The New Husband Read Online Free PDF

everything was going to work out fine, and that eventually we’d become one big happy family doing all these Instagram-worthy things, like hiking and biking and whatever.
    Screw that. I don’t drink or vape, I get good grades—I do everything I am supposed to do, but still my life stinks and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.
    And it’s all his fault—Mr. Fitch, aka Simon, aka Mr. I-Just-Want-To-Be-Your-Friend. God! He makes me want to puke. In five years, I’ll be gone. Outta here. Off to college and that will be that. I won’t ever, ever, come back, and my mom can cry all she wants, say how much she misses me all she wants, but I won’t care. And that will be my revenge. And when she gets old and needs someone to look after her, I’ll say, “Did you look after me? Nope! You moved me in with him, and for that you’ll have to die alone and lonely. Sorry, I’m not sorry!”
    Okay, that’s not true. That’s my secret revenge wish, but I’d never, ever, ever do that to my mom. I love my mom. Love her with a cap “L”and all that mushy stuff. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be pissed at her for what she’s done. I still have feelings, you know. I still hurt.
    One week into eighth grade and things are just as bad at school as they were at the end of seventh grade. I still eat lunch alone, thanks to Laura Abel’s campaign against me (not worth getting into now), and then last week I twisted my ankle playing lacrosse (thought for sure it was broken). So I’ve got a stupid boot around my foot and too much time on my hands, and worse, I’m home when he’s home. Students in my school are divided into different teams, each with different teachers, so thank God Almighty I don’t have Mr. Fitch for social studies. But now that I’m not playing lacrosse, we essentially have the same schedule, at least on days he doesn’t coach robotics, and I can’t stand to be alone with him.
    Since Mom’s unpacked the house (well, mostly unpacked it), she’s been talking seriously about getting a job. Worst-case scenario alert! That would mean I could conceivably have hours alone with Simon after school. Can you say: Nightmare!
    At least the new house is comfortable enough, but it’s not like I have any friends in the neighborhood. I don’t really have any friends at all anymore (again, not worth getting into). My room—aka my sanctuary—is like my room in the old house, but it doesn’t feel the same. Simon’s energy makes it different. Somehow it gets everywhere, floating like an airborne virus.
    Anyway, I knew my mom was worried about money. The move was super expensive, and we’ve had nonstop contractors since we got here—electricians, plumbers, painters, landscapers. Awesome, right? But Simon didn’t think my mom needed to work at all. No, no, no. Mr. Fitch was set and ready to take care of us on his big teacher’s salary. I don’t know how much he actually makes, but it can’t be enough to support a family of four.
    Even though they are not officially engaged yet, it is going to happen, so Simon is essentially my stepfather, which is nothing but a stupid label. I looked it up online, and, married or unmarried, he has nolegal right to make decisions on my behalf unless he adopts me. News flash—that is not going to happen, not ever ever ever. If Mom gets hurt, or God forbid worse, it would be up to Nonni and Papa to look after me, not him.
    It was a Tuesday afternoon when bad went to worse. Daisy and I were on the couch watching TV. Some dumb Netflix thing, doesn’t matter, and I was doing what I do best these days—feeling sorry for myself and being mad at the world. Lame, I know. I wasn’t an orphan in a war-torn country. I had a roof over my head. I had my dog (I love my dog so, so much—and she makes a great couch cushion). I had everything