The Rush by Jenna (a book to read txt) 📕

His fingers traced tiny circles on my arm, making me giggle.
“Emmaline,” he hummed lowly.
I loved the depth in his voice, the scratchy chords as he picked at his guitar strings.
Emmaline, my darling girl, the one I see in my dreams.
Emmaline, you’re my baby girl, the one who keeps me clean.
I’ll never let you go, oh no, no, no, no, no.
My darling Emmaline.

At the time, they had just been words. They had no meaning or depth.
Trying to picture his face, the image gets blurrier and blurrier each year. Sometimes, I remember him having sandy blond hair. Other times, he had hair as dark as night.
I remember his scruffy five-o-clock shadow.
But other times, I swore he had a beard.
Or maybe I was just thinking of Chuck Norris.
We had the same soft brown eyes, though. My mother told me that often.

My question was: Why had he left?
Did he not love us anymore? Had he found himself a new family?

My second question was: Why had I been drawn to Reed that day?
He wasn’t into dating, or love.
Out of all the boys, out of all the kids, why had I gone up to him?

My last question: Why was he, the boy who ‘didn’t date’, so fucking addicting?

Drugs are a choice. Good or bad, it’s something people do. It’s something I do.
There are different kinds of drugs: recreational, and often illegal; medical, like anesthetics; love.
That last one was interesting. I had never been addicted to love before.
To the rush of crack? Maybe.
I have acted as outrageously as Rick James while on cocaine. I have had sex on Ecstasy more times than I can count. Yeah, I have trouble remembering shit sometimes. Once in a while I feel like there’s something I should understand that I don't. And sometimes, I regret blowing thousands of dollars that I have nothing to show for.
Love was one of those things I didn‘t have to show, I guess.
But drugs helped me escape. They helped me get away from reality, where life was bad and people hurt you.
Weed’ll keep you off the edge. It’s hardly a drug.
Heroin will numb the pain, for a while at least.
Mushrooms… I avoided them. Something about them being served in restaurants and at family meals, just didn’t seem good enough.
LSD was strong. Made you wonder what was real an what wasn’t. Of course, I did that on my own enough of the time.

<><>

Drumming my fingers on the desktop, I considered leaving.
I considered storming out of the classroom and never looking back.
But I stayed, because before I could escape, the teacher announced we had a new student. I exhaled loudly and waited for another preppy cheerleader to walk through the door, her platinum blond ponytail swishing with each peppy step.
I was surprised when what I saw was the complete opposite.
Round, big eyes greeted me from the front of the classroom. The girl was tiny, her waistline synching girlishly, her brown eyes wide and startled.
Her skin was startlingly pale and she looked like she was going to be sick. I had half a mind to duck before she barfed all over the place. Her hair was the color of straw and stick straight, hanging in her eyes.
“Class,” Mrs. Jacobs began, “ this is Emmaline Nolen.”
That name sounded familiar. Although I couldn’t place it, her name repeated over and over in my head. Emmaline Nolen.
Emmaline made her way through the rows of desks quietly, as if trying to become invisible. I knew the mean girls would eat her alive. She was a walking target.

