Fool Me Twice by Lizzie Morton

Prologue

 

Britney 18 years old

 

I quickly open my bag to pull out my lunch. Something feels off as I stare down inside at the contents. I sit and blink, trying to put my finger on what it is, and then it hits me. I’ve forgotten my gym kit, the same gym kit I need for my next class. Damn it. This is the third time I’ve forgotten it this semester. I’m screwing up left, right, and center. Nobody would blame me, but still … I need to do some damage control. I’m burning through my free passes, and I can’t afford to run out.

I give the measly lunch package in my bag a longing look, not that it deserves it. It consists of a sandwich made with five-day-old bread I had to pick the mold off and half a granola bar I salvaged from the floor, next to where my mom was passed out on the couch. It’s the first thing I’ll have eaten all day and my stomach groans painfully.

I sigh and close my bag. Food will have to wait.

The woman sitting at the desk in the school office gives me a disdainful look when I explain why I need to leave. Whatever. She’s the least of my worries and if I stand a chance of getting home and back before next period, I can’t mess around.

Outside, I pull out my cell and try one last time to get in touch with Ross. It goes straight to voicemail. Helpful … not.

Time is ticking away.

I’d sprint, but my shitty sneakers have no cushioning, and the last time I had to run in them I was hobbling for days. I opt for power walking as fast as I can. I cannot get detention. I have a shift at the diner tonight and the paycheck is the only thing keeping a roof over our heads, and the meals that are few and far between, on the table.

This would all have been easier if Ross had just answered his cellphone. I know he had a couple of free periods and could have run home to grab my stuff, that’s if I’d been able to get in touch with him. When I reach our apartment, I unlock the door and rush to my room, grabbing my gym kit off the bed that I stupidly forgot to pack.

I hear a noise. A groan.

I stop in my tracks and listen for a few seconds. Nothing. I must have been hearing things. I’m about to turn and leave, when I hear it again. This time a moan accompanies the groan. It’s louder and I know it’s not my imagination. The smart thing would be to call out, warn whoever is in the apartment that I’m here. With Mom, you never know who she could have let through the door. But I’m too focused on finding out what is going on.

I should walk away and ignore it, but I don’t.

Tiptoeing into the living area, my eyes flicker to the couch where Mom was out cold when I left this morning. She’s not there. I walk quietly to her room, a task that should be easy, but proves difficult—each time I lift a foot my shoe sticks to the carpet and I struggle not to fall. The door is ajar, and the noises get louder the closer I get.

When I push the door open, I stop.

If my world hadn’t fallen apart years ago, this would do it.

Dumbfounded, I watch as Ross, my childhood sweetheart and the only person I thought was left in my life who I could trust, groans while my mom sits on top of him, riding him like she’s auditioning for a porn movie.

I clap a hand over my mouth, trying to stifle the gasp that comes out. It’s wasted effort on my part, because on the floor are two syringes and a tourniquet. I could make all the noise in the world—they’re both too high to care.

I want to look away, but I’m transfixed. It wasn’t enough that she fucked up her life, she had to go and destroy the only good thing I had going in mine. Nausea hits when I back away.

I’m done.

I run to my room and shove what little belongings I have left—the ones I haven’t already had to sell—into a bag. Without so much as a backward glance, I storm out of the apartment, leaving my pathetic excuse of a life behind.