Other Side of Beautiful (A Beautifully Disturbed #1)

Read Other Side of Beautiful (A Beautifully Disturbed #1) for Free Online

Book: Read Other Side of Beautiful (A Beautifully Disturbed #1) for Free Online
Authors: Sarah Zolton Arthur
mostly taking up the back row, no doubt here because of all the size-sixes. Beautiful girls—1 Self-esteem—0. Well played, winter semester.
    All those size-sixes, as it turns out, are all Hilary, Kelsey, Britney, Ashley, Courtney, and Lindsey. If I randomly call out “Hilary,” at least three girls would look my way. No lie. And all of them work tiny yoga-panted butts and permanent bitch face, looking down their perfect noses at me as they smile those, ‘I’ll be polite to your face but talk about you like a straight up mug behind your back’ smiles. I’ve never been so ashamed to be a ‘y’ ever in my life. These are the girls Cricket pictured when she named me. Just like her. But I’m not like her, and I’m not like them, so my name should be just as different. Going forward, from this point on, Elly is dead. Elle, that’s what my dad used to call me.
    My racing pulse causes the smile I try to give back to all those Hilaries to falter. What was I thinking? My head pounds painfully behind my eyes, and it is only the first day. Pulling away from my comfort zone? Trying something new ? Jesus! I miss Kendrick.
    Two hours into hell and Dr. Benet asks us to break into groups, just the people in our own row. My groupmates all talk over one another, fighting to be heard in a conversation I have no idea of what’s being discussed, because I’ve been so intent to watch the Sysco delivery truck driver in his hideous khaki slacks unload dolly after dolly of boxes into the food court.
    Somewhere along the way someone decided to suck me into the fiery death of conversation, but not paying attention, I hadn’t realized it until all the chatter had subsided and their ninth circle icy glares bore into my neck. Since I haven’t been paying attention, I try to answer with what I think most teachers expect when they put us into groups on the first day. “I’m a writing major,” I say. “My minor is sociology.” They couldn’t have stared any harder if I’d said I’m a flying monkey with x-ray eyes who likes to wear leisure suits.
    Apparently that was the wrong answer. They turn away, ignoring my presence. I feel confident they’re done with me and turn my attention back to the window. The Sysco guy must have finished unloading because the truck is gone. Screw this. I pull out my phone and surf the interwebs until the people around me start packing up their backpacks. I pack up and full-on sprint out of there.
    Dr. Benet’s class proves the existence of hell. Without a hint of doubt, proves it. Apparently when Satan fell from heaven, he brought size-six coeds along with him. Damn winter semester, which stands poised to become the suckiest semester in the history of semesters. No matter what, I have no chance of escaping a Kelsey or Hilary. They are my nightmare for the next fifteen weeks.
    I need real people. I need my people. Ditching class number two and making the ten minute drive to The Brew— Ha! I’m a poet and didn’t know it— is probably not my smartest educational decision . But we’re talking my sanity here, and I’m not exactly someone who should take sanity lightly. Writing classes happen in the evenings, so that’s where all my writer peeps will be, tucked away in the far corner of the room, in our booth. Not one of them has class earlier than 1:30 p.m. That used to be me.
    I hold back, watching them in the booth sipping on coffees and talking animatedly with a flurry of hands and voices rising over one another to be heard. Errol sits at the far end of the booth, only half of his back resting against the green cushion, his arm propped up along the back ledge. Sabrina rests in the crook created by the way he sits. She keeps her head resting just above his heart. Sickeningly cute as always. No one has ever wanted me like that. There was a time when I believed I didn’t deserve it, and maybe I still do—that is, still believe I don’t deserve it. Sometimes I think I want it. Do I want it? Wanting

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