into my chair just as Sophie breezed into the room. Her eyes barely touched on me, but that didn’t stop her from commenting. “Halloween isn’t for more than a month, Annie,” she drawled. She daintily selected an apple from the fruit bowl and then looked pointedly at the stack of pancakes on my plate.

I don’t know how and when our roles got assigned, but I don’t remember ever agreeing to be the messed-up stepsister while Sophie got to be the perfect one.

It doesn’t help that she’s so goddamned gorgeous. As if my dad didn’t screw me up enough by marrying the Wicked Witch of the West . . . he had to pick a wife with a Barbie doll for a daughter.

I’m almost at the school when a car horn beeps twice and I nearly jump out of my skin. I whip around to see Sophie waving at me, her car packed with shiny-faced girls. How is it that she has a car full of friends already and I’m stuck walking to school alone? She’s like some kind of social wunderkind.

I raise my arm in a halfhearted wave, but they’ve passed me already, tires screeching as Sophie careens into the parking lot. I stand there on the sidewalk for a moment, taking in the sight in front of me. Sir John A. Macdonald is by far the ugliest school I’ve ever seen. It’s like a giant concrete bunker plunked in the middle of this carefully constructed suburbia.

A blight on the landscape.

Kids are swarming around the entrance like bees. My classmates. I feel lightheaded and strange. Like I’m standing on the edge of a precipice. I have the dizzying feeling that once I walk through those doors, I might never be the same again.

I give myself a little shake and pull out my phone to text Gemma, my closest friend from the Nonconformists. I snap a picture of the school and then another of the long street of identical homes. Held captive in suburbia, I write. Send help.

I stare at the screen for a few moments, hoping for a quick reply. She’ll be off the subway by now, probably checking in and getting her class schedule. I fight tears as I imagine strutting through the halls at Highland with my friends instead of slinking into this new school by myself.

When no text arrives, I shove my phone into my bag and take a deep breath. There’s no escaping today. I square my shoulders and head across the street to be swallowed up by the crowd entering my new school.

I’m sitting in first-period English class when Gemma’s reply comes in. Chin up, Annie-the-brave. We miss you! She’s attached a picture of the whole crew. Minus me. Gemma, Stacy, and Susanna, with their smiling faces smooshed together. Stacy’s eyes are closed, like they are in every picture ever taken of her, and a little laugh