Read an Excerpt
Life Unaware
By Cole Gibsen, Liz Pelletier Entangled Publishing, LLC
Copyright © 2015 Cole Gibsen
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-62266-397-2
CHAPTER 1
Three months ago
The buzz of a cell phone jolted me out of a dreamless sleep. Frantic, I grabbed for it but knocked over my bottle of pills instead.
"Regan!" my mom shouted from the hallway. Her sharp voice dug into my brain like shards of glass. "I expect you sitting at the kitchen table in five minutes. We have things we need to discuss."
Awesome. Because on my list of fun things to do, lectures from my mother rated just below being stabbed in the eye with a fork. I gave up fumbling for the phone or the pills — I wasn't sure which one I needed more — and blinked at the ceiling until my room slid into focus. I couldn't have gotten more than four hours of sleep, judging by my zombielike reflexes. Not good. I couldn't let my mom get to me. It was too important of a day to be off my A game.
My phone buzzed again, and I managed to snatch it from the nightstand. A text from Payton screamed at me in all caps.
OMG DID YOU SEE CHRISTY HOLDER'S FB POST???!!!!
Christy was the captain of this year's varsity cheerleading squad. I could only assume, given the number of exclamation points in Payton's text, that Christy's post had something to do with the previous day's tryouts — the same tryouts I'd completely bombed when I fell ass-backward out of a full extension.
Nausea rolled through my stomach. I tried to focus on my phone as I scrolled through my Facebook updates. It only took a second to find Christy's post.
Tryouts were amazing, but due to the overwhelming number of girls hoping to make this year's squad, not everyone is going to make it. How will I choose?
I dropped my phone into my lap and chewed on my thumbnail. Would Christy cut me? I'd screwed up the extension, but she owed me. I'd gotten her into Jason Spear's party last spring. She'd remember that, wouldn't she? I needed to be on the squad, or I suspected my mom would kill me.
Pain lanced through my thoughts. I pulled my thumb from my mouth and stared at the blood beading along the jagged line where I'd chewed my nail to the quick. Again.
I grabbed a tissue from the box on the nightstand and wrapped it around my thumb. If my mom saw it, she'd add nail biting to her list of topics to cover every morning.
I hauled myself out of bed and across my room. Carrot, my childhood stuffed bunny, watched me from his place of honor on the shelf over my desk. His black button eyes seemed to stare at me with sympathy, as if saying, Remember when you were a kid and we lived in a house half this size? And even though the backyard was smaller than the driveway is now, we'd have the most fantastic adventures there. And the best part was that none of this stuff mattered — not cheerleading tryouts or student council, and especially not your mother's politics.
That was a lifetime ago, I told myself as I turned away. Everything was different back then — I was different. But now? I didn't have time to waste on wishes, memories, or stuffed toy rabbits. Nothing could change the fact that I was seventeen, and no matter how much I hated it, cheerleading, student council, and my mother's politics did matter.
Not making the cheerleading team wasn't an option — at least not according to my mom. And I hadn't worked so damn hard getting where I was only to lose it because of a stupid botched extension in tryouts.
I grabbed my phone off the down comforter. As any athlete would tell you, a team needed both a stellar offense and a stellar defense. Thanks to the lessons I'd learned from my politician mother, I was my own all-star team. First up, damage control.
I clicked on Christy's Facebook post and composed a quick comment.
Christy, you're such a fabulous captain, I'm sure whatever decision you make will be the right one. Here's to the best cheerleading squad this school's ever seen. Go Royals!
While the public suck-up post was a good start, it certainly wouldn't hurt my cause to send another, more personal message. Last month, Christy's boyfriend had cheated on her with a girl named Mia, who also just so happened to show up at tryouts with the same Gucci purse Christy had last year.
I found Christy in my phone's contacts and typed out a text.
Can you believe Mia showed up at tryouts? Saw her carrying what looked like your old Gucci purse. Poor Dumpster diver has to shop thrift for both purses and secondhand boyfriends. I say let the trash keep her trash. You're too good for that shit.
Christy responded a minute later with:
RIGHT? Thanks, girl. I can always count on you for a smile :)
I knew it was stupid, but my mother taught me to never underestimate the significance of flattery to put you on someone's good side. At the same time, I also knew the importance of a good offense, so I clicked back on Payton's text and added my other friend Amber to the conversation. My request was simple.
I NEED ALL THE DIRT YOU CAN GIVE ME ON CHRISTY HOLDER
Payton was the first to text back with:
You got it!
Amber responded a minute later with:
OMG Regan. A little early in the morning for a freak-out, isn't it?
