Life Unaware (Entangled Teen) (2 page)

“Good.” She hiked the purse strap over her shoulder. “I’ve got a plane to catch. I’ll speak with your father tonight to make sure you stay on target. It wouldn’t do to have things fall apart while I’m away.”

And there it was. The ever-present threat of my failure ruining everything. The invisible straitjacket pulled so tightly around my ribs, my lungs ached. Despite my best effort, the panic attack was upon me.

She paused in the doorway long enough to give me one final warning. Her mouth moved, only I couldn’t hear her words over the sound of my pulse pounding in my head.

Either my mom didn’t notice or she didn’t want to notice my trouble breathing, because she turned and left the moment her lips stopped moving. The second she was out of view, I grabbed my backpack and pulled out the small orange bottle. My shaking hands rattled the pills together. This was nothing new. I’d shaken it on so many occasions that a film of dust coated the interior.

Fear twisted through me—the same fear that always manifested during my panic attacks—that maybe I wouldn’t make it through alive.

I knew it was a stupid thought. My doctor and therapist both explained countless times that no one could die from a panic attack. Still, I couldn’t breathe—and you needed to breathe to live, right? I also assumed you needed your heart to not explode out of your chest. Yet both of those things appeared to be happening to me. But I’d survive. Somehow.

I always did.

Chapter Two

I pulled into my assigned parking spot, slid out of my white Ford Escape, and shut the door behind me. Mom insisted our cars be American-made. “It’s good for public image,” she’d said when I asked for an Audi or something equally hot.

My phone chirped. A text from Payton.

I’ve got major dirt on Christy Holder. You’re not going to believe it!

Perfect. Hopefully it was something I could use. After the texts I’d sent that morning, there was no way Christy would ever suspect me.

What is it?!

I imagined Payton hunched over her phone, her lips curled with evil glee as she typed. The longer it took her to respond, the juicier I knew it was going to be. For Payton, the delivery of a rumor was every bit as important as the acquisition. If gossip were an art form, she would be the master.

“Hey, Regan.”

I turned in the direction of the voice. A dark-haired sophomore waved at me from several cars over. I didn’t know her. At least, I didn’t think I did. I tucked my phone away and waved back anyway. “Hey, girl.” What if I’d blown the girl off and someone important saw?
You never know when you’ll need someone’s support.
That was what my mother always said.
You’ve got to be thinking three steps ahead at all times.

I withdrew my sunglasses from my Kate Spade bag and put them on. I was sure some people thought it was a style thing—and that was fine with me. I’d never tell them I wore my sunglasses to keep everyone from seeing the fear in my eyes. Because I hadn’t even been here five minutes and I already felt the staring—their eyes like gun scopes marking a target on my back.

When you’re popular, someone is always trying to knock you down so she can step over you and gain your spot.

As if I was going to let that happen. Already I had my phone out, securing my social standing before I even stepped foot in the door. First up were several identical messages to some of the other girls on the cheerleading squad.

You looked great at tryouts yesterday. Seriously, everyone else’s kicks were shit compared to yours. I’m sooo jealous!

It might have been a little lazy to send out the same text, but I needed to secure as many allies on the squad as quickly as I could. Besides, who was going to question a compliment?

My phone chirped. Payton.

Rehab. I heard straight from Christy’s best friend’s cousin that her parents sent her to California this summer. She has an eating disorder and stayed at some fancy clinic in Malibu. Nearly made her parents go bankrupt sending her there.

Shit
.
That wasn’t the kind of gossip I wanted. When I first read “Rehab,” I was hoping for a secret Adderall addiction or something I could use as blackmail to secure my spot on the squad. But an eating disorder was technically a psychological disorder, right? Just like an anxiety disorder—like
my
anxiety disorder. Something like this could ruin a person. How far was I really willing to go to make my mom happy?

As if summoned, my mother’s voice whispered through my mind.
Do you really think I worry about my opponent’s mental state when I rip him through the mud? Do you really believe Christy would hold back if she knew your secret?

My phone chirped again.

So what are you going to do?

I tapped the side of my phone and considered my next move. I’d been going to school with Christy since kindergarten, and she’d never so much as said a mean thing about me. I didn’t want to ruin her reputation or anything. Just…distract her a bit. But how? I couldn’t just spread the rumor about her rehab stint. Everyone would rush to her side and fight over who got to be “most supportive.” That wouldn’t help me at all.

