3
Fast forward to Morrow residence, where I'm greeted by dinner on the table and a note from Mom dearest: "Eat up, hit the sack. Night shift calls." The food? Bomb.com. First decent grub I've had since I kicked the mortal coil.
Ping! My phone's blowing up with more hate than a troll convention. I'm auto-added to this burn book chat where everyone's roasting me like I'm the main course at a cannibal feast. The "nicest" of the lot are calling me a braindead swine. The rest? Let's just say, it's R-rated and leave it at that.
I'm two seconds from clapping back when I think, "Nah, why waste my hot minute back in the land of the living on these losers?" Power down. Peace out.
I need to dig up the dirt on Sydney's life, so I hit up her room. It's Novel Central, with a side of "Dear Diary" cringe. Seriously, who even does that anymore? But curiosity killed the cat, and I'm flipping pages like it's a Netflix binge. It's a Shakespearean tragedy starring Sawyer Leighton, the dude she's crushing on harder than a high school math test.
"He's out of my league."
"I'll give him a present. Will he notice me?"
"He didn't even glance at my gift. He's all about Sasha Snow. Me? I'm just trash."
My heart's pounding in my chest. Back in my day, my biggest problem was the lunch lady shortchanging me on pulled-pork. Love life? I was the queen bee, and the boys I friend-zoned became my loyal subjects.
I fire up the phone again, and bam! 999+ notifications. Still a hate parade.
"You can't even shine Sasha Snow's shoes!"
"She's off to Princeton. You? Dream on, amphibian!"
I peek at the socials and there it is, Sydney's last Hail Mary: "Would you all be happy if I just died?"
The replies?
"Do it already! Can't wait to pop the popcorn!"
Humans can be such trash.
I wasn't about to play nice with these clowns.
They didn't earn it.