I rolled my eyes and tossed my phone on the bed. I should have known Amber wouldn't understand. As the most popular girl in the school, she didn't have to work for anything. She also happened to be the co-captain of the squad. If I could find something to take Christy out of the picture, Amber would be captain. And as one of her best friends, of course I'd make the squad.
I let myself relax a bit. With Payton on the hunt for reputation-ruining information on Christy Holder, I was free to schedule my volunteer hours for Honor Society, formulate a plan for my student council campaign, get started on my pre-SAT studying, and —
"Regan. Time's up."
I flinched. My mother. Damn. I'd almost forgotten.
I dragged myself to my closet and slipped on my school uniform. It was a joke that the school thought requiring us to dress the same would promote some sort of equality among the students. What it really did was give us more creative ways to compete, like who had the best designer-label shoes or the most expensive jewelry — a title I was pretty sure I won thanks to the diamond necklace Daddy gave me for my sweet sixteen.
I fingered the necklace to make sure it was exactly where it should be — at the nape of my throat where everyone could see it. Next, I ran a brush through my hair, slid on a headband, and added a spritz of Marc Jacobs Daisy to my neck and wrists. I had just enough time to apply powder and mascara to cover up the dark circles under my eyes before my mom called for me again. My entire look was calculated to exert an air of perfectly sweet, all-American class.
I quickly zipped my makeup case and turned for the door. I knew better than to make her call me a fourth time. But as soon as I stepped into the hall, I paused. My pills. I scooped the pill bottle off my nightstand and zipped it inside my backpack. Technically, it was against the rules to carry prescription drugs in school. I didn't care. Every time I retrieved a pill from the school nurse, she emailed my parents, leading to unwanted attention from my mother, which brought more anxiety, more panic attacks, and the growth of an already-vicious cycle of stress. No one wanted that.
Besides, who knew? Maybe today would be the day the panic attacks stopped.
A vision of pigs flying had me smiling to myself when I entered the kitchen, but the moment I spotted my mother glaring at me from a chair at the table, the smile died on my lips. She wore one of her many suits tailored to fit snugly on her slender frame. Her hair was pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck, revealing the lines of her face — angles sharp enough to deflect any argument.
"Regan," she said coolly while motioning to the empty seat to her right. "Let's have a chat, shall we?"
"Where's Dad?" I asked, ignoring her question. He'd taken on the job of buffering my mother's assaults, and I wasn't about to suffer through this one without him. This morning, however, Dad wasn't sitting at his usual chair beside Mom. I glanced around the room and saw he wasn't at the coffeepot pouring a refill, either.
A look of annoyance flickered across her eyes. "Gone," she answered. "He had to perform an early-morning root canal. It's just you and me."
Her words echoed inside my head.
Just you and me.
I had no idea what my mother was about to say, but I knew one thing: somehow, I was letting her down. Anxiety wove through my body, pulling my muscles tight.
Recalling my doctor's instructions, I sucked in a deep breath, held it for the count of ten, and slowly exhaled until the coils wrapped around my body unwound.
She narrowed her eyes. "What are you doing? Why are you breathing like that?"
I didn't bother answering, because she knew exactly what I was doing. She drove me to my appointments and held hushed conversations with my doctor after I left the room. God forbid she acknowledge my stress. I mean, why would she when it was so much easier to play dumb than admit something was wrong with her daughter?
"I think I'll make myself a bowl of cereal," I said, faking pleasantness.
My mom reached for the purse looped on the back of her chair, withdrew a protein bar, and tossed it onto the table. "Regan, dear, you should be cautious with carbs. Girls with curves like yours walk a fine line between flattering and flabby."
I pressed my teeth together so hard my jaw ached. Still, I didn't move. The last thing I wanted to do was sit at the table with that woman. I had a better chance of making it out alive if I covered myself in blood and dove into a shark tank. "Coffee, then."
I turned for the pot and tried to remember that my mother wasn't always this critical. She'd given me Carrot, after all. I knew the political arena — the constant fear that your enemies would spot an opening — had changed her. In fact, I knew exactly how she felt, but that didn't make being her daughter any less stressful.
"I threw out all the coffee," she said.
I froze. Her tone implied she didn't know she'd just tossed a live grenade in our kitchen.
A spark of anger burned through me, and I embraced it. Besides my pills, anger was the one thing that effectively kept my panic attacks at bay. I bit out, "Why would you do that?" She knew I needed coffee in the morning more than air. Without that extra kick, I'd be lagging in first period, and I had an exam coming up. Was this some sick test to make me stronger?
She paused before replying. "Coffee stains teeth. It's campaign year, Regan. There will be commercials and interviews. We all need to look our best."