I’ll think of something
.
We’ve only got to get her out of the picture temporarily, right? Just long enough for Amber to take over and make sure I’m on the squad.

Not that I had any idea how to make that happen yet. Or whether I actually wanted to use something as serious as an eating disorder against her. It didn’t feel right.

Well, you better hurry
.
She’s listing the squad in two days.

I pocketed my phone and sighed. Maybe I should let it go. I mean, how bad would it be if I
didn’t
make the cheerleading squad? It wasn’t like I lived and died for cheerleading or anything. In fact, I hated reciting those
stupid
cheers and the way boys flipped up my skirt when they walked by. If I didn’t make the squad, I’d have more time to spend with my horse—a definite bonus—as well as more time to study instead of the all-night cram sessions I’d grown accustomed to because of my busy schedule.

No. If I didn’t make the squad, I’d ruin my chances of getting into a good college. And if I didn’t get into a good college, my career options would be limited. If I couldn’t get a job, I’d be forced to live at home, with my
mother
, forever. And since my mother was a political figure, the entire world would bear witness to the failure of my life.

A sour taste burned the back of my tongue. I couldn’t fail, even though I hated fucking with people’s lives. I’d done it so often that you’d think I would have stopped caring at some point. I pretended I didn’t. Hell, if Amber was around, I even pretended to enjoy it like she did. But it never got easier, never made my stomach hurt any less or stopped my palms from getting sweaty.

“Regan,” a girl with short blond hair called from the entrance steps as I approached. I recognized her from cheerleading tryouts. If I played my cards right—and she actually made the squad—we could end up on it together.

“Hi,” I called back and flashed a huge grin. “I can’t wait for practice to start, can you?”

“It’s going to be such a great year!” she answered before resuming her conversation with the boy beside her.

The way she’d said “great year” made me pause. Given the enthusiasm in her voice, I could tell she honestly believed it. I wondered what that was like. What kind of life must she have where that kind of optimism came naturally? Where she woke up eager to face whatever the morning had in store, instead of wanting to bury herself under the covers because she was sure
that
day would be the day everything came unraveled?

My smile wavered, but I quickly forced it back into place before anyone caught on. As far as they were concerned, I was Regan Flay, all-American, straight-A cheerleader and daughter of congresswoman Victoria Flay. I loved Jesus, my family, and horses—
in that order.
As my mother said, I was the embodiment of a child raised with firm boundaries and wholesome American values, and I must conduct myself as such. And I did—as long as you didn’t count the anxiety disorder, pill usage, and a little social espionage here and there.

If I was raised with “American values” like my mom said, just how fucked up was this country, anyway?

Bracing myself for the inevitable wave of panic, I inhaled deeply, pushed my shoulders back, and pulled open the school’s glass doors. Several dozen pairs of eyes turned in my direction. My muscles strained with the desire to spin around and run back the way I came. Instead, I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other—to keep moving forward even though the farther I walked into the school building, the more the air thinned to an unbreathable level.

Several people called my name in greeting, but my sunglasses made it difficult to distinguish faces among the mass of students milling through the halls. Even so, I didn’t dare remove them. With them on, I could pretend there was a wall between me and those around me. Still, I didn’t want to be perceived as a bitch, so I widened my smile and raised my hand in a general greeting.

Honestly, I wasn’t sure why I was popular. I was no different from anyone else; in fact, I was probably a lot worse than most of them. One of the many responsibilities my mother forced on me, I supposed. Not only did I have to constantly impress the media, but I had to put on a face every day for these kids, too. There was nowhere in the world I was allowed to just be average.

“Regan!” Payton pushed through a group of boys laughing about something on one of their phones.

At the sight of her, the weight bearing down on my shoulders lifted, and the lightness I felt in its wake was dizzying. I couldn’t help but smile—for real this time—at my happiness and relief at seeing my best friend.

“You and those sunglasses.” She rolled her eyes playfully. “It’s like you think you’re a fucking celebrity or something.”

“Aren’t I?” I pulled the glasses to the tip of my nose and gave my best
I’m a celebrity and better than you
look. “I’ve been on television practically my whole life. How many times have you been on television, Payton?” I slid the glasses off my face and tucked them into my purse. I didn’t need them now with my friend here. The hallway that had been only moments from caving in on me suddenly opened up, allowing me to breathe. “Oh yeah—
never.
”

“Bitch.” She laughed and looped her arm through mine as we wound our way to my locker.

