38. Addy
Chapter thirty-eight
Addy
T he world is still shrouded in darkness when I feel a violent tug on my sheets. My eyes snap open, the remnants of sleep instantly obliterated by Cheryl's venomous voice piercing through the pre-dawn silence.
"Get up, Adelaide! Now!" Her words slash through the air like knives as her fingers clamp down on my arm, yanking me out of bed with startling force. I stagger to find my footing, heart racing, mind foggy.
"Wha—?" The protest dies in my throat as she towers over me, her silhouette stark against the dim glow from the hallway.
"Did you think this would stand?" Cheryl hisses, her grip tightening to the point of pain. "If you're going to gorge yourself for that heathen, then you're damn well going to make an effort to keep all that extra weight off."
I don't need a mirror to know what she sees—the softness that has crept onto my frame, the subtle curves that weren't there before. To Cheryl, they are blemishes, cracks in their picture perfect facade; to me, they are silent rebellions, each pound a testament to my newfound strength.
"Mother, it's four in the morning," I murmur, attempting to veil my defiance with weariness. It's a precarious dance I perform, trying not to fuel her wrath while protecting the fragile shards I barely manage to hold together on a good day.
"Silence." She snaps, cold fingers prodding at my side, sending shivers across my skin. "This," she sneers, pinching a fold of flesh between her merciless fingers, "is unacceptable. You look disgusting."
I wince, not from the physical discomfort, but from the way her disdain wraps around me, a noose tightening with every breath. Am I so unworthy of affection? Is it something broken in me? If it were simply something broken in them, wouldn't I have found someone to offer something as simple as genuine friendship by now?
"Get ready," she commands, and though she doesn't specify, I know the drill. My muscles tense in anticipation of the grueling regimen to come, but I dare not let her see the fear. I nod, keeping my expression neutral, even as I clench my jaw to hold back the sting of tears threatening to betray my stoicism.
Fabric slaps against my skin as Cheryl flings the workout clothes at me. “Get dressed,” she orders, her voice sharp like the crack of a whip. “I’ll be waiting in the gym. Don’t make me come looking for you.”
I catch the clothes—a pair of black leggings, sports bra, and a too-tight tank top—and press them against my chest. My heart hammers beneath the synthetic fabric, a frantic drumbeat echoing the dread coiling in my stomach.
"Quickly!" Cheryl barks, and I turn away, steeling myself for the day ahead. The taste of bile rises in my throat, sour and potent, as I prepare to face yet another battle in the never-ending war for my own worth.
In the solitude of my room, I peel off my pajamas with mechanical motions and shimmy into the workout gear. It's tighter than it used to be. Everything I own is. But, I don't have the money to purchase anything that will fit my new size and the Winthrops will never bother to spend "useless" money on me.
The clock on my wall ticks away my reprieve, and I can't help but wish for time to stand still.
I slip out of my room and down the hall, feet padding silently across the cold marble floor. The Winthrops' home gym is a chamber of torture disguised by sleek machines and polished surfaces. And there she stands, Cheryl, an unforgiving drill sergeant amidst the weights and cardio equipment.
"Start with a run," she commands, gesturing to the treadmill with a tilt of her head. "We'll see how much stamina those extra calories have given you."
The treadmill whirs to life under my hesitant steps. I set the pace at a jog, trying to conserve energy for whatever Cheryl has planned next. But she's watching, always watching, and she's not satisfied.
"Speed it up, Adelaide," she says, her tone laced with disgust. "You're not going for a stroll in the park."
Reluctantly, I press the button, and the belt accelerates beneath my feet. With every increment, my breath grows more ragged, my legs burning with the effort to keep up.
"Higher incline," Cheryl barks from beside the console, and I oblige, my fingers trembling as they tap the controls. The angle shifts, and I'm suddenly climbing an invisible hill, gasping for air, sweat stinging my eyes. Cheryl smacks my hand out of the way and takes over the controls.
"Is this what you wanted?" Cheryl's voice cuts through my concentration, mocking, cruel. "To feel the weight you've so carelessly piled on?"
I don't answer. Can't. All I can do is push forward, muscles screaming, lungs desperate for oxygen. I focus on the relentless rhythm, one foot in front of the other, a mantra to keep the tears at bay.
"Harder," she pushes, the treadmill increases in speed again and my stride falters. My vision swims with the effort to stay upright. Then the world tilts and I'm going down.
I hit the ground with a thud, sending me sprawling onto the moving surface. My knees scrape against the unforgiving treadmill belt. Pain shoots through my body, but all I can hear is Cheryl's mocking laughter echoing in my ears.
