by AC Washer
“Why?”
Mickey opened his eyes again, looking at me with such wide-eyed innocence it had to be fake.
He shrugged. “Curious. Maybe I’m compiling a list of what not to name kids.You know, just in case names are predictive of being a jerk.”
I smiled. “Then don’t name your kid Cory.”
“Cory?”
“Yep. Cory James, attorney at law.”
“A lawyer for a dad. How was that?”
“As long as he stayed sober, it wasn’t so bad,” I said, stuffing a couple pairs of white socks into the top drawer before shutting it harder than I intended.
“He’s not really my family, though.”
Mickey’s eyes widened. He cleared his throat. “Why don’t you think your dad’s not your real dad?”
I chuckled. “I wish he wasn’t, but I look too much like him for that to be true. No, I just meant that if I’d had my way, I’d have moved out with my brother a year ago and been happy to never see my dad again. My brother’s the only real family I have.”
“Oh. Why didn’t you leave?”
“Couldn’t get emancipated,” I said. “My dad’s an attorney, so chances were slim a judge would’ve sided with me. I don’t even know why Dad wanted me around. Maybe he just wanted someone close by that he hated more than himself.”
“Oh. That…sucks.”
I shrugged. I’d accepted the fact my dad hated me a long time ago. And once I realized it was mostly because I reminded him too much of my mom—the only woman smart enough to leave him before he was through making her life a living hell—it was a little easier to swallow. Less personal, somehow. But my mom leaving us with him…that had to be all because of my dad. Caleb thought she’d straight-up abandoned us, but I knew, deep down, that she’d loved us. Maybe she just couldn’t take us with her. I mean, Dad was a high-powered attorney with connections. All he had to do was make her look bad, and as a prosecutor, he had that formula down to a science.
I stared down at the backpack, picking at a stray thread.
“I’d planned on leaving my dad anyway, but Caleb didn’t think his college roommates would let me crash at their place. Caleb wanted me to hold out a little longer so he could line up something else, but things went sideways before that happened,” I said, shaking my head. Caleb should have known better—he did know better. But even if things were getting worse at home, I could’ve held my temper. If I just hadn’t reacted—like I always did—things could have worked out like he’d promised.
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” I said, getting back to unpacking the few odds and ends left in the bag.
Maeve popped her head through the doorway.
“What’s going on in here?” she asked.
It took me a moment to notice the fistful of panties in my hands and stuff them behind my back. Not that Mickey catching an eyeful of panties embarrassed me—I’d tried to evict the guy with tampons, after all. But prim and proper Maeve catching me with a handful of underwear in front of her foster son? Now that was awkward.
“We were just getting to know each other,” Mickey said.
“Mickey,” Maeve said, her eyes narrowed. “You know the rules.”
Mickey smiled his cheesy grin again, shrugging his shoulders. “Caught.” He winked at me like I was in on some sort of conspiracy. “I’m not supposed to be in your room…ever!” he stage-whispered. “She’s afraid we’d get too close, if you know what I mean.”
I almost choked on my spit.
“Mickey, I’m serious,” said Maeve, her face stern.
“Oh, come on.” He stretched out his body into an X before plopping his arms and legs down once more. “She’s like family.” He turned toward me, an impish smile on his lips. “Let’s ask Kella here. Kella, does this fine specimen of male studliness tempt you at all?” He did that eyebrow wiggle once more, and I had to fight to hold back a laugh.
“Um, no.”
“See?” he said, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.
“Mickey,” she warned, “that’s not what I—”
“Honestly, nothing’s gonna happen.” There was an odd note in his voice—something that sounded a bit too serious. Maeve pursed her lips before Mickey added, “And anyway, I’m saving my charms for all the girls I’m not related to. Or smell.” He glanced at me. “Really, really badly. You ought to do something about that. Like take a shower. Or three.”
I lobbed a brand new stick of deodorant at his arm.
