The Year I Became Isabella Anders Read Online Free

  THE Yr I BECAME ISABELLA ANDERS

Chapter 1

Affiliate 2

Affiliate 3

Chapter 4

Affiliate 5

Chapter 6

Chapter vii

Affiliate 8

Affiliate 9

Chapter 10

Chapter eleven

Affiliate 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Affiliate fifteen

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Affiliate 19

Chapter twenty

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Coming Presently

Almost the Author

Books by Jessica Sorensen

The Yr I Became Isabella Anders

All rights reserved.

Copyright (c) 2015 past Jessica Sorensen

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or expressionless, is purely coincidental. The writer holds sectional rights to this piece of work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

No part of this book tin can be reproduced in any form or past electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without the permission in writing from author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote brusque excerpts in a review.

Any trademarks, service marks, product names or names featured are assumed to be the holding of their corresponding owners, and are used only for reference. At that place is no implied endorsement if we utilise one of these terms.

For information: jessicasorensen.com

Cover Blueprint by:

Okay Creations

Photography:

Perrywinkle Photography

Interior Design and Formatting by

Christine Borgford, Perfectly Publishable

I'VE E'er ROCKED the weirdo gene, and I've mostly been okay with that. Just life would be a tiny bit easier if my parents and sister marched to the beat of their own drum, too. Unfortunately, their style is more Leave it to Beaver with an border. My mom is the epitome of a Stepford housewife on cleft. She can bake a cake, clean the firm, put together a fundraiser for our schoolhouse, and brand certain my sister and I are doing our homework, all while looking perfect.

To virtually, my dad is the perfect husband and father. He works in the city and is the vice president of a company. He makes a decent salary, similar most people who work in the city practise, holds a high condition in the community, and gives my mother everything she asks for.

Then there's my older sister, Hannah. Growing up, Hannah was the star prodigy of my parents. From preschool upwardly until commencement class, she starred in beauty pageants and won so many tiaras and trophies my parents fabricated a special room for them, which basically meant she has two bedrooms. As she got older, she got into modeling and was fifty-fifty in her ain commercial for some robotic gadget that was supposed to tease hair to its 'fullest potential'. My parents were always bragging about her at work functions and community get-togethers.

High school is where Hannah really blossomed, co-ordinate to anybody. She developed an obsession with makeup and fashion, and her confidence and beauty helped her rise to the top social condition tier. She became student trunk president, caput cheerleader, and Queen of Sunnyvale, the title handed to one lucky senior who receives a flashy crown, costless dinner at the club for a year, the privilege of riding on the bladder in the Sunnyvale Sunny Days parade, and a scholarship.

Then there'due south me, the amorphous clothes wearing, manga loving, aspiring comic book artist, zombie enthusiast add-on to our family. Existence dissimilar would exist fine--there has to be a weirdo in every family unit--except mine isn't very accepting of people they can't empathise, including their own daughter. A inferior in high school, my greatest accomplishment is having my own blog that is but a way for me to go all the clusterfuck of weirdness out of my head.

I once trounce the entire neighborhood, including the guys, in a free shot competition. But when I do shit like that, it always earns the same reaction from my mother: "You're such a tomboy. When are you going to human activity similar a daughter?"

I clock in a lot of time reading, dye my pilus an array of colors--today it's green stripes!--and doodle my own comics starring kickass female characters who aren't afraid to be themselves, my aspect I try to live by. Sometimes it'southward hard, though, trying to notice people who 'go me' or whatsoever. I alive in my own piddling beat out as the outcast. Sometimes I experience like I can barely exhale, like the walls are closing in. My worst fright is that I'll dice in that damn shell, probably by asphyxiation.

"Why aren't you breathing?" my mom asks me from across the lengthy dinner tabular array.

I concord my breath another few seconds earlier releasing a deafening breathe. "I was simply wondering how long it'd accept to dice from lack of air." And if anyone would notice if I dropped expressionless at the kitchen table.

She stares at me, unimpressed, so shakes her head and looks over at my dad. "I really don't become her sometimes." She cuts into her chicken, sawing into the meat so violently the pocketknife scrapes against the plate. "No, I take that back. I don't sympathise her at all."

Hannah snorts a laugh as her manicured nails tap buttons on her phone. "No one does. Just enquire anyone at school."

"Hey, some people get me," I argue, stabbing my fork into my salad. "I swear they do."

She glances up at me with her brows biconvex. "Name one person. And the janitor doesn't count."

"I'one thousand not counting the janitor," I say, chewing on a bite of salad. I've never understood why my sis seems to detest me and then much, but e'er since we were in form school, she's made it her mission to torment me as much every bit she can. "Although, Del'south pretty cool."

"Oh, my God, you're a freak," she sneers. "And I know you don't have friends, so don't pretend like they be."

"Just considering the people I hang out with aren't cool enough for you, doesn't mean they don't exist." I'm at-home. Perfectly cool. A lazy river on a hot summertime day. Because if I'thousand not--if I lose my shit with Hannah--my ass volition be sent to my room without dessert. And I love dessert about as much as I love manga.