Cheryl grabs me by the arm and forces me to my feet.
"Get yourself together," she snaps, already losing interest as she turns away. "You have school."
It's an effort to get back to my room. I can't even manage to stay on my feet in the shower, so I don't bother. If it were possible to get any more pathetic, I'm sure I would manage it.
When I finally crawl out of my closet, fully clothed in the most casual clothes I own—which are still stiff and uncomfortable—I grab my bag with numb fingers, my movements stiff and awkward as I navigate my way out of the house.
By the time I reach school, the sun is just beginning to cast its warm glow over the horizon, but there's no warmth for me. My body feels like a marionette, jerky and uncoordinated, as I walk through the halls, head spinning and heart aching with a loneliness that chafes against my ribs.
The front study area emerges as I stumble through the crowd, each face a blur. My stomach churns after Cheryl's morning regime, but my heart pounds out a warning to keep moving, to not stop amidst the sea of students. I need food but I'm not sure I'll be able to keep it down.
"Addy, over here."
I lift my gaze to find Saint, Dre, and Chess waiting for me. Gen is nearby chatting with another group. Saint offers me a small nod, one corner of his mouth twitching upwards—the closest thing to a smile that he ever allows himself.
"Hey," I manage, my voice nothing more than a strained whisper.
Saint holds out a wrapped sandwich and a carton of juice across the table without a word. I unwrap the food with trembling fingers, knowing I need to eat but fearing the revolt of my own body.
"Thanks," I murmur, taking a cautious bite, the flavors a dull sensation against my tongue.
"Rough morning?" Dre asks, leaning back in his chair, his ice-blue eyes scanning my face with a mix of curiosity and something darker, perhaps concern. It looks strange on him.
"Just... tired," I reply, hoping the vagueness will deter further questions.
Chess watches me from across the table, hazel eyes clouded with weariness. I feel his gaze, heavy and probing, but I can't meet it. The thought of revealing any fragment of my vulnerability to him—or anyone—is too much to bear. I know it's not his fault. I do. But there are eyes everywhere and I don't want a repeat of this morning.
Though I have a feeling Cheryl will make this our new daily routine. Yay!
"Addy, you sure you're—" Chess starts, but I cut him off with a shake of my head.
"Fine. I'm fine," I insist, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue.
"Okay." Chess holds up his hands in surrender. But he doesn't push further, for which I'm grateful. They all have their demons; they don't need to shoulder mine too.
We fall into a silence then, punctuated only by the sounds of students shuffling books and murmuring about upcoming exams. I focus on the sandwich, forcing myself to chew and swallow, while the rest of me screams for escape—from the Winthrops, from the expectations, from this constant feeling of being trapped in someone else's twisted design.
I need to know if I can trust them.
I steal a glance at Dre, and the concern etched in his ice blue eyes sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the chill of the study area. He leans back against the chair, one foot up on the table, his arm draped carelessly over his knee. The tattoos snaking around his forearms like dark vines seeking sunlight writhe as he fiddles with one of the thick silver rings on his fingers.
He studies me for a moment longer, the sharpness of his gaze like a knife under my skin. Then, as if deciding something within himself, he nods once and looks away.
Gen joins us, perching on the arm of the couch beside me. She tilts her head, the question there but unasked. I know she's hoping I'll spill everything that's clawing its way up my throat. But what could I possibly say?
There's a heaviness in the air, an unspoken tension that lingers like a dark cloud over our little group. I can feel it, building and festering, threatening to consume us all.
I exhale a shaky breath, a mix of frustration and desperation swirling within me. Gen reaches out and gently squeezes my hand, offering me a small smile filled with empathy.
"We should get to class," she announces. "I'll walk her today."
I nod, grateful for Gen's presence. As we rise from our seats and make our way out of the study area. She links her arm through mine the way she seems to like and greets the passing students when they call out to her.
I catch glimpses of the others following behind us, watching, waiting, for what I don't know. A twinge of pain runs through my stiffening legs. I turn back to face front with a grimace I can't even hide.
"Look, you don't really know me, I get that. The boys have swooped into your life and taken over—they do that. And, it may not seem like it, but we care, Addy. We do. And we're here for you okay. I know not everything is as it seems. I—there's something dark in you Addy. I've seen it in the boys. I think that's why they're so drawn to you, like attracts like."
"Gen, that's—"
"I'm just saying I'm here if you want to talk, okay?"
"Sure, Gen."
But I can't tell anyone anything. Yet.