Forever Now (Forever - Book 1) Read Online Free
Author: Elise Sax
re-tied the towel around me.
“Damn right, I’m right,” she said, enunciating each word slowly.
The room grew quiet. I had stopped breathing. We studied each other, me trying to read on her face what punishment she had planned for me, and her studying me to determine just how much she hated me at that moment.
I longed to be anywhere but there. There was nothing safe about my room, nothing safe about being anywhere where my mother could get at me. But I couldn’t get away. I was sixteen, and I was invisible. My mother was the only person in my life.
Mom blinked and took a deep, deciding breath. Then, she opened my notebook and ripped a page in half. Then, another. Then, another. She grew calmer as she ripped. She ripped until my memories of Cruz laid on my bedroom floor, transformed into confetti.
“And mop the kitchen. It’s a mess,” she said as she left my room.
I dropped to the floor, gathered the bits of paper, and wished to be invisible once more.
Chapter 3
I’m nobody. Who are you?
--Emily Dickinson
The summer was over, and I was three-thousand-dollars richer. Not bad and almost worth babysitting the Maclaren triplets for three months.
After surviving taking care of the three, not-potty-trained toddlers--especially the time they got into the Costco supply of Hersheys and puked and pooped for six hours straight--I would have thought the first day back at school wouldn’t have seemed so scary. But it was.
Poop and puke were nothing compared to high school students.
I opened the Danish butter cookies tin that I had hidden under my bed and counted the money that I had stashed there. Three-thousand-four-hundred-seventy five-dollars and twenty-three cents. That’s how much closer I was to the Sorbonne in Paris.
I had enough for the plane but no way to survive once I was there, especially because I couldn’t get a work visa and so couldn’t work in France. I also had no idea how to apply to the Sorbonne or how much it cost. And after three years of high school French, all I could say was: “Il y a de la neige sur le train,” which means: “There’s snow on the train.”
“And bienvenue a Paris,” I said to my empty bedroom. “Welcome to Paris. I know how to say that, too.”
I was a wild-eyed optimist when it came to Paris. I had no idea how I would get there, but I was determined to do it. Get to Paris, study at the Sorbonne, and write all day at cafes on the Boulevard Saint-Germain-des-Prés. I knew deep in my heart that this was my ticket to happiness.
My ticket to me.
I threw my pocket Emily Dickinson book into my backpack, along with my binder, and zipped it closed. Emily had kept me company my whole life, ever since I learned to read. But she had been content to live her life in her room, and I had been counting down until I could escape my invisible life.
I slipped the backpack over my shoulders, my feet into flip-flops, and I ran downstairs. I poured coffee and water into the coffee maker and flipped the on switch. I placed two Pop Tarts into the toaster and got the milk out of the fridge.
Once it was done, I poured coffee into my mom’s favorite mug and topped it with the milk. I was her alarm clock, because she wanted to be woken with a cup of coffee instead of top-forty tunes and a happy DJ. Nevertheless, it was hit or miss in the morning. I mean, her mood was all over the map before she got her caffeine.
I walked upstairs and opened her bedroom door. Inside looked normal. All Disney princesses and Miss Havisham. Lace and pillow-topped everything. When in doubt, my mom liked to surround herself in whatever was appropriate for a five-year old girl.
The whole house looked like Goldilocks had thrown up all over it.
Mom’s curtains were drawn, leaving only a crack of light peeking through. I put her coffee on the nightstand next to her bed, and I opened the curtains. The sun flooded in, illuminating every corner of her Laura Ashley ensemble.
But the sun had no
“Damn right, I’m right,” she said, enunciating each word slowly.
The room grew quiet. I had stopped breathing. We studied each other, me trying to read on her face what punishment she had planned for me, and her studying me to determine just how much she hated me at that moment.
I longed to be anywhere but there. There was nothing safe about my room, nothing safe about being anywhere where my mother could get at me. But I couldn’t get away. I was sixteen, and I was invisible. My mother was the only person in my life.
Mom blinked and took a deep, deciding breath. Then, she opened my notebook and ripped a page in half. Then, another. Then, another. She grew calmer as she ripped. She ripped until my memories of Cruz laid on my bedroom floor, transformed into confetti.
“And mop the kitchen. It’s a mess,” she said as she left my room.
I dropped to the floor, gathered the bits of paper, and wished to be invisible once more.
Chapter 3
I’m nobody. Who are you?
--Emily Dickinson
The summer was over, and I was three-thousand-dollars richer. Not bad and almost worth babysitting the Maclaren triplets for three months.
After surviving taking care of the three, not-potty-trained toddlers--especially the time they got into the Costco supply of Hersheys and puked and pooped for six hours straight--I would have thought the first day back at school wouldn’t have seemed so scary. But it was.
Poop and puke were nothing compared to high school students.
I opened the Danish butter cookies tin that I had hidden under my bed and counted the money that I had stashed there. Three-thousand-four-hundred-seventy five-dollars and twenty-three cents. That’s how much closer I was to the Sorbonne in Paris.
I had enough for the plane but no way to survive once I was there, especially because I couldn’t get a work visa and so couldn’t work in France. I also had no idea how to apply to the Sorbonne or how much it cost. And after three years of high school French, all I could say was: “Il y a de la neige sur le train,” which means: “There’s snow on the train.”
“And bienvenue a Paris,” I said to my empty bedroom. “Welcome to Paris. I know how to say that, too.”
I was a wild-eyed optimist when it came to Paris. I had no idea how I would get there, but I was determined to do it. Get to Paris, study at the Sorbonne, and write all day at cafes on the Boulevard Saint-Germain-des-Prés. I knew deep in my heart that this was my ticket to happiness.
My ticket to me.
I threw my pocket Emily Dickinson book into my backpack, along with my binder, and zipped it closed. Emily had kept me company my whole life, ever since I learned to read. But she had been content to live her life in her room, and I had been counting down until I could escape my invisible life.
I slipped the backpack over my shoulders, my feet into flip-flops, and I ran downstairs. I poured coffee and water into the coffee maker and flipped the on switch. I placed two Pop Tarts into the toaster and got the milk out of the fridge.
Once it was done, I poured coffee into my mom’s favorite mug and topped it with the milk. I was her alarm clock, because she wanted to be woken with a cup of coffee instead of top-forty tunes and a happy DJ. Nevertheless, it was hit or miss in the morning. I mean, her mood was all over the map before she got her caffeine.
I walked upstairs and opened her bedroom door. Inside looked normal. All Disney princesses and Miss Havisham. Lace and pillow-topped everything. When in doubt, my mom liked to surround herself in whatever was appropriate for a five-year old girl.
The whole house looked like Goldilocks had thrown up all over it.
Mom’s curtains were drawn, leaving only a crack of light peeking through. I put her coffee on the nightstand next to her bed, and I opened the curtains. The sun flooded in, illuminating every corner of her Laura Ashley ensemble.
But the sun had no
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