The Edge of Falling

The Edge of Falling Read Free Page A

Book: The Edge of Falling Read Free
Author: Rebecca Serle
Tags: General, Juvenile Fiction
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movie star, and he kind of looks like him too. Speaking of movie stars, Claire’s building is crawling with them. SPK used to have a place here, before she split from her husband. I’d see her on the elevator with her kids. She’s smaller in real life. Most movie stars are, I’ve noticed.
    I take the elevator to the penthouse and twist my ponytail up into a bun as the doors open. No matter how air-conditioned their place is, it’s always just a little bit too warm in there in the summer and just a little bit too cold in the winter. It’s the floor-to-ceiling windows that line the place. They mirror whatever weather is outside.
    I figure Claire is probably upstairs on the deck sunbathing, but I call out for her anyway. You never know.
    I’m surprised when she answers me. “Kitchen!” she yells.
    The Howards’ house is pretty much the opposite of ours.While my mother redecorates every eighteen months on the dot, the aesthetic usually vacillates between Italian villa and Parisian glamour. It’s not exactly minimal, if you know what I mean.
    Claire’s apartments have always been totally modern—sleek, sharp lines. They redecorate, but when they do it’s always subtle, the kind of thing you don’t notice until months later, when you’re admiring a lamp or picture or whatever and you realize it wasn’t always there. The loft has barely any doors, and it’s all white, interspersed very sparingly with color—shots of fuchsia and green and midnight blue. And of course there are massive photographs everywhere. Their entire apartment looks a little bit like an art gallery, right down to the fact that there is barely even anywhere to sit.
    I make my way into the kitchen—a massive stainless-steel industrial affair—and find her standing in front of the refrigerator in a see-through gray sundress that is probably actually lingerie.
    “I thought you weren’t coming over,” she says, spinning around and giving me a wide smile.
    I smile back. “No you didn’t.”
    Claire is so beautiful that it could literally take your breath away. I mean that. When she walked in the Karen Millen show last fall, I think more than a few people had to remember to exhale. She’s all legs and arms and hair—the kind that glides down her back. Fake, yes. But still beautiful. When we’re outtogether, even if it’s just on the street or something, nearly every person we pass turns around and looks at her. They think she’s famous, possibly that she’s even someone else, that they’ve seen her on TV or in movies. She once did a guest stint on The Vampire Diaries , but that’s all she’s done besides modeling so far. She says she’s too all over the place to commit to a career, but I think she secretly wants to be an actress, and I could totally see her in California. Maybe she doesn’t think she could cut it; I’m not sure. It’s hard to think of Claire having any insecurities.
    I shrug. “I felt like walking.”
    “You walked here?” Despite her five-ten frame Claire never wears anything but heels. Walking more than a block without a driver following her is pretty much her definition of hell.
    “You know I do that,” I say, lifting some more strands of damp hair off my neck and securing them back in my bun.
    “It’s like a hundred degrees out, though,” she says.
    “Not like,” I say. “Actually.”
    She opens the fridge, takes out an Evian water, and slides it across the counter to me. I twist off the top and down half the bottle in one swig.
    “Where are your parents?” I ask, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth.
    “Europe,” she says. “Maybe Italy?” She starts munching on a green apple, then holds it out to me. I shake my head.
    “You weren’t invited?” I ask.
    It’s very unusual for Claire’s parents to travel without her. When she was away June and July, she was with them. They’ve never cared about pulling her out of school. She once went to school in Prague for a whole month. Her father

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