Work In Progress by A. M. Bryker (if you liked this book TXT) 📕

  "Right, one of those guys," he responds almost automatically. "You know, you should really smile every once in a while."

  I stare at him, wondering if he's actually serious. Catching my look, he shrugs, saying, "Just a suggestion." 

  "Why does it matter to you?" I demand. 

  Shrugging again, he answers, "I just think you of all people might like it." 

  "How would you know what I may or may not like?" I ask with a huff. 

  "It's just a hunch," he says simply, unperturbed. 

  I chew on my bottom lip as I ponder what he said. I've never had a reason to smile, especially considering my living conditions. I don't recall ever smiling or laughing after I turned twelve. 

  What if I started now? Would it hurt in any way to indulge in it? 

  I smirk derisively at my questions. I shouldn't have to wonder about it. Smiling should come naturally. Why doesn't it for me? 

  After glaring at the sidewalk for a minute, I notice that one of Jack's shoelaces has come untied. I try to ignore it, but to no avail.

  "Your shoelace is untied," I blurt.

  Laughing, he bends down on one knee to remedy the issue. "I was wondering how long it would take for you to say something."

  "You knew it was untied?" I question. "And you didn't do anything sooner? Why?" 

  "It obviously bothered you," he replies, standing. "I wanted to see how long you would last." 

  Speechless, I narrow my eyes and punch his bicep. He laughs again, and I glare even harder.

  "You're such a jerk," I tell him. 

  "I know." He winks. 

  A few minutes later, we arrive at my house.

  "So I'll see you tonight then?" Jack asks hopefully.

  I think about it for a second, and then nod reluctantly before entering my house. When I close the door behind me, I bite my bottom lip. What have I gotten myself into?

  Heading into the kitchen, I call out, "Mom, I'm home!"

  As usual, I don't get a response. I search the fridge for a snack and pull out some yogurt. Grabbing a spoon from the dishwasher, I start to leave the kitchen. However, something on the table catches my eye and I decide to investigate. 

  To my surprise, my name is on the front of a white piece of folded paper. Picking it up, I read the message. 

I got a job. Late night shifts. I'll be back in the morning. Be good.  Mom

  My eyebrows rise seemingly of their own accord. Mom got a job? That's different. Perhaps she spent all the money that her second deceased husband left with her. I wouldn't be surprised.

  I shrug and exit the kitchen. The house seems bigger and more empty without Mom. The couch in the living room that my mom usually occupies is almost unrecognizable. 

  A newspaper rests on the coffee table, and I bend over to pick it up. The 'help wanted' section is open, and a few of the jobs are circled with red marker. Two of them have X's in the middle of them, but the third one doesn't. I assume this is the job Mom was referring to. 

  I frown. A waitress at a café? My mom is too impatient and stuck-up for something like that. I wonder how long this'll last. 

  Deciding I should find something to wear for tonight, I drop the newspaper on the coffee table and go upstairs with my yogurt. 

  I've been at home when my mom has thrown parties, but I've never gone to any, even when I was invited. I never had a reason to. 

  Now I guess I do.

  After eating my snack, I search through my closet for an outfit. I model a few things in front of my full length mirror, but none of them seem to work. 

  Glancing at the clock after a while, I realize I only have an hour before I'm supposed to be picked up. Clothes are strewn all over my bedroom. I flop down onto my bed in frustration. Immediately, I spring back up and yelp in pain. 

  Rubbing my back, I move clothes around until I find the source of my agony. I nod when I see it. Perfect. 

  Ten minutes later, I'm standing in front of my mirror wearing a brilliant outfit. A studded black leather vest is worn over a navy blue quarter-sleeve shirt. I wear a dark miniskirt with a spiked belt--the culprit of my throbbing back--and leggings. To go with this, I find heeled boots that go up to my knees and put them on. 

  I still have time to do my hair and reapply my makeup. I hope. 

  Quickly, I do my makeup. Then I rummage in my bathrooms drawers until I find my curling iron and go about styling my hair. 

  I barely have time to spray my hair to lock it in place when I hear the doorbell. One last look in the mirror and I'm out the bedroom door. 

  When I open the front door, Jack is standing on the porch. As soon as his eyes are on me, they widen dramatically. 

  "Wow," he breathes. "You look great."

  Raising an eyebrow, I reply, "Thanks."

  A few moments later, Rick shows up in his expensive car. Both eyebrows furrow into a deep frown and I let out a long sigh.

  "Shall we?" Jack holds out his hand to me.

  Shrugging on a thin leather jacket, I ignore his hand and make my way to the sleek car any guy would be envious of. I begin to reach out my hand to open the back door, but I'm startled when another hand beats me to it.

