The Year I Became Isabella Anders (Sunnyvale, #1)

Oreo cake. Cookie dough ice cream. Strawberry cheesecake.

“You know what?” Hannah sets the phone down on the table, and when she smiles at me maliciously, I know she’s about to say something that’s going to get me into trouble—that even my sweet treat chant won’t save me from. “I take that back. Maybe the janitor can count. I mean, you eat all your lunches in the janitor’s closet, right?”

“No,” I say through gritted teeth. “And you know I don’t, since you pretend to ignore me every day during lunch.”

Her grin broadens at the sound of my clipped tone, because she knows she’s won—that I’m about to lose my cool. She mouths, Loser.

A slow breath eases from my lips, and then I stuff my mouth full of chicken.

Snickers. Chocolate chip cookies. Funnel cake—

“Oh wait!” Hannah exclaims with a laugh. “I do remember you hanging out once or twice with that freak who always wears mismatched shoes. But I think she’s into girls . . .” She taps her finger against her lip. “Wait, is she your girlfriend?”

I can’t control it any longer. I swallow the chicken and drop the fork. “Leave Lana out of this. She’s a nice person, unlike you.” I drop my voice and utter the nickname I know she hates, “Super Bitch.”

“Mom!” Hannah whines, slamming her palm onto the table and sending the salt and pepper shakers toppling over, along with my mother’s wine. “Isa called me a bitch.”

My father and mother stare at the mess on the crisp linen tablecloth then my mother glares at me.

“Isabella, you can go to your room now,” she says as she scoots back from the table.

“But I didn’t do anything.” I try not to sound whiney, because it’ll only piss her off more. “Well, not anything that she didn’t do.”

“And you don’t get any dessert,” she says, ignoring my protests as she strides to the kitchen door.

“I’m really sorry,” I tell her as calmly as I can, “but she did call me a loser.”

“You’re such a liar.” Hannah flips her blonde hair off her shoulder and flashes me a smirk when no one’s looking.

My mother looks at my father in that way that says you take care of her then she slams her palm against the door and whisks out of the room.

“Isabella, your mother said to go to your room, so go to your room.” He speaks robotically, as if he rehearsed the words. He avoids eye contact with me, staring at his plate. “And no dessert.”

He rarely looks at me, and I haven’t ever figured out why. I asked him about it once, but he pretended like he didn’t hear me and hurried out of the room, leaving me to draw my own conclusions. My very overactive imagination has conjured up quite a few borderline crazy ideas, ranging from him thinking I look like a hideous beast, to him fearing I secretly possess the superpower to change anyone who makes eye contact with me into a human corpse.

Knowing there’s no way my father’s going to cave on my punishment—since we’ve been in this same situation at least a hundred times—I stand up. “Okay.”

“And apologize to your sister,” he adds, still staring at his chicken like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

Only when I turn my back to Hannah do I mutter, “Sorry.” Otherwise, her smirk will drive me bat shit crazy.

As I’m walking out of the room, my mother returns with a towel to clean the mess up, along with a platter of red velvet cupcakes.

“Why are you still here?” she asks me as she sets the platter down at the end of the table. “I told you to go to your room.”

With a heavy sigh, I bid farewell to the cupcakes and leave the dining room, trying to convince myself they probably taste like burnt cardboard, even though my mother’s won ribbons for her fan-freakin’-tastic cupcakes.

An hour later, I’m sprawled across my bed surrounded by homework, my sketchbook, and a few of my favorite novels. My Chemical Romance is playing from the stereo, and my balcony doors are open, letting a warm May breeze blow inside. I’m still trying to convince myself that my parents don’t hate me. That all their anger and bitterness toward me is simply because they don’t understand me. That their partialness to my sister has nothing to do with me. But it’s hard when my dad won’t even look at me, and every time my mother speaks to me, it’s either to ground me or to tell me what a disappointment I am.

I lie in bed lost in my thoughts until my belly grumbles. God, I wish I could at least have just a taste of those red velvet cupcakes. But if I’m caught sneaking into the kitchen, my butt will be grounded. It might be worth it, because seriously, my body’s about to have a lack-of-sugar conniption fit.

Ugh!