UNREALITY - YA speculative thriller (chapter one) Feb 14, 2020 14:58:34 GMT -5
Post by loretta on Feb 14, 2020 14:58:34 GMT -5
A million particles of fear pulsed in the air.
Exams had everyone worked up, turning Palma Ceia High into a powder keg of stress. Personally, I didn’t get it. No one’s GPA was going to alter the fate of humanity. But then, most people had no idea what a scary place the world really was--at least mine was.
As I tried to outrace the white static that lived in my head, bright pink papers flapped in my wake. When my sandal slipped on one, I paused and took a good look around the crowded hallway. The flyers were taped to dented lockers, plastered on brick walls, and lay strewn across the skid-marked floor. One even hung crookedly on the front of my locker.
I marched over and tilted my head to decipher the bold print:
The clinic’s name poked my nerves like a stick. Sure, DreamMore had opened when I needed their services most, but I didn’t need any reminders of why I’d been treated. I snatched the neon advertisement, but my hands trembled, making the words dance. I tightened my fingers until my thumbnails punctured the crisp paper.
Anxious? Under pressure? Losing sleep?
Looks like you may have a case of yearly-exam stress syndrome!
DreamMore has your solution!
How would you like:
-decreased study time?
-a 35% increase in test scores?
Text code TEST to the number below for a free sleep therapy session!
I crumpled the paper and tossed it blindly. If only I’d had the luxury of going in for “exam stress” instead of—
“Hey, Adilicious!” my best friend’s voice piped at my shoulder.
I spun around. “Bree!”
She tossed her wheat-blonde hair as Luis Padilla, the quarterback, strutted by. He didn’t notice. Sheesh. Were all small-town boys this clueless, or did we get a bad batch?
Bree leaned close, grinning. “Whatcha doing?”
“Getting my books.” I took a deep breath of eau de school—a mash of bleach, gym clothes, and old french fries—and busied myself in my locker.
My best-friendship with Bree Cressworth had begun in first grade when I brought my stepmom to school for Mommy’s Macaroni lunch. Chuck Wiley had said Sharon wasn’t my real mom because my real mom was a wormy, moldy ghost and Sharon was alive and plainly a non-ghost. I cried, and Bree, brandishing a spork, told Chuck to shut it or else he’d be a wormy, moldy ghost.
“You think this actually works?” Bree waved another, un-crumpled, flyer. “I know they’re good, but can they really make someone smarter? I mean, considering some of the material they’d have to work with ... ”
I unintentionally slammed my locker, and jumped.
Bree frowned. “Are you okay?”
She may have been treated for entirely different reasons, but Bree knew as well as I did what Dr. Fischer could do. As I opened my mouth to respond, aggressive voices rose a few lockers down.