But he sat up, catching it deftly. Caleb wouldn’t have—his reflexes were horrible and his hand-eye coordination was even worse.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I think you need this more than I do,” he said, tossing the deodorant back into my lap as he stood up.
“Dork,” I said.
“Tell me I’m not right.”
“Mickey, leave and let Kella get settled in,” Maeve said.
The door shut before I could say anything. As they walked downstairs, the soft thud of their footsteps faded away. Mickey’s voice wafted up the stairwell. “This’ll be interesting.”
“Don’t get too interested…”
I grinned. Did she honestly think we’d be into each other? Not only was he a couple years younger than me, but he acted exactly like I’d imagine a little brother ought to act: annoying but kind of likable, anyway.
My smile faded as I turned my attention back to my bag. I shook my head as I pulled out a set of Hello Kitty PJs. Who picked these things out?
Chapter 4
The next morning, I dragged myself out of bed, stumbling across the hallway and into the shower. It took about five minutes of near-scalding water before I felt somewhat awake. After another five minutes—when I’d already lathered my hair with shampoo—I remembered I’d taken a shower the night before. My frizz would make me pay.
When I got out of the shower, it hit me: I was a senior in high school and—on top of looking like the living dead in a baggy pastel pink shirt that made me look way too skinny—I’d be riding the big yellow bus to school today and every single day after that.
“Stupid foster care rules,” I muttered as I wiped the steamed mirror clear with my hand.
And stupid universe where I couldn’t even wear my own clothes. Not that Deena wasn’t willing to pull strings to help me get them back, but I would have had to go with her. Just thinking about walking by the spot where Caleb nearly bled out made me sway in place, forcing me to grip the bathroom counter.
No, getting my clothes was out of the question. I’d rather go to school looking like a circus tent.
I closed my eyes and breathed through my nose slowly, purging my mind of thoughts of blood—Caleb’s blood—before I really did faint. I’d never been good with stuff like that, and it had only gotten worse after what had happened.
Bruises, though…I was used to those.
I opened my eyes to examine the puffy blue and purple splotches swirling up and down the left side of my face. Only the edges of the bruising had faded to green. I frowned. Usually, I healed a lot faster—a few days at most. At least my lip looked close to normal. I figured that was something.
Maeve had lent me her makeup bag and I dug in, discovering a large—and almost untouched—collection of lipstick, mascara, and eye shadow. I eyed the five shades of concealer, each still in their packaging. I’d heard of people who bought clothes they never wore. Perhaps Maeve was like that but with makeup instead. Whatever the reason, I was glad for the large selection.
While I added a layer of concealer, someone rapped on the door. “Breakfast!” It was Mickey.
“Uh-huh.” I kept working.
“Now,” he added.
“Got it.”
I’d just finished powdering my face when Mickey knocked again.
“Yeah?”
“Maeve said to tell you that your oatmeal’s getting cold. Also, you used up the last of the hot water. I did not appreciate it.”
“Five minutes!” Maeve shouted up the s
tairs.
I flinched, smearing mascara under my left eye. I muttered under my breath as I wiped it off, along with three other layers of painstakingly applied makeup.
“Everything all right in there?” Mickey asked.
“Yeah. Almost done.”
I eyed myself in the mirror. Not too bad, considering I didn’t have my personal stash. Maeve’s plum lipstick turned out not to be a decent substitute for the purple primer I’d left at home, and her makeup—while not a perfect match—was close enough to my skin tone that it blended well enough.
I pulled on the pink I-look-like-a-zombie tee along with my baggy skinny jeans, grabbed my empty backpack, and raced downstairs to find Maeve sitting at the breakfast bar while Mickey poured orange juice.
Maeve looked me over and pursed her lips as I slid onto a bar stool.
“We’ll need to get you some clothes soon,” she said.
I smiled at her before shoving down spoonfuls of tepid oatmeal. When I looked up from my bowl, I found Mickey staring at me, his face inscrutable.
“What? Do I have something on my face?” I swiped the tip of my nose.
