I have my own place—kind of. I mean, Dad technically owns it. And it’s on his property. Like his backyard.
But when I graduated high school I said, I need independence! And he offered me the guest house at the Indiana farmhouse we use for about half the year. It was tempting. Too tempting. And I’m weak and frail and scared to death about being on my own.
But I was determined to have the same college experience as someone who didn’t grow up with all that I did, which is why I applied at Troublemakers and pledged as many sororities as I could and took the maximum amount of classes available for my major.
Freshman year I spent by my lonesome. No sorority accepted me, and the classes became way too overwhelming with my job on top of it. I wasn’t able to keep my sleep schedule, and I was crab-tac-ular on my best days and a downright… b-word… on my worst.
When enrollment came around again, I bit the bullet and transferred my credits to art school instead. My parents are supportive as heck, and they backed me up completely… and financially.
I’ve heard it my whole life—spoiled, privileged, trust-fund baby. I’m not insane enough to argue the point, and I may be a bit naïve. It does put a hitch in making friends sometimes.
Speaking of friends, I frown at the thought of trash talking one of them tonight. My tongue was a rabid dog, taking off and biting at whatever it could to make a connection with Zach. (Mmmm, Zach…) In the process, I’m pretty sure I called my best friend in the world dumb.
Guilt pops its head up like a meerkat in the corner of my mind. Yep, it’s definitely the guilt that’s keeping me from my perfect sleep schedule.
I push up on my elbow and flick the horse-carved lamp. The entire house is a combination of rustic cabin and modern mansion, and it’s the best inspiration for my off-kilter style of art. My gold iPad sits neatly next to my phone, both of which are on the charging station. I take the iPad, preferring to work with that at night and my phone during the day. They equally need to be used so I can justify owning both.
After using my thumbprint to unlock it, I tap my way to Amber’s message feed.
Hey,
I need to apologize to you. I was trying to impress a guy tonight, and I may have said you were dumb, and I didn’t mean to, but I did, and I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.
I miss you. Hope we can get together soon.
Candace
I read it over to check my grammar and correct any autocorrect blunders. Once it’s perfect, I nod once and send the apology off with a whoosh. A sigh of relief escapes me, and I tap the edges of the iPad while I wait for her response, refreshing every few seconds. (Okay, exactly every fifteen seconds.)
Two minutes and forty-five seconds later, I refresh to her response. My heart thuds uncomfortably, my eyes narrowing at the three laughing faces. There’s nothing else.
Why are you laughing at me? I AM sorry.
I refresh some more, and it’s only thirty more seconds this time.
Was he impressed? ;)
Not at all. Boy was he not impressed by me. He probably thought I was on something.
Too bad. Throwing a friend under the bus and not even a phone number. She sends more laughing faces before another message comes in. Look, we’re good. I’ve called you much worse behind your back. ;)
Like what??
I’m kidding! Relax, Candace. I’m not mad, and don’t beat yourself up about it. I am dumb sometimes. You can sleep easy. I mean, you’re bed time is in ten, right?
I grimace at the message. *your
GO TO BED, GRAMMAR POLICE. Love ya!
A small chuckle rumbles my lips, and I exit our chat. 10:21, and my mind is not any more de-cluttered. Amber didn’t give two fluffs about what I said, and she never would’ve known if I hadn’t said anything. And why did I have to message her? Guilt? Why did I feel bad? How dare I say something negative about anyone, ever.
A flicker of a memory projects in my mind like an 8mm. Dad was watching some horror show, don’t remember which one, and I defended the demon.
He just wants to make friends. Maybe he’s a good demon.
My dad raised his eyebrow, and I swear he thought I was a demon. But really, I was afraid of getting possessed, so I said nice things about the scary ghost. I made it a point to never watch a horror movie after that.
I push my face against the iPad and hit my forehead a few times, grumbling under my breath. As much as I hate to admit it, Pete might be right. I have got to loosen up some.
I watch the clock tick over another minute and nibble on the inside of my cheek. Start small… I could, well, stay up past my bedtime. It’ll be okay if I get a couple minutes less sleep.
My teeth slide off each other, and I hiss as I accidentally take a chunk off the inside of my bottom lip. Ick, I hope that heals quickly.
To keep myself from further nervous-tick-caused injury, I scroll to my journal app. My journal is more or less a bunch of incoherent babbling and doodles. Art is the only place I allow chaos. It feels okay, somehow, to be however I want without worrying if it’s right or wrong. It just is, and I like that.
I take my stylus out and pull up a color code generator. I’ll let randomness pick what colors I use tonight.
#E826A4, #58EE44, and #D0CFCF. Unconventional, and I smile as I set them inside my empty page for use. The clock up top says it’s 10:29. Oh my gosh, I’m going to do it. I’m going to stay up past my bedtime.
My hands start to shake, and that’s super ridiculous. I’m excited to break a self-imposed rule. I really hope I’m not crabby tomorrow. If I am, I’m blaming Pete.
I let out a small laugh, starting the sketch template I use for drawing girls. Realism has never been my forte, and I prefer the illustrator look anyway. I can exaggerate features, which is fun. It’s… against the rules.
10:30.
My light should be off. My iPad should be down. I should be cozied up with my fluffy pillows and way too expensive sheets. My mind usually drifts away, my body knowing that I don’t have time for tossing and turning.
An itch springs up my spine, and I cringe and squirm, trying to rid myself of it. Just focus on drawing, Candace. You got this.
I get the basic shapes of a face—the imperfect circle and the curved lines I run through it so I know where to put the eyes, nose, and mouth—before the clock hits 10:31.
“I did it!” I exclaim to my fan, because that’s the only darn thing here. A victorious grin hits my lips, and I flip to Pete’s name in my contacts.
10:31! I’m up past my bedtime. See? I can rebel.
The response bubbles dance almost immediately after I send, and my stomach dances with them at the thought that he’s answering right away. Kind of nice he doesn’t see my name and roll his eyes and ignore.
A whole minute. I’ve had sex that’s lasted less than that, so props.
I make a face, and a shiver goes up and down my spine. Visuals… oy.
My thumb hovers over the keypad, but before I can respond, my Facetime bings, and Pete’s goofy face and mussed brown hair appears on my suddenly too-big screen.
“Nononono.” I shake my head hard. I’m in bed. No bra. Messy bun. Overnight zit cream in the crease of my nose and on my chin. I reject his call so fast my finger slides completely off the screen, then I toss the sucker across the bed like it bit me.
Okay, I stayed up. That’s my rebellion for the night. I’ll call him back in the morning… or some time when I’m dressed.