Annalise Starke had known her mother was going to die eventually; she just hadn't expected it to happen so soon.
At fifteen she had moved with her mother back to her home country of Australia with half a heart (metaphorically, of course) and her mo...
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Somehow, getting ready for school the Monday after Spring Break was even harder than the first time. Maybe it was the assurance that it would only be a day that had calmed my ever-present nerves that Friday, and without that safety net, my heart was running rampant in my chest.
When I had first gone back to school, I'd felt oddly calm, like I'd accepted the inevitable. But now, the pressure was coming at me from all sides, and it was moving fast, making up for lost time.
My hands shook as I dressed, pulling on my favorite pair of jeans—the ones I always felt confident in—and a flowy, white tank top with a scalloped neckline.
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I looked...good, but I felt even better. When I looked put together, I felt put together, and then I knew it would be a good day.
I slipped on a pair of gold sandals that matched my jewelry perfectly, and began to pack up my school bag. I hadn't had a chance to do it before Spring Break—especially since I knew that I wouldn't really be needing anything. Even if I hadn't been a transfer student, teachers hardly ever did anything big right before break.
Laptop, check. iPad, check. Chargers, check. Notebook, pencil case, and calculator, check, check, and check.
After I zipped it up, I peered at the clock—𝟔:𝟓𝟔 𝐀.𝐌—it was just about time to go. I slung the back over my shoulder, and made my way down the stairs. Each step took extra effort than the one before, and by the time I reached the bottom, it felt like my feet each weighed a hundred pounds.
It felt like Spring Break had passed in a flash. One minute I was with Jacks and my friends, the next I was meeting my Dad's new girlfriend, and now I was going back to school. It felt like an instant rather than a week.
I rounded the corner and entered the kitchen to find my brother scarfing down a bowl of cereal. "Morning, Breck," I eyed the bowl with distaste. "Remember to breathe, okay?" He snorted and rolled his eyes, and continued doing the same thing.
I stared at the full fruit bowl on the counter—apples, nectarines, and bananas—should I take one, I wondered. High school kids are supposed to have a lunch, right? My hand was outstretched, halfway over the distance when I heard the screech of Breck's chair against tile.