<> Emmaline <>

My mother kissed my forehead.
“Em, you’ll do great today,” she reassured me. My stomach said otherwise.
Butterflies had been at me since I woke up in my unfamiliar bedroom that morning.
“I don’t know, Mom. I don’t feel very well.” Looking around the crowded halls of Miller High, my confidence ebbed away, bit by bit. My mother knew this trick and rolled her eyes.
“Oh, sweetheart, do you think it’s cramps? I have some Midol in my purse,” she insisted with a teasing smile. A blush spread across my face.
“Never mind,” I mumbled.
All of my friends, or old friends, I guess, would complain about their parents, and whined about how they wished their parents were more like my mom. In her old Strokes tee and tight jeans, her motherly consolation wasn’t nearly as comforting with my fellow classmates checking out her ass.
She then turned to my sister, Kat. Or rather Katherine. My father liked the rustic charm in our names and promised to write big time hits about us… unfortunately for Kat, ‘Katherine’ was never really a song. Now, ‘Dear Emmaline’… it wasn’t anything huge, just a lullaby. But it was mine.
“Now remember, Katherine, you have to behave,” my mother insisted, tucking a wild lock of Kat’s hair behind her ear lovingly. My sister was the wild, rebellious child that I never could be. Sporting a short leather skirt and fringed jacket, she rolled her eyes.
“Mom,” she groaned, scowling as my mother kissed her forehead.
To say I was the black sheep in my family was an understatement. Kat’s eyes were a furiously bright green. My mother’s were hazel. And me? I got brown eyes. Boring, bland, brown eyes. My tawny hair was nothing compared my sister’s wild black curls. My mother’s short, dark hair was silky and glossy. Mine was just… straight. No gloss or shine. No curls, no matter how long I held a curling iron to my hair.
“Alright, you two hurry along before you get in trouble,” my mom laughed, hugging us each quickly before shoving us along.
Kat easily fit in. Within a few minutes, a flock of boys and girls surrounded her. I, on the other hand, was stuck with the short end of the stick.
I looked around, desperately searching the crowd for a kind face, but with no luck. People were just drawn to Kat.
Sighing, I readjusted my messenger bag and tried to navigate my way through the big school. Following a crowd of kids that looked my age, I found myself in an unfamiliar hallway. The secretary had told my mother and I to take a left at room two-oh-five… or was it two-oh-seven? I turned the corner, pulling my schedule out of my bag, and found my bag tipping over, the contents spilling all over the ground. Letting out a frustrated cry, I bent down to pick up my text books and calculators.
“Need some help,” a voice asked from above. I glanced up to see a tall boy, who looked maybe a year or two old than me, with brown eyes and a deep set tan. Before I could say anything, he bent down and began helping me.
“Thanks,” I managed breathlessly, surprised someone so… handsome would help me.
He had a straight set jaw, very strong and defined, and soft eyes. They were the color dark chocolate. His lips tugged up into a smile that made my heart skip a beat.
“No problem,” he paused, taking a peek at my floored schedule, “ Emmaline Nolen. I’m Jessie. Jessie DeCarlo,” he grinned, extending a strong hand. I wet my lips and glanced at his hand nervously. What if my palms were sweaty? What if he noticed my hang nail? What if-
“I don’t bite,” Jessie assured me with a lopsided grin before helping me stand. I offered him a small smile and nodded.
“Emmaline… but you already know that,” I laughed awkwardly. Jessie grinned.
“Well, Emmaline, you seem… lost. Do you know where you’re going,” he asked teasingly. I shook my head, feeling a slight blush creep across my cheeks.
“No, not at all,” I admitted sheepishly. He grinned.
“Don’t worry, I know this school like the back of my hand.”
And with that, we made our way to class.

<><>

His ice blue eyes rested on me and a sudden queasiness settled in my stomach. His black hair hung in his eyes and something about his lazy posture made me internally wince. Suddenly, I wished Jessie had stayed with me, but he had to do morning announcements in the main office.
“Class, this is Emmaline Nolen,” the teacher, Mrs. Jacobs, said, her lips a thin line. I had half a mind to correct her, to tell her to just call me Emma, but instead found myself a seat in the far back of the room. Trying to avoid everyone’s gaze, I slipped easily through the rows. I could pinpoint who was who- the tall brunette in the front row was the popular beautiful girl everyone wanted to be; the big guy in the back, who wore a letterman jacket and gelled up hair, was the jock; the boy, with the ice blue eyes… he was the stoner. He would be, as I soon found out, my closest friend. And friend was over-exaggerating it.

Jerking my face up from the desktop, I blinked groggily, looking up to see a disapproving Mr. Ascher.
“Mr. Kendall, you wouldn’t mind showing around Miss. Nolen, now would you,” he asked, his greasy hands resting on my desk. I grit my teeth.
“No, sir,” I managed, trying to contain my annoyance.
“That‘s twenty minutes off detention. Good job, Reed. But don‘t even think this gets you out of slackking,” he insisted. He gave me ‘community service projects’ when he thought I was slacking in class; I did my time and then some extra. I got detention- he pulled a few strings. Get caught with drugs- he’d dump ‘em down the toilet for me. I considered him family. He was probably the only teacher I ever had