“No.” He turned away and quietly closed the fridge. “Your face looks fine,” he said with an edge to his voice that I shrugged off.
I ditched the dishes in the sink and followed Mickey out the door. He was about ten steps ahead of me, and I had to speed walk to catch up. Whatever was bothering him seemed gone by then.
“Crap,” I muttered as we rounded a bend in the driveway.
“What?”
“I didn’t get an excuse for gym.”
He smiled. “You’re anti-sports? Didn’t see that one coming.”
“I’m not, but I don’t want to sweat off my makeup. And then there’s the whole bruised rib thing.”
Mickey slowed down, so I did too.
“You seem to have a lot of practice,” Mickey said. “Covering up, I mean.”
I kicked an acorn out of the way. “I guess.”
After a long pause, Mickey asked, “You get excused from gym often?”
I sent another acorn skittering across the driveway to the edge of the lawn. “Often enough. If I knew Maeve’s signature, I’d just forge it, but I haven’t seen it yet.”
Mickey remained silent the rest of the way to the stop. But right before I stepped onto the bus, I could have sworn I heard him whisper, “Cory James.”
The bus ride to the school revealed more of the same landscape—huge swathes of trees interspersed by small homes, almost cottage-like in size. After ten minutes or so, the trees became more spaced out until finally revealing a large, white stone building that looked more like a recently-built castle than a school—complete with a stone outer wall.
“Mickey,” I whispered. “What the hell is a castle doing in Colorado?”
“Donors,” he muttered in reply. “They were some pretty eccentric people, from what I understand. But the inside is pretty modern, though.”
I almost expected a drawbridge to lower for our bus, but it was a modern castle, so an electric wrought-iron gate sprung open instead.
“Well, that’s one way to keep kids from going AWOL,” I muttered as the gate slammed shut behind us.
The bus circled around a loop and parked in front of the large school doors.
“So, a few things I need to tell you,” Mickey said as we climbed down the bus steps and walked toward the school’s large, double wooden doors.
“Yeah?” I said as I stared up at turrets—real actual turrets—with flags.
“First off,” he said, “I’m in mostly senior-level classes.”
I slowly looked him over. “How?”
“Homeschooled, remember?” he said with a shrug.
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, little brother might be in my classes. Got it. Anything else I should know?” Please say no, please say no.
“And I’m outrageously popular, so you’ve got an automatic in.” He winked.
I chuckled, grinning at him. He smiled pleasantly back.
“There’s one more thing, but it’s kind of important.”
He stopped, reaching for my forearm. The obstinate part of me wanted to keep walking, but I played along instead and let him bring me to a stop.
“What?”
“Try not to be too sarcastic.”
I stuck my tongue out at him and turned away.
Mickey grabbed my upper arm. “No, I’m serious. No joking, no sarcasm—at least not yet,” he added when I leveled a glare at him. “Just until you get a feel for things around here.”
I looked down at his hand until he moved it.
“I’m really tired of people telling me how to act.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Why? How are they telling you to act?”
“Normal.”
He laughed. I frowned, but that only made him laugh harder.
“Sorry,” he said, as he wiped a tear from his eye. “I’m not saying normal. I mean, you’re already fairly normal.” He chuckled. “All things considered, anyway.”
“Gee, thanks.”
He shook his head, shedding his smile. “Look, just act neutral. Pretend that everyone is way sensitive, and they get offended over the littlest things.”
“Why? Do they?”
He shrugged. “Usually.”
“But middle school should have beat that out of them. This is high school.”
“I know.” He sighed. “Just trust me okay? I’m trying to help you get a good start.”
My gut knew Mickey was telling the truth the same way it knew Deena had lied when she said my face looked better. But that didn’t mean I liked what he was saying.
My jaw hurt from clenching my teeth, reminding me that makeup, while magical, didn’t get rid of the damage hidden underneath. Irritated, I walked to the doors again.
“Promise?” He caught up to me.
