High by @((Y^!@ Allyvia (books to improve english txt) 📖

of her bra and a pair of short jean shorts, grabbed hold of Kingsley hands. Craning her neck, Amanda watched as Kingsley smiled at the other blond. They exchanged words, before she grabbed hold of hand and pulled something out of her pocket. 

 

Amanda kept dancing with Eric, although everything felt off. His hand held her hip too tightly; he spun her so many times she had begun to get dizzy. She watched Kingsley walk off with the other blond, a joint in her hand, and remembered why she never went to these parties, why she never hung out with people unlike her. 

 

She and Eric danced, and after a while they had even found a corner in the room and began talking like old buddies. He grabbed her a beer, she specified this, and they clinked plastic, red Solo cups. To our kind sticking together, Amanda toasted silently as she sipped the amber liquid, even though it tasted like dirty foot water.  

The Gallery

 

 

 Nix looked around the white-walled, Plexi-glass lined gallery in utter fascination. Sparkling, modern chandeliers hung from the ceilings, casting a bright glow on the walls and paintings. Men in berets and and tuxes and turtlenecks and women in dotted dresses and bright lipstick and sparkly expensive jewelry mingled, which was an odd sight. Some of the men, probably other artists, looked as though they hadn't bathed in weeks, yet they chatted away with Victoria's Secret model-look-a-likes.

 

 The world of art, and the artists themselves, were so new and foreign to him. Just then, as Nix was people-watching and searching the seas of unfamiliar faces, he felt a tug on the arm of his rented tux. Amy, her hair up in a knot, her dress a royal blue that caught and shimmered in the light, hung from his arm like a wet towel.

 

Nix knew he had agreed to take Amy to the gallery, but so far all she had done was complain. She complained about her dress-- it was 'an ugly monstrosity my mother picked out so I won't upstage her'-- and the artists and her 'headache'. Nix thought it was just an excuse so she could lay her head on his shoulder during the ride to the gallery.

 

"Nix," she asked, her voice laced with a dramatized pain, "can you get me a glass of champagne? I have a headache, and I'm desperately in need of something to give me a buzz."

 

Now, standing in the gallery, he was wondering if he had made the right descision. Sure, Amy was his friend, but he hadn't rented a tux so she could complain about being rich and pretty. Rolling his eyes, he grabbed her a glass of champagne like some lap dog in a monkey suit.

 

Amy took it greedily, and looked around the gallery in curiousity. Just as the lip of the flute touched her red painted lips, Amy froze. No. This had to be some nightmare. Glancing at Nix, she was glad to see he hadn't noticed the dark, curly haired beauty that was surrounded by a swarm of artists and critics. Fuck.

 

Amy stared at Lucy Edwards in absolute horror... and slight shock. She wore a tight, long-sleeved, blue sequin peplum dress that Amy would have picked out herself. In fact, it was almost the same shade of blue as Amy's dress. Her dark curly was up in a messy side-knot, with tendrils framing her face, and her eyes were rimmed with black kohl, something she almost never wore. Amy had to double take.

 

Who knew, underneath all those baggy sweaters and bangs, Lucy Edwards had a banging little body? The dress she wore, which only reached her knees, hugged her hips. If she weren't such a freak, Amy might have even asked her to try out for the cheerleading squad.

 

"Nix, let's go-," Amy began, only to let her voice fade when Nix looked up. His eyes met Lucy's, and Amy swore she saw Nix's face light up, and Lucy Edwards smile widely.

 

"Is that Lucy," Nix asked absently, not even looking at Amy as he walked towards the beautiful girl, Amy still clinging to his arm. She felt as though she were a dog on a leash, a helpless bystander as her brilliant plan crumbled before her eyes.

 

"Lucy," Nick grinned, his eyes so bright and his smile so wide. Amy had never seen him this way.

 

Lucy smiled, and wrapped her tiny arms around his middle, despite Amy's hand still clinging to Nix's arm. Only after she pulled away from their embrace did she look up into those Rolo eyes. "Nick, hey! What are you doing here?!"

 

"Um," Nix trailed off, his eyes lingering on her tiny perfect hand, which rested on his free arm, "Amy's mom... Amy's mom own the gallery."

 

Somehow managing a sentence, Nick grinned dopily. Lucy hadn't even looked at Amy, who's face was about as red as her hair. Amy couldn't believe this! She was becoming the third wheel! She watched, in silent horror, as her prey transformed into a beautiful butterfly, capturing Nick's attention only by batting her lashes and touching his arm.

 

"Wh-What are you doing here," Nick asked, not even batting an eyelash at Amy as she let go of his arm and raised a brow in Lucy's direction.

 

Lucy laughed and jabbed her thumb in the direction of a painting that hung behind her. "My mom. She's an artist, and appearantly I'm her muse. Although, I'm not really complaining because it got me out of a weekend at my dad's."