Payton tugged on the hem of her sweater-vest, adjusting it over her hips as I spun the combination dial on my locker. As usual, the pleats of her skirt were ironed into lines so sharp they looked like they could saw through logs. The tie at the nape of her neck was perfectly even with her collar, and not a single strand of her straight blond hair had escaped the band of the ponytail on top of her head. “When you weren’t at your locker earlier,” she said, “I was worried you were going to be late.”

“I almost was,” I answered. “Mom wanted to have another one of her
talks.
”

“Oh, God.” Her eyes widened in horror. “What was it about this time?”

“The usual shit.”

“Ugh.” Payton wrinkled her nose. “I seriously don’t know how you deal.”

I thought about the pills tucked away in my bag and shrugged. After zipping my first-period books inside my backpack, I closed my locker and sighed.

Payton leaned in and dipped her forehead against mine. “At least when she finds out you’ve made the squad, she’ll have to lay off of you a little.”

I paused. I didn’t really want to bring up how badly I’d botched the tryout or the fact that even if I made the squad, my mom would only find some other fault of mine to obsess over, so instead I smiled and nodded.

Seemingly satisfied, she grinned. “Speaking of the squad, you’re not going to believe the dirt I found on Christy. Come on.” She didn’t give me a chance to respond before grabbing my arm and guiding me through the throngs of students milling the hallway and waiting for first bell. Most of the people we passed glanced our way with a smile or wave of acknowledgment. A few even backed out of our path, giving us room to pass.

Or so I thought, until I collided face-first with a muscular torso.

“Well if it isn’t little Regan Flay.”

I jerked back, and my stammered apology died on my lips. I’d know that deep, condescending voice anywhere.

Payton’s older brother pulled out his cell phone and hit the record button, his eyes narrowing in concentration. They were the same color hazel as Payton’s, but that was where the similarities between brother and sister ended.

Once upon a time in junior high, Nolan—like his sister—hung with the popular crowd. But something changed when he entered high school and started dating purple-haired Jordan from the drama club. After that, he only hung out with people in the AV and drama clubs as well as various other
artistic
crowds. It was almost like he wanted to become a loser on purpose. Even now, his shirttails hung out from under his sweater-vest like wrinkled flags, and the hem of his pants was torn and frayed. His tousled dark hair was longish, just brushing the collar of his shirt and falling across his forehead
.
He’d be supercute if he gave a damn what he looked like and kept his mouth shut.

Not that I’d ever tell him.

Payton stepped between us. “Watch where you’re going, jackass.”

“Where
I’m
going?” Still recording us, he arched an eyebrow. “If I’m not mistaken, little sister, Regan bumped into
me
. I guess your directional compasses are just as off as your moral ones.”

I pulled at the hem of my blouse in an attempt to straighten it. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that because I live with her”—he jutted a thumb at Payton—“and have known you practically your whole life, I’m immune to the innocent act you and my sister have going.” He held up a hand before I could say anything. “Wait. Don’t answer until I get a better angle. I want to capture the complete and utter lack of soul in your eyes when you reply.” He adjusted the phone so the lens faced me head-on.

A flush of anger burned up my neck. “Who the fuck do you think you are, pretending to know
anything
about me?”

“Go away. Neither one of us wants to be in one of your stupid documentaries.” Payton shoved her brother’s chest hard enough that he stumbled back. “Stop being a dickwad, Nole, or I swear I’ll tell Mom.”

He smirked and pocketed the phone. “Oh no. Please don’t tell Mom. When are you going to stop acting like a baby?”

She folded her arms across her chest. “Probably when you stop acting like an asshole.”

“I’ll stop acting like an asshole when you stop manipulating people into liking you.” He turned to me and grinned, like maybe he really
did
know a thing or two about me.

And that was terrifying as hell.

I didn’t know what
exactly
he knew or if he even knew anything at all. What I
did
know was I needed him to stop talking before people overheard. So I took another page out of my mother’s book. When you found yourself backed into a corner, bypass the lesser insults and go straight for the jugular.

Forcing my face into a mask of cool indifference, I lifted my chin. “I can’t help but notice your ex-girlfriend—Jordan, wasn’t it?—doesn’t go to school here anymore. You must really be a special kind of freak if she can’t stand to be within a twenty-mile radius of you. Is that why you’re still single?”