Page 15 of The Kissing Booth
‘Noahdid?’
Even my dad was surprised enough to forget about the drinking for a moment.
‘Yeah. I thought it was weird too.’
‘Mm... Anyway, don’t change the subject, young lady. You know what I’ve said about you drinking.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
‘Mm. Next time that happens, you’ll be grounded for a month, you hear? And don’t think I won’t find out.’
‘Message received, loud and clear.’
He didn’t look entirely convinced, but let it slide. It wasn’t like I went out drinking every other night; it was a once-in-a-while thing.
‘So have you and Lee come up with an idea for your booth yet? The carnival’s only two weeks away.
‘Yeah. We’re doing a kissing booth.’
‘That’s... unusual,’ Dad laughed. ‘Are you sure you’ll be allowed?’
I shrugged, pouring out two mugs of coffee. ‘I don’t see why not.’
‘Well, it’s better than throwing balls at coconuts,’ he said. ‘Anyway, listen, I’m going to need you to watch Brad tomorrow, okay? I’m working late.’
‘Yeah, sure.’ After adding a ton of milk to my coffee, I gulped it down. ‘I’m going to take a shower and do my homework.’
‘Okay. Dinner at seven. We’ve got meatloaf.’
‘Cool.’
I hated Mondays. They sucked. There was not one redeeming feature about Monday mornings. I always set my alarm twenty minutes earlier than I needed to, since I hated getting out of bed.
I finally dragged myself up and grabbed my black pants out of the closet. Our school was built in, like, the early 1900s or something like that, and for some stupid reason they kept the tradition of uniform. It wasn’t the worst uniform in the world, but I wished we didn’t have any.
As if Monday mornings weren’t already bad enough, mine was about to get a hell of a lot worse.
Riiiiiiiip!
I froze, one leg half in the leg of my pants. Hurriedly, I wriggled out of them and inspected the damage. Last week, it had been a teeny tiny hole in the seam on the inside of the right leg. Now, there was a giant tear down the leg.
‘Oh, crap,’ I muttered, throwing them down. I wasn’t much of a seamstress at the best of times, and there was no way Dad would be able to fix them. I’d have to order some new ones online – they should get here by Thursday, I calculated. But until then, it’d have to be my old skirt.
I hated the regulation school skirt. It was pleated, for one thing, and made of this blue and black striped tartan. You had to wear stockings with it. Not tights. Not bare legs.Knee-high stockings. It looked good on some people, and I’d given in and worn it for a while last year before deciding to never touch the thing again.
But I had no choice.
And, worse, it was now a little too short for me.
I sighed again. It’d have to do for now. It’s not like I had any other option. I rummaged through a drawer until I found some of the stockings I’d bought to go with it last year. I grimaced at myself in the mirror before heading down to breakfast.
Brad choked on his cereal when I walked into the kitchen. He laughed so hard he sprayed Cheerios everywhere. ‘What the hell is that supposed to be?’
‘Brad, language,’ Dad scolded him. Then he turned to look at me and raised his eyebrows. ‘Isn’t that a bit... inappropriate for school, Elle?’
I huffed, scowling. ‘My trousers are ripped.’
‘How did you manage that?’