Hannah dramatically rolls her optics. "You're so lame. At least own that you're a loner and spare yourself the embarrassment of pretending you're not a loser."

I bite my natural language to go on from firing off annihilation that'll get me into trouble and chant a lovely sweetness treat song within my caput.

Oreo cake. Cookie dough water ice cream. Strawberry cheesecake.

"You lot know what?" Hannah sets the telephone down on the table, and when she smiles at me maliciously, I know she's about to say something that'due south going to get me into trouble--that even my sweet treat chant won't save me from. "I take that back. Maybe the janitor tin count. I hateful, yous eat all your lunches in the janitor'due south cupboard, correct?"

"No," I say through gritted teeth. "And you lot know I don't, since you lot pretend to ignore me every day during luncheon."

Her smiling broadens at the sound of my clipped tone, because she knows she's won--that I'm nigh to lose my absurd. She mouths, Loser.

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

Snickers. Chocolate chip cookies. Funnel block--

"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. "Look, is she your girlfriend?"

I tin't control it whatever 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 Bowwow."

"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 an

d mother stare at the mess on the crisp linen tablecloth and so 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 exercise anything." I try not to sound whiney, because it'll merely piss her off more. "Well, non anything that she didn't do."

"And y'all don't get any dessert," she says, ignoring my protests as she strides to the kitchen door.

"I'm actually sorry," I tell her as calmly every bit I tin, "but she did phone 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 female parent looks at my begetter in that manner that says you accept care of her and then she slams her palm confronting the door and whisks out of the room.

"Isabella, your female parent said to go to your room, so go to your room." He speaks robotically, as if he rehearsed the words. He avoids centre contact with me, staring at his plate. "And no dessert."

He rarely looks at me, and I haven't always figured out why. I asked him about it in one case, but he pretended similar 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 creature, to him fearing I secretly possess the superpower to change anyone who makes middle contact with me into a human corpse.

Knowing there'south no way my father's going to cave on my penalisation--since we've been in this same situation at least a hundred times--I stand. "Okay."

"And apologize to your sister," he adds, all the same staring at his chicken like information technology'south the nearly fascinating thing in the earth.

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

As I'thousand 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 notwithstanding here?" she asks me as she sets the platter down at the end of the table. "I told y'all to go to your room."

With a heavy sigh, I bid goodbye to the cupcakes and get out the dining room, trying to convince myself they probably taste like burnt cardboard, even though my mother'south won ribbons for her fan-freakin'-tastic cupcakes.

An 60 minutes 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 balustrade doors are open, letting a warm May cakewalk blow within. I'm still trying to convince myself that my parents don't hate me. That all their anger and bitterness toward me is only because they don't sympathise me. That their partialness to my sister has nothing to do with me. But it'southward hard when my dad won't even look at me, and every time my female parent speaks to me, it'due south either to ground me or to tell me what a disappointment I am.

I prevarication in bed lost in my thoughts until my belly grumbles. God, I wish I could at least have just a taste of those crimson velvet cupcakes. But if I'k caught sneaking into the kitchen, my barrel will be grounded. It might be worth it, because seriously, my body'south about to have a lack-of-saccharide conniption fit.

Ugh!

I roll off my bed and exercise an awesome zombie impression as I crawl across my flooring toward my dresser. "Must . . . get . . . carbohydrate . . ."

When I reach the dresser, I hoist myself to my feet and raid the top drawer for some old Halloween candy I stashed in that location months agone. I find a half eaten purse of jellybeans and a half eaten chocolate bar that doesn't take a wrapper, and I devour both of them.

Turns out the chocolate bar has the gross addition of almonds. I instantly dry heave, realizing why the candy bar was only half eaten to brainstorm with.

"Gross!" I search for a trashcan to spit it out, but I have no clue where mine ended up, then I trip out onto the balcony and spit out the mouthful of candy over the edge.

Information technology takes me about two seconds to realize what a stupid idea this was for 3 different reasons:

1. My sis is hanging out in the driveway, which is right below my window.

two. The chocolate I but spit out has landed on her caput.

3. She'due south talking to our neighbor, Kyler Meyers.

Kyler Meyers. What tin can I say well-nigh him other than he'south gorgeous, popular, the star quarterback, and smart. Like, he takes AP classes and has a iv.0 GPA kind of smart. I'm also in dearest with him, have been since I was eight years erstwhile and he stopped Hannah'south band of minions from picking on me during recess.

"Hey, just leave her alone," he said when he stumbled across united states at the playground.

They had me trapped on the top of the slide and were threatening to push me down information technology. It wouldn't have been a big deal except there was a giant mud puddle at the bottom. Somehow, Hannah had managed to scare all the rest of the kids abroad, so no ane was around to witness what was about to go downwards. Even the recess monitor was MIA.

Hannah had crossed her artillery and raised her brows at Kyler. "Why're you sticking up for her, Kyler? She'due south a loser." She stepped toward him and batted her eyelashes. "How most you just go dorsum to playing football game with your friends and leave united states alone."

