Page 17 of Vicious Little Snakes

My fist meets the leather seat next to me. “Fuck!”

I hit the seat over and over until all I’m left with is heavy breaths and a disheveled tie. I dig in my pocket for my phone, dialing the familiar number.

Me:The Harvard letter came today.

Van:I thought you didn’t apply…am I missing something? You trashed it, right?

Me:Yeah—what you’re missing is that my dad sent it for me.

Van:Whoa. That’s more of an Evan move.

Me:It’s fucking over, Van. That’s it. I might as well torch all the evidence.

Van:Don’t you dare. I’ll kill you. You’ve worked too hard.”

She’s right. I have. I’m pretty sure I’ve studied the likes and dislikes of the Columbia committee more than any test I’ve ever taken.

Me:What the fuck, Van. I’m so pissed.

Van:We need a plan b. Let’s put our heads together and see what we come up with. We’ll ditch and go to that ramen place you love.

Me:It’s morning. Nobody eats ramen at the crack of dawn. Plus, Grey will kill you for disappearing without an explanation.

Van:Grey will survive. I’m worried about you, Brookie.

I love her for trying to make me feel better but drowning my sorrows in Van only makes for trouble and forced explanations of why I need cheering up. I don’t want either.

Me:Don’t be, Van. I’ll figure it out. I just need to clear my head.

Van:Promise?

Me:Pinkie.

Tossing my phone to the side, I look out of the window, wondering what it would be like to be one of the bazillion people not related to Tucker Brooks. My life would be ordinary. I could choose any school, study any major, have any kind of life. Not something pre-planned and measured out for optimal success.

I should just fucking bail on college. Drop out before I begin. Good ‘ol Tuck would love that. Buzzing echoes off the black leather, another message coming through. I flip my phone over, reading it.

Van:Hey, Grey just reminded me that we have Caroline’s birthday this weekend. I think I was trying to forget. LOL. Let’s go together! We can drown your sorrows and then reformulate whatever terrible plan you’re already thinking about.

I chuckle because this girl definitely knows me.

Me:Not a chance in hell.

The phone rings. I knew it would. I hit decline because I’m already in a foul mood, and talking about Caroline Whitmore isn’t going to make me feel any better.

I should add my fucked-up morning to the plethora of reasons I have to hate Caroline.

She’s the reason I fell into art. I always doodled a lot. Too much if you ask some of my middle school teachers. Something about it always helped me make sense of the world. But if it weren’t for that fucking field trip to the Met in seventh grade, I may have always just been a doodler.

The car cuts over a lane, the driver lowering the privacy window to tell me we may have to take another route because of traffic. I nod, looking back out of my window, feeling suffocated by my goddamn thoughts.

People are packed onto the organized chaos, also known as the New York sidewalk, rushing to their destinations, not taking a moment to look around.

I feel like that’s all I do—look around, noticing everything that everyone else ignores or misses. I can’t help it. This is why my shit day is ultimately courtesy of Caroline Whitmore. I noticed her—the way Eve saw the apple and took a fucking bite.

The car slows to a stop, and I look up from my checked-out thoughts. We’re stopped directly in front of the Met.Come on. A flag advertising a showing of paintings on loan from the Tate in London brings a frown to my face.

Of course, that’s the showing. Fuck traffic and fuck life’s cruel jokes.