The Ugly Stepsister Strikes Back Read Online Free PDF Page B

secret school pride I don't know about? You just drift through here without belonging or caring."
    That stung. I didn't know it was possible to feel that much hurt and anger all at the same time.
    "Whatever," I echoed back at him. "Why don't you just go back to ignoring my existence? You never noticed me before, and you don't have any reason to acknowledge me now."
    Jake took two steps forward, close enough to kiss me. "Oh, please. You so obviously want to be noticed. If you didn't, you'd be like every other girl in this school and blend in. You do your hair like that and dress the way you do because you want to stand out. You are
dying
for me to notice you."
    It was like being hit out of the swing all over again, lying flat on my back trying to catch my breath.
    He stood there for a moment, staring at me with that angry intensity. I could feel his warm breath on my face and decided I was seriously demented because I couldn't decide what I wanted more in that moment—to slap him or kiss him. Then he stalked off to the desk furthest away from me. He pulled out his phone and began furiously texting.
    I sank slowly into my seat. I was pretty sure Jake had been speaking rhetorically, but it pierced me all the same. I did want Jake to notice me.
    Just not like this.

    * * *
    Jake did as I asked and proceeded to ignore me for the rest of detention. As soon as it ended, he practically jumped out of his seat. He logged out on the laptop without even looking in my direction and left. I sat there for a while and finally forced myself to get up.
    I didn't call anyone for a ride. I wasn't sure if I'd be able to make it through the call without crying.
    I wasn't exactly the crying type, and I didn't want any questions or awkward conversations. Walking home felt like slogging through knee-high mud. All physical activity—walking, holding my bag, breathing—seemed slower and harder.
    I told myself I wouldn't think about him. So, obviously, I thought about him the whole way home.
    When I finally got to my house, I did have a moment where I worried about what my dad would say. The school would have called him to let him know that I had detention. But he's one of those clueless, daydreaming, in their own little world type artists. Like the type that sat down to eat dinner until his eyes glazed over. Without taking a single bite, he'd get up from the table and be back in his studio all night. He was a good dad, but he was easily distracted.
    I could see that he was in his studio so I knew I had nothing to worry about. I wouldn't be getting in trouble. Although it might be nice to get yelled at and/or lectured just so that I could blame my tears on my dad's attempt at discipline.
    My dad's studio faced the beach on the east side of the house. The bedrooms were on the opposite side. I didn't even have to walk past him. He wouldn't know that I had come home or that I was late. I watched him paint for a minute and then went through our living room that had floor to ceiling windows that skirted around the outdoor infinity pool. I nudged my bedroom door open, dropped my bag on the floor, and then collapsed on my bed.
    Stepmom Number Six had been an interior decorator and had done my entire room in shades of puke pink with white, girly furniture. Then she'd apparently liked it so much she'd decorated Ella's in exactly the same colors. My dad had given her what he called "carte blanche," which meant she could do whatever she wanted and he wouldn't let me change it no matter how much I whined and complained because it would "hurt her feelings." The same feelings which, I might add, he didn't much mind hurting when he'd divorced her four months later.
    Next to my closet I had attempted to put up some of that chalkboard paint, but it was way too much work and I was way too lazy to finish. Instead I just covered every square inch with posters and cutouts from magazines, divided by category. I put my manga on the left wall, hot guys on the right, and my