I turned to face her, folding my arms across my chest. "You're worried about my teeth?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Must I remind you that image is everything in politics? Do you want me to lose the next election?"
Actually, the last thing I wanted was for her to lose the election. Typically she spent half of every week in Washington, DC. The 791 miles separating her from our house in Illinois was the only thing keeping me sane. But come on. My damn teeth? At her insistence, I had them whitened on a regular basis, so I knew that was not the problem. And I needed that caffeine if I was going to stay on top ...
"I'm sorry," I said. "You're absolutely right. The economy is in shambles, people are out of work, but God forbid I have stained teeth."
Something almost resembling apologetic flickered in her eyes. "You know it's more than that. Your doctor says caffeine isn't good for your ... nerves."
I knew I shouldn't push it. That was as close to an I love you as I was ever going to get from her. Still, I couldn't help but add, "You mean my anxiety disorder?"
She lifted her chin and leveled me with her stare. "Sit, Regan."
Reluctantly, I trudged over to the table and dropped into the seat across from her. She motioned to the protein bar, and all I could think was, Mmmm, chocolate-covered cardboard, as I unpeeled the wrapper and dreamed about the cola I was going to grab from the vending machine at school.
I bit into the bar, but it took a minute to convince my throat I had actual food in my mouth and I should swallow instead of spitting it back out.
My mom watched me before shaking her head. "I just don't understand it, Regan. You're such a beautiful girl. Why won't you put more effort into your appearance? A little blush and lipstick would keep you from looking like you just rolled out of bed."
I frowned at her and kept chewing my cardboard. I had made an effort.
"Anyway" — she waved a hand dismissively — "that's a conversation for another day."
I swallowed hard. I can't wait.
"The real reason I want to talk to you," she continued, adjusting the small American flag pinned to her lapel, "is that with your senior year only a year away, we need to devise a game plan. This is your last chance to impress a college admissions board. Not to mention, with my upcoming election, the public will be watching, too."
I struggled to keep the protein bar from making an encore appearance. It was bad enough going down; I could only imagine how it would be coming back up. I swallowed several times before I was able to answer. "I actually already have a plan."
"Oh?" My mom quirked an eyebrow. "Please. The floor is yours."
I hated it when she talked to me like I was presenting a bill on the House floor rather than talking about my life. I fought to keep from rolling my eyes. "Well, I've been nominated to run for student council, so I'll have my own campaign to focus on."
"Wonderful." She smiled and laced her fingers together. "You simply must win. Student government looks fantastic on a college application."
"Right." There was little use pointing out the student body had to actually vote for me, and I had no say in the matter. "And I'm scheduling my service hours for school. I'll keep volunteering to walk horses at the stable, and I'll start serving dinners at the soup kitchen at church. And then there's cheerleading ..." Hopefully.
"Good." She hiked the purse strap over her shoulder. "I've got a plane to catch. I'll speak with your father tonight to make sure you stay on target. It wouldn't do to have things fall apart while I'm away."
And there it was. The ever-present threat of my failure ruining everything. The invisible straitjacket pulled so tightly around my ribs, my lungs ached. Despite my best effort, the panic attack was upon me.
She paused in the doorway long enough to give me one final warning. Her mouth moved, only I couldn't hear her words over the sound of my pulse pounding in my head.
Either my mom didn't notice or she didn't want to notice my trouble breathing, because she turned and left the moment her lips stopped moving. The second she was out of view, I grabbed my backpack and pulled out the small orange bottle. My shaking hands rattled the pills together. This was nothing new. I'd shaken it on so many occasions that a film of dust coated the interior.
Fear twisted through me — the same fear that always manifested during my panic attacks — that maybe I wouldn't make it through alive.
I knew it was a stupid thought. My doctor and therapist both explained countless times that no one could die from a panic attack. Still, I couldn't breathe — and you needed to breathe to live, right? I also assumed you needed your heart to not explode out of your chest. Yet both of those things appeared to be happening to me. But I'd survive. Somehow.
I always did.
CHAPTER 2
I pulled into my assigned parking spot, slid out of my white Ford Escape, and shut the door behind me. Mom insisted our cars be American-made. "It's good for public image," she'd said when I asked for an Audi or something equally hot.
My phone chirped. A text from Payton.
I've got major dirt on Christy Holder. You're not going to believe it!
Perfect. Hopefully it was something I could use. After the texts I'd sent that morning, there was no way Christy would ever suspect me.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Life Unaware by Cole Gibsen, Liz Pelletier. Copyright © 2015 Cole Gibsen. Excerpted by permission of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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