Unpretty: An Unloved Ones Prequel Read Online Free
Author: Kevin Richey
force myself to stay awake long enough to push all the wrappers into the trashcan. Then I head back to my room.
My mom hasn’t woken up. I look at the clock, and it's nearly five in the morning. I have a little over an hour before my alarm goes off. I fall back on the bed, and spread out my arms like fat wings.
I never want to get back up.
* * *
The morning hits me like a slap in the face. My alarm goes off, and I reach out to tap it. I knock it clear off my nightstand, and it rings underneath my bed.
"Ugghhhh," I groan, and force myself to move. My body feels so heavy. The lack of sleep and my excess weight have left me feeling like I'm struggling against restraints. I slump onto the floor and find the clock, unplugging it altogether. In the darkness, I breathe in the dust under my bed, and I feel worse than I've ever felt before. My eyes feel red, and my joints ache.
I crawl to my closet, grab a loose-fitting shirt and an enormous pair of jeans from the floor, and head to the shower. It takes all my will power not to collapse onto the base of the tub and curl up back to sleep.
After the shower, I'm drying off my hair when I see the bathroom scale staring at me. I remember the diet. There’s a dry-erase marker among my combs on the counter from previous attempts to control my weight. I wipe off the condensation from the mirror, and write on the glass: DAY ONE. This will be how I’ll keep track of my progress.
Then I turn back to the scale.
I take in a deep breath, and as I step onto the scale, I let it out. The digital readout glows blue, and the numbers flicker randomly. When it stops, it blinks a number that makes me tingle with disbelief.
257.
When I weighed myself two days ago, I was nearing 270. That means even with my binge last night, I’ve lost weight.
Or the scale is broken.
My hope vanishes. It seems more likely that I've broken the scale.
I pull on my clothes, and suck in my gut in order to squeeze the fly of my jeans together enough to button them. Normally I don't even wear jeans because they push around my weight in really unflattering ways, but I need to do laundry, and this pair was all that was clean.
I hear my Mom start to wake up in the next room, and I rush to finish getting ready. I don't want to have to explain all the missing food in the kitchen. I don't bother with makeup (nobody is checking me out anyway), and stomp back to my room to grab a sweatshirt and my messenger bag. (Backpacks don't fit anymore. Another embarrassing revelation a few months ago.) I head through the house and out the front door as I hear my mom turn on her shower. I'm early for the bus, but I don't care. I don't want to face what I did last night.
* * *
It’s in third period Chemistry that I come to the realization that something is wrong.
All day things have felt off. The bus smelled worse than usual. The morning bell made my ears ring for a full fifteen minutes. And I kept hearing things outside of the classroom: people walking in the halls, toilets flushing in the bathrooms across the school, random shouts and laughter from places I couldn’t pinpoint.
But in Chemistry the distractions are getting to be too much.
Victor Madding, the boy behind me, is chewing gum. He’s not allowed to, which isn’t what is distracting me, but the minty smell is making my nostrils burn and my eyes water. Worse though is Stephanie Rupp, who sits two chairs up and one row over.
She
is biting her nails. I can hear every fiber of her brittle nails crack as her teeth snap and chew into them.
Also, and I know this is gross, but I swear everyone must have had beans for breakfast, because I keep hearing (and smelling) people fart, and nobody else even seems to notice! Even Mr. O’Brien, the teacher, is farting. It’s immensely distracting.
Lunch doesn’t come soon enough. I hug my messenger bag to my stomach and walk through the hallways, my eyes darting at groups of people chattering away. I know they’re whispering,
My mom hasn’t woken up. I look at the clock, and it's nearly five in the morning. I have a little over an hour before my alarm goes off. I fall back on the bed, and spread out my arms like fat wings.
I never want to get back up.
* * *
The morning hits me like a slap in the face. My alarm goes off, and I reach out to tap it. I knock it clear off my nightstand, and it rings underneath my bed.
"Ugghhhh," I groan, and force myself to move. My body feels so heavy. The lack of sleep and my excess weight have left me feeling like I'm struggling against restraints. I slump onto the floor and find the clock, unplugging it altogether. In the darkness, I breathe in the dust under my bed, and I feel worse than I've ever felt before. My eyes feel red, and my joints ache.
I crawl to my closet, grab a loose-fitting shirt and an enormous pair of jeans from the floor, and head to the shower. It takes all my will power not to collapse onto the base of the tub and curl up back to sleep.
After the shower, I'm drying off my hair when I see the bathroom scale staring at me. I remember the diet. There’s a dry-erase marker among my combs on the counter from previous attempts to control my weight. I wipe off the condensation from the mirror, and write on the glass: DAY ONE. This will be how I’ll keep track of my progress.
Then I turn back to the scale.
I take in a deep breath, and as I step onto the scale, I let it out. The digital readout glows blue, and the numbers flicker randomly. When it stops, it blinks a number that makes me tingle with disbelief.
257.
When I weighed myself two days ago, I was nearing 270. That means even with my binge last night, I’ve lost weight.
Or the scale is broken.
My hope vanishes. It seems more likely that I've broken the scale.
I pull on my clothes, and suck in my gut in order to squeeze the fly of my jeans together enough to button them. Normally I don't even wear jeans because they push around my weight in really unflattering ways, but I need to do laundry, and this pair was all that was clean.
I hear my Mom start to wake up in the next room, and I rush to finish getting ready. I don't want to have to explain all the missing food in the kitchen. I don't bother with makeup (nobody is checking me out anyway), and stomp back to my room to grab a sweatshirt and my messenger bag. (Backpacks don't fit anymore. Another embarrassing revelation a few months ago.) I head through the house and out the front door as I hear my mom turn on her shower. I'm early for the bus, but I don't care. I don't want to face what I did last night.
* * *
It’s in third period Chemistry that I come to the realization that something is wrong.
All day things have felt off. The bus smelled worse than usual. The morning bell made my ears ring for a full fifteen minutes. And I kept hearing things outside of the classroom: people walking in the halls, toilets flushing in the bathrooms across the school, random shouts and laughter from places I couldn’t pinpoint.
But in Chemistry the distractions are getting to be too much.
Victor Madding, the boy behind me, is chewing gum. He’s not allowed to, which isn’t what is distracting me, but the minty smell is making my nostrils burn and my eyes water. Worse though is Stephanie Rupp, who sits two chairs up and one row over.
She
is biting her nails. I can hear every fiber of her brittle nails crack as her teeth snap and chew into them.
Also, and I know this is gross, but I swear everyone must have had beans for breakfast, because I keep hearing (and smelling) people fart, and nobody else even seems to notice! Even Mr. O’Brien, the teacher, is farting. It’s immensely distracting.
Lunch doesn’t come soon enough. I hug my messenger bag to my stomach and walk through the hallways, my eyes darting at groups of people chattering away. I know they’re whispering,
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