Even before I'm awake, the alarm clock is in my hand, and I break fro sleep completely at the same moment I hurl the clock against the wall. It lets out a final wail before shattering. "Whoa." Taylor says, when I slide into the car fifteen minutes later. "Is there a job opening in the red-light district I don't know about?" "Just drive." I can barely look at her. Anger is seething through me like liquid. She's a fraud: the whole world is a froud, one bright, shiny scam. And somehow I'm the one paying for it. I'm the one who died. I'm the one who's trapped. Here's the thing: it shouldn't be me. Taylor's the one who drives like she's in the real-life version of Grand Theft Auto. Taylor's the one who's always thinking of ways to punk people o humiliate them, who's always criticizing everybody. Taylor's the one who lied about being friends with Teylor Momsen and then tortured her all those years. I didn't do anything; I just followed along. "You're gonna freeze, you know." Taylo! r chucks her cigarette and rolls up the window. "Thanks mom." I flip down the mirror to make sure that my lipstick hasn't smeared. I've folded my skirt over a couple of times so it barely covers my ass when I sit down, and I'm wearing five-inch platforms that I bought with Selena as a joke at a store that we're pretty sure only caters to strippers. I've kept the fur-trimmed tank top, but I've added a rhinestone necklace, again purchased as a joke one Halloween when we all dressed up as Naughty Nurses
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