Kyler glanced at me then effectually the empty playground. For a moment, I thought he was going to bail, but then he stepped around Hannah and her friends and offered me his mitt. "Come up on, Isa."

I took his hand and he helped me to my feet. When they'd chased me up here, I'd fallen down and scraped up my knees, but I hardly felt the pain as he held my hand and guided me off the playground.

He just allow go of my paw when nosotros were a rubber distance away from them. "Are y'all okay?"

Unable to notice my phonation, I nodded.

"You should try to stay away from her," he said, looking over his shoulder at Hannah and her crew, who had targeted a new victim.

"Okay." I managed to go 1 give-and-take out and was super proud of that.

He offered me a grin before heading back to the field to play football with his friends, oblivious to how much his skillful deed meant to me. Information technology was the outset fourth dimension someone had stuck up for me. Always. And I've been in beloved with him e'er since.

I know my crush won't always get anywhere, but I estimate I'm a glutton for punishment. Deep down, I get that I'm not actually in love with Kyler, especially since sometimes he does things that brand me hate him. Simply in love sounds so much less porn star-ish than in animalism.

The playground isn't the only time he's done something nice for me, though. At that place's then much more to my in lust crush than that.

When I was in 8th form, he gave me a rose on Valentine's Day.

"Hey, Isa, I have something for you," he said equally he jogged across the centre school parking lot toward me.

I paused when he said my nickname and gaped at him spastically with half a brownie in my oral cavity. He was a yr older than I was, and I couldn't figure out why he was talking to me. Not but was I Hannah'due south loser younger sister, simply I was in middle school and he was in high school.

"Happy Valentine's 24-hour interval." He stuck out his hand, and his fingers were wrapped around the stem of a ruby-red rose.

I cautiously glanced from the rose to him then gulped the credibility down. "Is this a pull a fast one on?"

Chuckling, he brushed his brown hair out of his eyes. "Why would I e'er want to trick you, Isabella? I accept no reason to."

My insides quivered at the sound of my name leaving his lips. The final fourth dimension he had any social interaction with me was when I was in the 3rd grade and he stopped some of his friends from picking on me, including Hannah.

My gaze darted around the mostly vacant parking lot as I searched for a blonde-haired daughter hiding out somewhere, laughing her ass off. "Did my sister put you lot upwards to this?"

He swiftly shook his head. "I swear to God it's not a trick. I just wanted to do something nice."

I still didn't take the rose, worried the moment I accepted his gift, my sister would evidence herself and laugh at me. Knowing her, she'd probably take her Super Dyspeptic Cheer Pod People with her, who'd be gear up to accept pictures of my mortification.

"Isa." He dipped his head to make eye contact with me, not considering I'thousand super brusk--I'chiliad actually above av

erage height--but he's like i-step-away-from-non-making-the-parking-garage-clearance alpine. "I swear to you this is merely 1 neighbor giving another neighbor a gift with no tricks attached."

A neighborly souvenir? I almost frowned. But it was a completely selfish, Hannah-like reaction, and then I sucked it up, took the rose, and even managed a smile. "Thanks."

He smiled, and my centre did an Irish tap dance. "Yous're welcome." He didn't exit right abroad, and it seemed similar he wanted to say more. "Hey, so I accept to ask you for a favor." He paused, hesitant. "And y'all can totally say no, but . . . I really need to work on my free shot for tryouts next flavour, and since you lot won that contest and were pretty badass, I thought you and I could practice together. Perchance you could teach me a few pointers."

Is Kyler seriously asking me to help him ameliorate his basketball game skills? I wasn't sure how I felt about that. On one mitt, I was excited that I had an opportunity to spend time with him. On the other hand, it made me experience like he saw me equally one of the guys.

"Sure," I replied with a small smiling.

"Cheers." He looked relieved. "Wanna run into at my house tomorrow morning?"

I nodded and he threw me another grin before he turned around and headed toward the football game field, located between the middle school and loftier school.

I stared downward at the rose, wondering what the gesture meant--if information technology meant anything--and spent the adjacent couple of weekends obsessing virtually every other gesture he did during our practices. Like when he brought me a doughnut or we spent a couple of hours afterward practise watching a picture show. Office of me wonders if he was simply being friendly, while another small office of me hoped it meant more than.

He even opened up to me a time or two.

"Sometimes I feel similar I take to exist practiced all the fourth dimension--because that's how everyone expects me to be," he muttered after his dad had come home and spent over a half an hr critiquing Kyler while he fabricated basket later basket.

"I'yard sure no one expects y'all to exist that way," I said as we sabbatum on his porch steps, drinking lemonade, our clothes soaked with sweat. "No one can be good all the time."

"Yeah, I know." He scratched his arm, staring at the driveway. "But sometimes information technology feels similar the whole school doesn't see it that way. Like I take to be that guy who takes the squad to the championships, who gets good grades, who's happy all the damn fourth dimension, even when things get shitty. My parents expect that too." His hand fell to his lap and he caught my gaze from out of the corner of his center. "My dad especially. Sometimes it feels like he's trying to alive his dreams through me. Sometimes I wish I could only stop."

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