  "Allow me," Jack says kindly. Such a gentleman.

  Without giving him a response, I slide into the vehicle and seat myself behind the driver.

  "How are you two this fine evening?" Rick asks from in front of me.

  "Great," Jack answers. 

  I remain silent, deciding instead to look out the window. 

  No turning back now. 

  Rick begins driving and I have the urge to open my door and jump out before it's too late. But I don't. Like I said, I'm not a coward. Not that I seek thrills, I just prefer seeing out the things to which I've committed. I wish I hadn't decided to go.

  "You're being really quiet back there, Beastie," Rick calls back to me. "Something on your mind?"

  I don't answer. Instead, I very pointedly cross my arms and continue staring out the window.

  Watching me do so in the rearview mirror, he complains, "Aw, c'mon, don't be like that, it was just a question."

  I still don't respond. It's not like he cares anyway - he's just trying to get under my skin, as usual.

  After realizing that he won't get anything from me, Rick moves on to Jack. He has a little bit more luck, getting a few niceties out of him before it gets too awkward.

  The rest of the ride is spent in silence.

  Just the way I like it.

It doesn't take long to arrive at the party. I wish it would have taken longer to get here than it did. This is something I have never done before, and I'm certain something bad is going to happen.

  Rick parks his car amongst the horde of other vehicles in the enormous driveway. After he switches off the engine, he turns in his seat to look at me. 

  "Lets get this party started," he says with a mischievous grin. 

  Was it a mistake to come tonight? Probably. But it's different. Besides, I couldn't pass up the chance to get Rick to leave me alone, even for a little while.

  Hastily, Rick clambers out the front door. I'm about to open my own door, but someone beats me to it. I look up at Rick, surprised, and he smiles. 

  Frowning, I start to slide out when Jack's hand appears next to me. Wordlessly, I refuse it, climbing out of the car without their help. Jack shrugs it off like normal, but Rick's face shows a flash of annoyance toward Jack.

  He's acting weirder than normal.

  The thought leaves my mind the instant I set my eyes on the house. Okay, that's an understatement. This isn't a mere house. It's definitely a mansion. 

  Lit up like a candle, the mansion sits proudly on its large portion of land. Music blares from inside. On the lawn is a crowd of people talking and laughing. 

  I look at Jack and ask, "How many parties have you been to?"

  "Too many to count," he replies with a smile. "C'mon."

  As I follow Jack through the crowd of people, I feel uncomfortable. More so than I thought I would. But after all, everyone here is from the same school. I see most of them five times a week. If I get humiliated while I'm here, everyone at school will know about it in a very short amount of time. A word of advise to myself: don't screw up, and don't let anyone else screw you. 

  When I walk through the front door with Jack, I'm instantly hit by a wave of heat, party lights, loud music, and the smell of food. My stomach reminds me that I haven't eaten dinner. 

  Having to lean toward him to be heard, I ask Jack, "Now what?"

  He puts his head close to mine to answer, "Now we eat. I'm hungry."

  Somewhat relieved, I make my way with Jack through the throng of bodies to a table filled with refreshments. We help ourselves to fruit and miniature sandwiches. Jack strikes up a conversation with me, and I allow myself to keep it going.

  I'm about to pick up a cup of fruit punch, but Jack stops me and warns, "I wouldn't drink that. It's probably spiked. The only safe drinks are bottled."

  He crouches down beside a large cooler full of ice and digs around for a moment before producing two bottles of soda. 

  Taking the one he holds out to me, I try to sound a little more genuine when I express my gratitude. I really am glad he considered that. I'v never been under the influence and I never want to be.

  I twist off the cap and take a small sip. At that moment, I feel someone bump into me from behind, causing me to spill some soda on my clothes. 

  "Oh crap, I am so sorry!" 

  I turn around slowly. A girl with bronze ringlets framing her features covers her face with both hands, looking completely mortified. Her light green eyes are wide with horror. 

  A second later, she swiftly grabs a few napkins and hands them to me. Silently, I take them. Thankfully, I'm able to get most of the drink out of my shirt. 

  "I really am sorry," the girl says sincerely. She sounds British. "I should have been watching where I was going."

  Now that her hands aren't covering her face, I notice that her nose is graced with freckles. Nicely sculpted lips are pressed into a worried line. She wrings her hands nervously. 

  I almost tell her off, but I decide that it really isn't worth my time right now. Even if the soda doesn't come out, it won't be too noticable.

  Forcing myself to calm down, I take a deep breath and reply, "Don't worry about it."

  The girl doesn't seem convinced. "Are you sure? I could get you a new shirt if you want."

  I shake my head, insisting, "No. This one will be fine."

  Relief flashes