I shook my head again. “No. I’m going to act normal.”
“Normal human or normal you?”
“Normal normal,” I said pulling open the school doors into…holy fashion catalogue, who were these people?
Drop-dead gorgeous blondes, brunettes, platinums—lots of platinums. Apparently, that was a thing here. And it worked. My heart stopped as gorgeous male physiques joked with each other, jostled down the hallways, and leaned against lockers. And then it plummeted, registering the girls walking confidently, gorgeously tall and looking like they competed for modeling gigs. Scratch that, they already had modeling gigs, and the school halls were their catwalks.
Of course, each and every one of them had shadowy images that seemed to lurk underneath their gorgeous exterior, but I studiously ignored the lashing tails, the tucked-in wings, and the pointy ears, because that was all me and my meds.
Now if only I could ignore the fact that I was the only one that didn’t belong on the runway. Goodbye, any shot of a boyfriend. Not that I’d wanted one, but now that I didn’t have a chance, I mourned the loss of at least the possibility. I might as well have been Igor over here, for all the time I took concealing my bruises.
“Mouth,” some guy—Mickey, my brain supplied—muttered in my ear. I shut it. “Where, what… Is this, like, some top-secret genetic lab or something?”
“What?”
“I mean, you guys live in a decent-sized town not on GPS, go to a castle for school, and all of you guys are, like, gorgeous supermodels?” I eyed him. “Minus you. What are you, the next experiment? Or a botched one?”
As soon as Mickey laughed, a wave of female eyes swept over the halls and fastened onto me. No, onto Mickey. And then they flicked over me, their gazes curious, careful. No way. This had to be some parallel universe.
“Mickey,” I whispered under my breath. “They’re checking you out.”
He shrugged.
“You weren’t lying.” I had to be in shock—I rarely bothered stating the obvious.
He grinned. “Kella, I never lie.”
I peered at him then, trying to se
e if I’d missed something, but between his skinny frame and cheesy grin and the guy walking past us who looked an awful lot like the statue of David that I studied in art last year—minus the shadowy pointed ears that I was determined to ignore—I was coming up empty.
“What have we here?” An arm settled around my shoulders and the smell of honeysuckle fell over me like a blanket. My gaze jerked up to see a blond, blue-eyed, gorgeous younger version of my foster mother. I did a double take.
“Bridgette.” Mickey sounded less than thrilled. But his lack of enthusiasm didn’t put Bridgette off in the least.
“It’s the newbie! I love newbies! How do you like your new crib?”
My brows scrunched together. “Huh?”
“You know, your new pad. Your…” She thought for a second. “Digs.”
“Oh. Uh.” I glanced over at Mickey. Was she serious? “Good, I guess.”
Mickey raised his eyes heavenward, as if praying for patience. “We were about to go to—”
“The front office? Here, I’ll take you!” She grabbed my arm to link it to hers and winked at Mickey.
Mickey’s face was a battleground between amusement and annoyance as Bridgette bounced us the whole ten feet to the office door before jerking to a stop. She crooked an eyebrow at Mickey. He sighed and leaned forward, swinging the glass door open. Bridgette paraded us through.
“Mr. Hayes?” she said.
Mr. Hayes looked up from the desk, stacks of paper scattered here and there, his golden hair disheveled. He looked like an absentminded professor turned god, just like everyone else around here.
“Hmm? Oh!” His face flushed bright red. “Yes, the new student.”
He sent sheets of paper flying as he fumbled through a few stacks. At last, he held up his prize: my schedule.
“Kella James.” He flicked his eyes up to stare at me over his black-rimmed glasses. He stretched the sheet toward me. The paper trembled in his hands as it inched closer. Mickey muttered something under his breath as he swiped my schedule from Mr. Hayes’ hands. Mr. Hayes snatched his hands away as if Mickey’d smacked them with a ruler.
“Um. Thanks. I guess,” I said. Mr. Hayes brown eyes shot back to mine.
