The Everafter Read Online Free PDF Page B

hadn’t had as many opportunities to run afoul ofher, but last night she’d been so bossy that even he’d commented on it. That’s when I shared with him my nickname for her.
    Gabe’s mouth was full, but he nodded his head vigorously and then started to stand up as if he were planning to come with me. Right. Gabe in the ladies’ restroom. Not such a good idea. I held my hand up, and he stopped mid-move. Then I turned and fled from the dais and toward the bathrooms.
    Just my luck, there were, like, twenty women in there, going to the bathroom or refreshing their makeup.
    I turned and ran outside, looking for an inconspicuous spot where I could have some privacy. I could barely stand up.
    And then Gabe was there, holding on to my arm. By that point, I was glad he’d followed me, because I didn’t think I could stand on my own anymore. I sank onto my knees.
    Now he’s holding me tightly against him so I don’t do a complete nose-dive into the grass. I wobble a bit and my hair brushes against his chest. Some of it is pulled out of its updo. The orchids from my hair tumble to the ground between us.
    He has just gotten down on his knees beside me and is telling me to try breathing deeply. We hear Her Highness’s voice coming at us across the lawn. “What’s wrong with her, Gabe?”
    I groan. “Does she have to yell loud enough for the whole world to hear?” I ask, just as my body begins to shudder. I want to throw up, but with Gabe here, I want even more desperately not to humiliate myself in front of him.
    Unfortunately, millions of years of evolution, designed to help humans combat viruses and food poisoning, causes my stomach to callously disregard the needs of my self-esteem.
    My stomach erupts.
    The disgusting taste of bile fills my mouth, and Brenda’s voice reaches me from the background: “Hold her up, Gabriel! Hold her up! She’s going to soil her dress.”
    Even as I lose the contents of my stomach, a part of my brain is capable of wondering who ever talks about soiling a dress. Soiling? I mean, come on.
    But that thought is quickly replaced by the realization that something horrendous—even more horrendous than barfing in front of a hot guy—is happening. Gabriel is trying to hold me up enough to keep me from “soiling” my dress, but he has forgotten a key law of physics:
    The force exerted on Object One (my shoulders) + the force exerted on Object Two (my strapless dress, which is trapped beneath my knees) = mortification (when my dress does not follow my shoulders upward, but my breasts do).
    Her Highness has arrived and seems to realize this situation requires the Maneuvering of an Expert (this is the first time I have ever been thankful for Brenda’s bossiness). She pushes Gabe away from me (So what if I fall face-forward into my own barf? Way less embarrassing than leaving my chest exposed) and starts stuffing me back into my dress while yelling at Gabe, “Get out of here! Go! Go get her mother!”
    Gabe disappears, my stomach stops ejecting its contents, and Brenda is ripping up pieces of grass. She uses them to try to wipe my face and mouth. I’d prefer to “soil” the hem of my dress, but Brenda sees what I’m trying to do and manhandles me into submission. Then she pulls me away from the barf and gently rests me on my side.
    “Madison, have you been drinking?”
    The very thought makes my stomach revolt all over again. I groan. “Nooo…I think I’ve got the flu. I haven’t been feeling so great all day.”
    She kneels down beside me. “Poor kid,” she says, and—as we wait for my mother—pets my hair like I’m a dog.
    Mom runs up to us, her violet mother-of-the-bride dress ( Why do they make those out of such awful material?) fanning out behind her in the breeze.
    “Oh, sweetie, what’s wrong?” she asks. She takes over petting my hair, but she’s had lots of practice at it, so it feels like a mother comforting a daughter. None of that pet-the-dog stuff.
    “She thinks