Doomed Read Online Free

remember. He was the one who insisted on naming me Pandora, after all.
    The second I pull into the parking lot at Walgreens, I’mripping into Emily’s present. I grin when I see what she got me, and I can’t stop the little bubble of excitement that works its way through me. A first-issue copy of Stone Temple Pilots CD
Core
, autographed by the entire band. Could she have picked a more perfect gift? I’ve been collecting first-issue CDs for years, and the fact that it’s signed makes it even better.
    I grab my phone, text her a thank-you. It takes a minute or so to go through, which is odd, but when she texts me right back, I forget all about it. I smile when I see her message:
I knew u couldn’t wt. It’s a sickness, Pandora. Srsly. Get help now. LOL.
     
    I run into Walgreens and pay for the photos I ordered this morning, then take them out and look at them right there in the store. There are only twelve, but in that moment they feel more precious to me than anything else I own—even my new CD.
    I drive home slowly, thinking about them. Thinking about my dad and the website he set up for me. Anxious to check it again, I head up to my room as soon as I get home. I didn’t have a chance to read all of my dad’s messages this morning, and I want to see what the others say. Except when I type in the address of the blog, nothing comes up. I try again—still nothing—and then finally go searching for the e-mail my dad sent me. I must be remembering the address wrong.
    But the e-mail is gone, too. Which isn’t possible. I mean, I was in a hurry this morning, but I would know if I’d deletedit, wouldn’t I? Still, I check the trash folder, just in case. Nothing’s there. Then I check the spam folder, but the only things there are ads for cheap prescription medicine and cheaper mortgages.
    I’m totally bummed now, and if I didn’t have the twelve pictures I might have thought I imagined the whole thing. But I
do
have them, so I know I’m not crazy. It happened.
    I just don’t know what occurred afterward. Was I really in such a big hurry that I trashed the only e-mail I’ve ever gotten from my dad? What a moron.
    Frustrated and pissed off at myself, I insert the
Core
CD into my laptop and lie across the bed. My stomach growls and I think about going back down to the kitchen and grabbing something to eat, but I’m too annoyed. Instead, I stare at the ceiling, studying the hundreds of CD covers I have tacked up there and contemplating my father’s letters to me while “Wicked Garden” plays in the background.
    If I hadn’t been stupid enough to erase the e-mail, and if the website hadn’t disappeared off the face of the earth, would I have written back to him? And if I did, what would I say?
    The thing is, I don’t know the answer to either of those questions. His letters were nice and so are the pictures. But they’re not much to hang a relationship on, especially since I haven’t seen him in ten years.
    Eventually my hunger gets the best of me, so I grab my laptop and cruise down to the kitchen. On the way, I flick on the television and start streaming the first season of
Supernatural
, right where I left off, at episode 4, “Phantom Traveler.” Then I head to the pantry and pour myself a bowlof cereal. Crunch Berries, of course. Between mouthfuls, I open my laptop and boot it up.
    I play around for a while—Facebook stuff, checking out the Cliffs Notes for
Othello
, looking for a new pair of boots because my old ones are pretty much trashed. By then it’s after five thirty and my mom still hasn’t called. I check my phone to see if I missed a text from her—sometimes reception can be spotty in the house—but there’s nothing.
    I start my calculus homework, but it’s not due until Friday, so eventually I give up on it. Being productive is highly overrated. Besides, I
so
shouldn’t have to do advanced math on my birthday.
    Finally, I do what I’ve wanted to do for the last forty-five minutes. I