 

Nick laughed, and found himself wandering just a bit closer to her, breathing in the perfume she wore. She always smelled good, but whatever she wore today was kind of breath taking. He felt himself freeze when she grabbed hold of his hand, his heart beginning to beat wildly, and lead him away from the crowd, closer to her mother's painting. Amy just stood there, confused and annoyed as hipsters and artists and old women swarmed her like a wave, keeping her from clinging onto Nix.

 

"You know," Lucy said lowly, careful not to let any one else hear when they were finally alone, "I hate these things. A lot."

 

"Really," Nick asked, surprised, his fingers still laced with hers. He looked around the bright gallery and thought of how much he could see her hanging out here. Lucy looked like she belonged here, with her wild hair and bright smile and quirky jokes. The people here seemed to love Lucy-- she was the Amy Herring of the art world, the beautiful cheerleader of scultpers and painters.

 

A fake smile pasted on her lips, Lucy nodded. Her lips pulled tight against her teeth, she said, "Yeah. I mean, they're better than spending two days locked in my dad's apartment with his lame girlfriend, but... I hate them. With a passion."

 

Nick chuckled, despite his best interest to be concerned, and Lucy gave him a playful glare.

 

"Almost as much as you hate brutish football players," he teased, trying his hardest not to let the disappointment show on his face as she dropped his hand. Lucy laughed, and brought her hands to her wrist. Written there, he could see small black words like usual. Knowing he was probably crossing some lines yet curiosity getting the best of him, he grabbed hold of her wrist, brushing her fingers away so he could see what was written.

 

Bitch. Freak. Loser. Go die.

 

Big bold letters, spelling out things that weren't true, were trailing up and down her arms, artfully covered by the glittering sleeves of her dress. Concern written on his face, he searched her unwilling face for some sort of clue as to what it was. Lucy just pulled her hand away, careful not to look him in the eye.

 

"Lucy, what-"

 

"Do you like the picture," she asked, hurriedly changing the subject and pointing to the painting that hung from the wall. Nick, reluctantly compliant, turned towards the painting, although he wached her out of the corner of his eye. His eyes barely focused on the big black stains that blotted the canvas when Lucy waas standing there, pretending as though something wasn't very wrong.

 

"Y-Yeah, I guess," he managed, although not even glancing at the painting.

 

"Nick," she asked again, her voice just a bit quieter, "do you want to get out of here?"

 

Nick, looking over at Amy, felt that excitement in his stomach diminsh. He couldn't just leave her; she had personally asked him to come with her. Being there for your friend was much more important than the girl you've liked since eighth grade asking you to leave with her, he told himself.

 

"I-I can't. Amy's here and-"

 

"Please," she asked again, batting her lashes and letting her bottom lip jut out just a bit, "I need a ride to a party, and I figured we could hang out together. I mean, I don't want to go by myself, and...-"

 

Sighing, Nick ran his fingers through his hair and gave his friend another backwards glance. "Is there a back door here?"

 

Lucy grinned, taking his hand, and squeezed. "Of course. C'mon, let's get out of here, Nick Keating."

~~~

Amy exhaled loudly and glared at the giant surrealistic portrait of Lucy Edwards in utter hatred. Swirling her glass of champagne around before taking a big gulp of the sickly sweet, bubbly liquid, Amy grimaced. Lucy Edwards had stolen her date; Lucy Edwards had stolen her gallery opening; next, Lucy Edwards was going to steal her spot on the cheerleading team, or her date to homecoming. 

 

 Just the thought of it made Amy wretch. Whatever she had felt for Lucy-- whatever toleration she had granted Lucy-- was ripped away in the matter of seconds it took for her and Nix to leave the gallery. 

 

To deal with the thought, Amy grabbed another flute of champagne from an unsuspecting waiter, before double-taking and grabbing two more flutes, to nurse the pain of loneliness.  Amy snorted- she was the one supposed to be inflicting pain, not Lucy fucking Edwards. 

 

 The picture before her made her stomach twist a thousand and one ways, each more painful than the next. Lucy was pretty, undeniably so, with her stupid, secretive, mystery-girl bangs and those creepy words on her arms written in Sharpie. They were probably things written to keep her from cutting. 

 

 Anyways, the picture was surreal, in a scary, vulnerably creepy kind of way. The background was that chilling shade you see in horror movies that no one really appreciated, somewhere along the lines of charcoal and heather grey.  A tall tree, bare of leaves and plentiful of sharp, curling branches, sat right in the midst of the canvas, a silhouette in the sea of greys. Hanging from the tree, dark wild curly hair fanning her pretty face, was a painted Lucy Edwards. Her cheeks were little rose buds; her body was one of a bird; her lips were streaks of crimson blood on porcelain skin. 

 

 Amy brooded over the picture, trying to decide if it was sheer brilliance or stupid garbage when the sudden feeling of loneliness diminished from the air. She looked to left to see a man, a suit hugging his built body. His skin was golden. His hair, dark as ebony, was gelled into some style she couldn’t explain. His brown eyes kind of looked like Nix’s Rolo eyes. Suddenly ravenous for chocolate, Amy turned. The man had white teeth,