Breakup From Hell by Ann Dávila Cardinal EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Author: Ann Dávila Cardinal
- Language: English
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
In the beginning . . .
I’m going to crawl out of my skin. I glance over the sea of people in the
pews around me, the face of each resident of my small, insignificant town
so familiar they’re like visual white noise. And the priest is droning on as
usual in his monotone voice.
“You see, each day the Lord provides us with fresh powder. It is up to
each of us to carve our own way down the mountain of life. Whether we
choose a path through the twisting woods, or the security and predictability
of the groomed trails—”
Not a skiing parable. I just can’t.
I start to rise, ready to quietly excuse myself, when I feel familiar,
pincerlike fingers wrap around my arm.
My abuela hisses at me from beneath her black lace veil. “Miguela,
where are you going?”
“I . . . just need some air,” I whisper back.
Why can’t I lie and say something more persuasive? Like, I need to go
to the bathroom, or it’s that time of the month, or I’m about to have a
psychotic episode? My friend Barry finds it amusing that I am incapable of
lying, particularly when my grandmother is giving me the searing look of
“I’ll be right back, Abuela. Te lo prometo.”
The Spanish does it. She releases me, and I scurry off as the adults on
either side of the aisle flash disapproving looks my way.
When I get to the lobby, I step to the left, just out of view, and take a
deep breath. The November day is unseasonably warm, so all the doors are
open. I can see the last of the autumn leaves clinging to the bare branches of
the small tree out front as if they’re afraid to let go.
Relief floods my body in a wave. It’s not that I don’t have faith. It’s just
sometimes in our church and community, it feels like everyone is staring at
me with all this . . . expectation; it feels oppressive. I pull my book from the
backpack I stashed under the wooden bench and settle into the corner. Just a
few pages, maybe a chapter or two; then I’ll go back and sit next to my
grandmother like a good girl.
I open the book and smile at my bookmark: my acceptance letter from
UCLA. My grandmother is dead set on me going to Saint Michael’s College
here in Vermont, so I applied to my dream school in secret. I’ll tell her
about it soon, but for now I know it’s safe tucked in my horror novel since
there’s no way in hell she’d look in there.
My phone buzzes with a message. The group text among me and my
crew of three friends is so active we gave it its own name: “The Host.”
Rage: Where’d you run off to?
Barry: Who cares? Run, Mica! Run away!
I smile, and type Shhh! I’m reading.
Rage: But you missed the second half of the parable!
Me: It’s ok, I’m pretty sure Jesus didn’t ski.
I run my hands over the book’s pristine cover, feeling the glossy,
embossed skull at the center, the black and red metallic ink glistening in the
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