Read Color Me Pretty for Free Online Page B

be able to find my way home.
    After we're finished, the woman leads me to my room, blonde ponytail bouncing cheerfully behind her, swinging like a horse's tail, as she proceeds to explain the rules to me. No locks on the door, regular and random check-ins, no electronics, etc., etc., and so on and so forth. Basically, every cliché that ever existed all rolled into one. I'm actually surprised when there aren't any straps or chains on the bed. The room really does look like a hotel (no bars on my windows), and it's even got its own bathroom – which of course, does not lock. It's such an anticlimactic moment that I just stand there in the center of the pale, pink bedroom and stare out the window at the slightly damp surface of the parking lot.
    The woman yammers on for a little while longer, hands me a brochure and then just leaves.
    Silence descends on the room, thick and cloying, forcing me to switch on the piece of shit TV, so I can have some company. I miss Emmett so terribly that it hurts inside. Wrapping my arms around my chest, I shuffle over to the bed and plop down on the itchy comforter.
    When I glance at the brochure, I see that there's a schedule tucked inside, one that has my name scrawled across the top of it. I'm sure the woman explained it to me, but I wasn't really listening. Why should I? I'm being held here against my will, and I refuse to be happy about it.
    There are meal times, of course, which make my stomach knot with dread, along with some mandatory group counseling sessions. Two a day for the next three days. The first one starts in an hour. I crumple the page up in my hand and lay back, doing my best to breathe through my mouth. The whole place smells a little like iodine and antiseptic, and it's kind of making me sick.
    I lay there for awhile before realizing what I saw when I walked in here: a phone. My cell is gone, have no clue where it went. I'm guessing my parents took that, too. It's crossed my mind briefly that I may not be able to get my stuff back. If they're as mad at me as it seems, then they could refuse to give me back my clothes and furniture as a punishment. I mean, my dad is the one that paid for them. God, can this get any worse? Probably. But it can also get better.
    I slide along the edge of the bed and pause next to the nightstand. The phone is super old school, like decades behind schedule. It's probably older than me. I stare at it for awhile, take a deep breath and then pick it up, twirling the curly cord around one finger while I dial Emmett's number. It's kind of impressive that I even remember it. My memory of the last few weeks is a little spotty and unclear. Maybe it's a sign? I read once that the mind only remembers things that we deem important, that we want to keep. I mean, I don't think that's necessarily true, but it's a pleasant thought.
    “Hello?” Even the sound of his voice makes me smile.
    “Emmett.” That's the only word I can get out. I want him so bad right now, it's becoming a physical ache inside my chest. I want to cook an omelet with him and drink juice from his recycled cups and sleep in his bed … Comforting, that's what Emmett is to me. But not just that. He's … electrifying. He makes me want to be a better person. He is an integral part of my rebirth and any future success I might have.
    “Hi, Claire,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his words. “How are you doing?”
    “Alright,” I tell him, glancing at the door suspiciously. If somebody is spying in on me, fuck them. I won't give them any reason to suspect me of doing anything wrong. “They took me to Crescent Springs. The drive was pretty boring.” I shrug and take a deep breath. “I have to go to two group counseling sessions today.”
    “Ah, that's rough,” he says, sounding genuinely sorry for me. “I never liked those things.” My turn to pause.
    “You've been to counseling?”
    “Yeah, a couple of times actually. They never helped. Pain isn't something that everyone