Sacrifice: Laid Bare (Laid Bare #4)(16)

Well, more or less. But that’s neither here nor there.

Bottom line is that my parents will not, as they put it in their terse message, have me “veering off course.”

Oh, really? So they think…

My defiance hits full throttle, and I purposely choose the wrong answers for the next four questions.

I hit submit and think, take that, Mr. and Mrs. Brant.

Despite my actions, I’ll still receive a solid A for the class. My GPA will not suffer in the slightest. Still, it feels kind of good to be bad.

That’s sad, Essa, that choosing a few wrong answers on a final is the best defiant act you can come up with.

Sighing, I click a button to indicate I am finished with the exam. I then grab my purse from the back of the chair and head for the door. “You’re pathetic,” I mumble to myself as I step out into a warm, stuffy hallway that smells of varnish and books.

I kind of like the smell as it wraps around me. It’s the smell of students seeking knowledge; it’s the smell of youth. Despite all my protestations to the contrary, I do like college. I would just prefer to be studying something of my own choosing.

I stand and ponder. Not only does the smell of school envelope me, but the heat of the day does as well. The second-floor hall I’m lingering in is about ten degrees warmer than the classroom was. Dropping my purse to the floor, I shrug out of my olive-green mock-army jacket. I’m down to two layered tanks, blue over white, but I am still roasting.

“Blech,” I pant, fanning myself as I bend down to pick up my purse. The button on my pants threatens to pop, and I let out a curse. I really should have worn a pair of nice, loose shorts instead of squeezing my ass into overly stylish skinny jeans this morning.

Maybe if the jeans were a little looser, I’d be more comfy.

I do a funny little dance in the thankfully empty area outside the classroom. Sadly, the jeans don’t feel a single inch looser. Damn designers. Don’t they realize we’re not all model-perfect? When I exhale, the button squeezes once again at my middle, and I remind myself that I need to lay off the sweets.

Yeah, right. A girl has to have some kind of indulgence, right? And since I’m no exception, sugary treats are it for me. Otherwise, I’m fairly straight and narrow. I don’t do drugs, and I don’t smoke. I also barely drink—two drinks are my limit when I do imbibe—and I’m not promiscuous.

“Far from it,” I mumble.

I’ve only had sex once, in fact. And what a disaster that turned out to be. The memory alone, from one of the few nights I deviated from my two-drinks policy, at a Saint Patrick’s Day party two months ago, leaves me feeling nauseated. Yeah, the thirty seconds spent with the senior who was cowriting an article with me for the online Oakwood College Gazette just wasn’t worth the time it took to take off my clothes. All too clearly, a fuzzy memory of him grunting on top of me, sweaty and harsh, comes to mind. I kept regretting that this was how I was losing my virginity. I still regret it. But what can you do? Last time I checked there were no time machines.

So, yeah, forget about sex. That’s my motto. I’ll stick with sugar-laden goodies for now. Like cupcakes. Haven made a batch to celebrate our surviving finals week. Her homemade buttercream frosting is far better than sex any day. Not to mention it’s more orgasm-inducing than the thirty seconds that had me asking, “What? That’s it? Why bother?”

I sigh. I need to get back to the apartment and hit up those awesome cupcakes. But my feet are far from moving. I can’t believe I daydreamed away five whole minutes. Or maybe it’s been ten.

Retrieving my phone from my purse, I send Haven a quick text: Leaving Byers Hall. Don’t eat all the cupcakes.

A few seconds later, she texts back: Oops. I got hungry and ate the rest for dinner. Sorry.

Bitch, I reply.

Whore, is her response.

I call her a bitch again and laugh. She’s laughing too. I’m sure of it. Haven knows my texts are sent with love. She is so not a bitch, and I would never think such a thing for real. Nor do I suspect she sees me as a whore. I am far from it, as established. Well, unless we’re talking sugar. Then, I’m a full-blown slut.

Haven sends another text. Just kidding, Es. I didn’t eat all the cupcakes. I know you love them, so I left the rest for you.

Aww, Haven is the best. You’re super sweet, I text back, and then I start down the hallway. Finally.

As I amble along, I think of how Haven is definitely one of the better parts of my life. Throughout the course of the past three years, we’ve become best friends. We met at a freshman orientation. It was an early one, held during the spring prior to matriculation. We sat next to each other and clicked immediately, which is kind of amusing, since we’re so different from one another. Somehow, though, we just work. Bottom line, I love Haven, and I’d do anything for her. She’s certainly done some selfless things for me, no doubt about that. As a result, we’re close, thicker than thieves some say. I tease Haven all the time; tell her she’s my sister from another mother. Since her own mom passed away years ago, she usually replies that she’d let my mom adopt her. But then she adds the qualifier, “that is, if she wasn’t so damn overbearing.”

Understatement of the year.

Just the other day, after I received a call from my mom—she was checking in on my studying—Haven joked, “If your mom took me in she’d probably insist I change my major from theater to business.”