Twice Shy by Sarah Hogle (i am malala young readers edition .TXT) 📗

Spy instead, which consists of the same three colors (red stop signs, green trees, and yellow drive carefully signs indicating twists and turns). There aren’t too many cars on the road until we reach Pigeon Forge at a quarter to nine.

“Wild Bear Tavern,” he observes, lifting an index finger off the steering wheel. “They have takeout. Really good German toast.”

“I’m too amped up to eat.”

I’m wearing a red power suit with shoulder pads, hair in a messy topknot. I look like a high school secretary from an eighties teen comedy, which is to say, I look extremely excellent and like a person who makes firm decisions.

Wesley pulls through the McDonald’s drive-thru anyway, ordering us both pancakes from the breakfast menu. My stomach’s sloshing something fierce, but he made the right call—I feel better once I’ve eaten.

“You ready for this?” he asks, nudging me to polish off my orange juice because he thinks I could use more Vitamin C.

I half-laugh. “Ahh . . . no.” Then I shake my head, smiling wanly. “Kidding. Ready as I’ll ever be! Let’s go.”

I still don’t know what I’m going to say when I get inside Around the Mountain. I’ve decided to wing it.

“This is nuts,” I can’t stop saying.

Wesley doesn’t argue.

“They’ve probably forgotten who I am.” I’m sort of but not really joking. “I’ll tell them off and then somebody will go, ‘Who was that?’” I’m chewing my nails, leaning forward as far as the seat belt will allow. I crank the air conditioner to full blast. “Jeez, it’s hot in here. Do you think it’s hot in here?”

“It’s just you,” he jokes.

My knee bounces at warp speed. “This is nuts.”

“Oh, definitely. But here we are.”

I jerk around, panicking. The giant statue of the bear strumming a banjo rears up overhead. The lodge is directly behind us. We are in the parking lot. The parking lot.

Where Wesley puts the truck in park.

“What?” I cry. “How are we here already?”

“You’ve got this, Parrish.” He tries to fist-bump me. I would laugh if I didn’t think I’d throw up immediately afterward. “Do you need me to come in with you?”

“Nah, I’ll be fine. Keep the engine running in case we need a quick getaway.”

For his sake as much as my own, I plaster on a confident smile and slide out of the car with watery joints. I’m going to hate doing this, maybe more than I’ve hated doing anything I’ve ever not wanted to do, but I can’t wait to be the version of myself who is on the other side of having done it. The Maybell who stands up for herself. Who cares if I’m about two months too late and this mission probably looks batty from the outside? It’s never too late to make waves.

I am, right this very moment, becoming the kind of Maybell who walks calmly across the parking lot, and the kind of Maybell who pushes through the front doors. The kind of Maybell who stands in the lobby of the building where she spent her entire adult life.

Nothing has changed. The rocking chair that seats eight fully grown humans is currently occupied, camera light flashing, and the lobby smells strongly of chlorine that launches a dozen memories. I can hear splashing and yelling from the indoor water park. What was I expecting? Of course it looks the same. It hasn’t been that long since I was here, even if it feels like a year has passed.

I square my shoulders. On behalf of the miserable Maybell who spent Christmas day handling stiff sheets from the honeymoon suites and having ten minutes shorted from her already pathetic lunch break, I am going to walk up to Paul.

I am going to say, You were a bad boss. You spent all day on Russian dating websites instead of doing your job. You promoted me to event coordinator and then wouldn’t let me coordinate events, and for that, you suck profusely. I want you to know that I quit because of you.

After that, I imagine Christine will happen by, scowling like always. I’ll tell her to go to hell and it will be everything. I’ll astral-project into orbit, lighter than air. A feather on the breeze, whipped cream on a cupcake. A living sunbeam.

That’s the high note I’ll leave on. And I won’t, no matter how tempting, glance back at their stricken faces. It’s like heroes in an action movie ignoring explosions going off behind them.

And that will be that. A proper quitting story.

“I’m so happy to see you! Oh my god!” I blink rapidly as someone crushes me in a hug. “You’re back!”

Gemma.

“You look so cute,” she squeals. “Are those shoulder pads?” She pokes my shoulders. I’m so thrown by her presence, which has blown up my vision of how this would go, that I simply stand there and gawk. The only thing about Gemma that’s changed is the new card attached to her lanyard that reads: event coordinator. “What have you been up to? Tell me everything.”

I meet her wide, expressive eyes, holding my breath. And then I realize.

I’m not here to quit after all.

“I am here to tell you,” I say, voice quavering. My hands curl, nails biting into the plump flesh of my palms; the sensation is an anchor, keeping my feet flat on the carpet so that I can’t vacate my body. Then, with a steadiness I do not feel, I start over. “I am here to tell you that you hurt me. And that it wasn’t okay.”

Gemma’s eyebrows jump up her forehead. “What? How did I hurt you?”

“You were supposed to be my friend. But you tricked me, playing with my feelings, and after the truth came out, my hurt feelings still came second to yours. I am a person, Gemma. You treat other people badly. So I think somebody ought to tell you.”

Her smile slips, lips parting in surprise. I watch her vibrant inner light go out.

“I trusted you,” I go on, trying not to cry. It can’t be helped. I’m