Uninvited: An Unloved Ones Prequel #2 (The Unloved Ones Prequels) Read Free Page A

down to look at what else she has laying around, and find a pile of disposable, daily-wear contacts in individually-wrapped containers. I pick one up at random, and peel back the foil cover. I’ve never worn contacts; my vision is perfect. But apparently Becka’s isn’t. I poke my finger into the liquid of the container, and scoop out the contact disc onto my fingertip. It’s softer than I would imagine, and it takes me a few tries, but I get it onto her eye. The vision in that eye is crystal clear now, and I open another package and put in a contact into the other eye. The difference in clairty is staggering, like going from VHS to High Definition.
    It’s then that I catch sight of her toothbrush laying on the counter, but the thought of putting that in my mouth after she’s used it makes me gag. Even if I am her now, it just doesn’t seem sanitary.
    Taking a shower is beyond my comfort level as well, so I settle for some deodorant and a spritz of cheap perfume. Then I wash off her make-up—which I remember from last night—and reapply. Her brands are all cheap and glittery, but when I put on her signature eyeliner and dark lipstick, it looks right. I look like Becka.
    That is, I look like cheap trash.
    I stand looking at myself in the mirror.
I
would never dress like this. A skimpy black top and tight black jeans—yuck. Where’s the color? But the idea of going through her clothes is distasteful. Besides, this
is
how she dresses, and even though she looks like a mess to me, that’s how she’s supposed to look. I wash my hands in the sink, and then dry them on a towel which makes me want to wash them all over again, and then flick off the light.
    I freeze. I flick back on the light. Then I flick it off and on a second time.
    You’re not supposed to be able to control light in a dream. That’s one of the rules.
     I open the door slowly, not bothering to turn off the light as I walk down the hallway. I hear the voices of Becka’s family again from the kitchen. Her mother looks up at me when I round the corner.
    She smiles. “Aww, you look nice, sweetheart. Come give me a hug before you head out.”
    I step forward reluctantly. They are all watching me, but only the little girl is frowning. She must be able to tell something’s off.
    I stand with my arms at my side as Becka’s mother wraps me in a hug. “I am
so
proud of you,” she says.
    “Why?” I blurt out.
    She laughs and looks up at me. “For being you, silly.”
    I stare at her in confusion. The little girl knocks over her plastic bowl of cereal, and Becka’s mother is distracted.
    Proud? I repeat in my head. What has Becka ever done that anyone should be proud about?
My
mother has never said she was proud, and I’ve gotten straight A’s since Kindergarten. Is this what it is like in other families?
    And if Becka’s family is so supportive, how come Becka turned out so lazy and stupid?
    “Here,” her father says, and I turn to him. He puts something into my hand, and I look down to see a twenty-dollar bill. “For lunch. I didn’t have time to pack you anything.”
    Our school lunches are $3.25.
    “Can’t have our girl going hungry,” Becka’s mother says.
    I blink. “Um, I’d better get to school.”
    Becka’s mother turns to her father and they laugh, as if I’ve made a joke. I start to back away, and her father stops me.
    “Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asks.
    Becka probably has a backpack or something. I glance around for it, and see a grungy knapsack by the front door. It looks vaguely familiar. “I’ll grab my bag on the way out,” I say.
    Her parents laugh again, and this time even the two children join in. The little girl throws out her arms.
    “Good-bye hugs!” she screams.
    “Good-bye hugs,” the other two echo in unison.
    Then—and I’m not making this up—they all stand up and circle around me to give me a tight hug, and while they do it, they chant “Good-byeeeee, Becka!” in what sounds like the