Chapter 7 #2
My mouthful of peanut butter sandwich turns into a lump of cement and sticks in my throat.
I cough, or try to, anyway. It lodges there, refusing to budge.
I try to swallow, but that doesn’t work either.
I realize with sudden, sickening fear, that I am starting to choke.
It’s a surreal feeling, choking. Because part of me is internally screaming: Oh my god, I’m choking!
But the other part of me is still stuck in normalcy mode, still uncomprehending, still standing there holding my half-eaten sandwich in one hand, wondering where my plate is so I can put it down and resume choking in peace.
Thankfully, the part that’s driven by my survival instincts overrides the second part, making me drop the sandwich.
I claw at my throat, my eyes tearing up as I wheeze for breath.
What do I do? Within the space of a second, my mind whizzes through several different possible solutions: I run out and knock at Terry’s door so he can do the Heimlich maneuver on me.
I push my fingers down my throat and try to gouge the piece of sandwich out. I—
Too late for any of that. I have never once choked before, and what surprises me about all this is how fast everything is happening, how quickly my body seems to be breaking down.
Only two to three seconds have passed, but already my lungs feel like they’re on fire, my brain shutting down, my thoughts becoming fuzzy.
Random, unimportant thoughts keep stabbing through my head.
I’m glad I don’t have a cat who’d eat my face after I die, I think.
Then another useless thought: I can’t die, I’m not wearing cute underwear.
Somehow, in the midst of the cacophony in my head, some tiny part of me, the one that refuses to go down without a fight, manages to grab hold of my body and take charge.
Before I know what I’m doing, I rush at my kitchen counter and ram myself into it.
The overhang slams into my belly, devastatingly hard, and my entire body convulses at the collision.
I hurl, and the next second, the congealed bite of peanut butter sandwich flies up my throat and splats onto the floor with a loud thwack.
Air rushes into my lungs, and I collapse onto the kitchen tiles, gasping like a fish out of water.
I don’t know how long I remain on the floor, gasping, half crying, half laughing.
Dimly, I realize that I’ve wet myself. I’ve heard that people who die by strangulation often wet themselves.
Does choking on a peanut butter sandwich count as strangulation?
The thought makes me laugh-cry again. Sometime later, I manage to get off the floor and trudge into the bathroom to clean myself up.
Then I go back out and mop up the kitchen.
I can’t even look at my half-eaten sandwich, averting eyes as I lift it with the very tips of my fingers, wanting to have as little contact with it as possible.
It goes into the trash, along with the blob of chewed-up sandwich that nearly became a murder weapon.
Finally, finally, I am done. My apartment is back to its pristine state, and I am in clean, dry clothes, and there is nothing in my mouth, and I can resume . . .
Right. Reading Haven’s deal announcement.
The darkness that has whispered at me ever since I read it half an hour ago comes roaring back.
The whole reason why I even choked to begin with.
How ironic it would’ve been if I’d survived her attacks all of high school only to die now, at the sight of her announcement.
How could I have let her get into my head again, after all these years?
I’ve done the work, gone to therapy, I journal, I meditate, I even did online hypnotherapy for a while.
What more do I need to do to exorcise Haven Lee from my life?
But there she is, in the center of my phone screen, a square-cropped photo of her face on the left-hand corner of the deal announcement.
How did I miss it before, when I was scrolling?
How weird that my eyes glossed over her photo and landed instead on her name.
She looks gorgeous, of course. I have known Haven Lee since she was twelve, and she has never once looked less than fashion magazine ready.
Her hair falls over her shoulders in loose dark-brown waves, her large eyes beguiling, her nose straight, with the point coming up ever slightly, making her look pixie-like.
Her smile is easy and welcoming, with just the right amount of good-natured wickedness to make you look twice.
Good-natured wickedness is Haven’s trademark humor.
I don’t know how to describe it, except that talking to her feels like you’re being let into a delicious secret, but at the end of the day, you haven’t actually learned anything bad about anyone; she never gossiped, or at least not with me, and yet you feel like you’ve partaken in something delicious and slightly catty, thus forging a strong bond with her.
God, her face is so symmetrical, adheres so strongly to the golden rule, that I could die looking at it.
How can such a monster look so beautiful?
Unbidden, the memory of Dani stabs into my mind, spearing through every thought.
As always, it comes with a dark wave of guilt and fear so strong that it chokes me.
I have worked so hard all these years to block the memory of her because whenever she resurfaces in my mind, it is overwhelming.
It brings me to my knees, leaving me unable to function the rest of the day.
And I can’t afford to let that happen again.
I close my eyes. “I am okay,” I say out loud, forcing myself to take long, slow breaths. “I am okay. The past is the past, and I am okay.”
The mantra works after a while, and when I open my eyes, I feel more grounded. I’m sorry, Dani, but I have to leave you in the past.
Reluctantly, I drag my eyes from Haven’s photo to her deal announcement.
And somehow, her deal announcement is even worse than her perfect face.
Key terms jump out at me. “Nine-house auction.” Who the hell has a nine-house auction?
What book is so explosively good that nine publishers choose to fight one another over it?
In what universe does that happen? Then, of course, the words “seven-figure deal.” It’s not even a “major deal,” which would mean anything over five hundred grand.
Oh no, even a major deal isn’t good enough for Haven Lee.
In the #writingcommunity, we hopeful writers will often list having a six-figure deal as our ultimate dream.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone dare hope for a seven-figure deal, it’s so unreachable, so rare.
And yet here’s Haven, striding into the publishing industry with a unicorn deal.
And not just that, but a major deal in the UK?
The UK is known for being extremely tight with advances.
Last time I checked, the median UK advance size is about half the US’s, which puts it at around $15,000.
And yet, somehow, Haven has managed to get over $500,000 in the UK.
And six figures from other territories: Now, that is definitely a rarity.
Most of us would only ever be able to dream of selling to foreign territories, and here’s Haven, getting more in foreign countries than we’re getting in our home countries.
I add up the total amount of money she’s gotten just for this one book alone, and it’s at least $2 million.
Two million for one book. And what’s more, the deal report ends with the words “TV/film rights,” which means Haven has a film agent.
I stand there for god knows how long, in the middle of my kitchen, staring at my phone, willing the words in front of me to disappear.
Maybe this is all a dream. I pinch my arm, and when that doesn’t prove shocking enough, I give myself a slap.
A sharp one, right across my right cheek, hard enough to make my eyes water.
That hurt a lot. This is definitely not a dream.
Haven Lee has a book deal. Haven Lee is debuting in not only the year I am but the exact same season I am.
Haven Lee, the girl who single-handedly turned everybody else against me and made my entire high school experience hell on earth and left me a broken husk of a person.
The girl whose cruelty ultimately ended up killing the only friend I ever had is back.