UNEDITED
Gemma Alder is used to being the unlucky one in the Alder family: from a nasty rumour about her back in high school to inexplicable mishaps, she seems to be the comical target for unfortunate situations. But if there's one thing she's good...
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Gemma
Since Jake has my cell phone number, he resorts to texting over the weekend. He makes sure we're on the same page for the story we've concocted. He apologizes again for bringing Hanna into this act. And then he thanks me (again) for agreeing to help him.
As much as I want to snap at him, to tell him to quit texting me, I keep a professional profile with my responses, being polite and to the point. I also ask how Hanna is doing out of pure thoughtfulness. The girl is sweet; shy and lacking the self-confidence a woman is entitled to, but sweet. It's going to be difficult to avoid my revenge scheme affecting her, which is why I'm currently sprawled across my bed and meticulously reviewing and revising the last of my notes. I've written them in a standard notebook, very bland and plain – something that won't seem out of place to the naked eye if it's noticed in my camping – excuse me, glamping bag. It's important that I know every last detail of each revenge prank I have planned. If I make a single fault during any step, my cover is going to be blown and my plan will fail.
I've been combing through the pages of my notebook for so long that I think I'm beginning to go cross-eyed. Groaning, I push the papers and multicoloured pen away, making my bed look like an office upchucked all over it; it's covered in crumpled pieces of lined paper, writing utensils, sticky notes, and an array of paper clips. My laptop is balanced atop the hardcover book I'm currently reading, the screen blank and showing me a blurred reflection of myself, one that shows me just how tired I am.
Falling back against my fluffy pillows, I give my tired eyes a quick rub and then grab my water from the nightstand, downing the remaining water, ice cubes and all, in one gulp. After I've set the drink down, I close my eyes and allow every muscle in my body to relax, save for my mind – the one muscle that can't seem to stop running on a continuous loop as Tuesday gets closer and closer.
Just like my mind has been doing since my conversation with Parker, it reverts back to the upcoming high school reunion. I begin to chew on my thumbnail. Whether it's out of anger or anxiety, I can't tell. Since the moment Jake spread the rumour about me, my feelings towards high school have been muddled. Tainted with the incompetence of a weak teenage boy who wanted the attention directed elsewhere. For two weeks, two full fucking weeks, I was Jake's rock. I was the one who comforted him after his parents died. I was the one who helped him climb through my bedroom window, battered and bruised with injuries of his own, and share my bed with me when he couldn't handle being around sobbing family members. I was the one who regulated his OxyContin prescription so he wouldn't become an addict.
I was the fool who thought we were in love with each other the night of the Spring Dance, the same night he and his parents were involved in the accident.
Because I can't seem to prevent my mind from taking a painstakingly unpleasant stroll down memory lane, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and get to my feet. I stroll, with purpose, across the hardwood floor, my bare feet sticking to the cool surface, and enter my walk-in closet. As per usual, my closet is a disaster; a mixture of the unique Gemma Alder and all the other women I've pretended to be over the past few years. Stealthily, I step over a pair of upturned black Stilettos and a fiery red wig.
