Authors: Rebecca A. Rogers
Tags: #Teen & Young Adult, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Fantasy, #Paranormal & Urban
Dad drapes his arm around Mom’s shoulders, and pulls her to his chest. He gives her a comforting hug.
“We’ll miss you, kiddo. Take care, all right?” he says. He’s never been the mushy type. If he can avoid goodbyes altogether, he will.
I don’t look at him, either. Instead, I retort by saying, “Yeah.”
Mom reaches into her front jean pocket and pulls out a white envelope. “This is for you. Don’t open it until we leave.”
I take the envelope from her and eye it. What the hell could she possibly have to say to me in a note?
Mom and Dad turn to hug Randy and Beth, and then get in the Honda. Dad starts the engine, while Mom rolls the window down. She sticks her hand out the window and waves, as they speed down the driveway.
I wave, which looks clumsy, but I know they don’t see it.
So, this is it. A new beginning.
“Candra?” Beth gently asks. She sounds like she’s checking to see if I’m still breathing.
I don’t reply. I turn on my heels and dart through the front door. Upstairs, I slam the door behind me. I don’t want to talk to her or Randy. I don’t want to think about my parents leaving me with people I barely know. I don’t want to think about the challenges I’ll face come Monday.
My hand tightly grips the envelope Mom gave me. I rip it open to see the contents—a folded letter and a silver heart locket. I open the letter and begin to read.
Candra,
I know you don’t understand why we did this, but you will soon. This was the hardest decision we’ve ever made. I’m leaving this silver locket in your possession now. It was my mother’s. Please take good care of it. Inside the locket are pictures of your father and me, so we will always be close to your heart.
Please call me as soon as you can.
Love always,
Mom
One tear slides down my cheek, followed by another. Once they begin to flow, they won’t stop. Before I know it, I’m doubled over—crying so hard I’m sure the whole neighborhood can hear me.
All of the emotions from the past few days catch up to me. I pull my legs to my face and wrap my arms around them. The tops of my jeans are damp and smudged with my black mascara. The words
stay strong
replay over and over in my mind, but I can’t be strong anymore.
I chuck the locket across the room, where it hits the wall with a
clank
and falls to the floor.
I cry until there isn’t a drop of water left in my eyes, and my throat aches from my shrill sobs.
Chapter Two
H
igh school. The worst part of my life. Some say it’s the best, but I wonder what planet they’re from. If I can get through the long days without any morons making fun of the new kid, then I suppose it might be a tolerable.
Beth gives me simple directions on how to get to school by foot. I’m glad she doesn’t mention my disgusting display of emotions from the previous night, because it won’t happen again. Last night I swore to myself that I’d make this work, even if it takes every ounce of strength to get myself out of bed and to school every day. I just need to get through this year, and then my exile will be over. I’ll go home.
I stand in front of the high school, watching students mass through the main doors. Everything in me says turn around and run—run fast and far. But I know change is what I’m here for.
The school reminds me of a penitentiary with its all-brick façade. Walls seem to disappear into their flat structure. Four areas of the building form bulky squares, rising above roof level. The only area that has any form to it is a large, circular building to my right.
Oh, God. This really is a reformatory.
The sign on the front lawn is brick, with a white board set in the center. Up top, it reads:
CONARD
HIGH SCHOOL
. Below the name, plastic letters say: Welcome Students! But the first “t” in “students” looks more like an “l”. Idiots don’t know how to spell. Of course I’d get stuck here.
My personal prison sits back from the principle road and sidewalk. Trees with gnarled trunks and long limbs stand authoritatively along the way to the main entrance. Green grass splays across the lot, dotted with patches of yellow and brown. Birds whistle to each other through the trees.
I force my legs to move.
Breathe,
I tell myself, counting my steps.
There are only a few students left outside, scurrying in before the first bell rings. I need to find the office. Walking toward the two main doors, I hang out for a minute, still uneasy about this whole going-to-school thing. Back in
Charleston
, I skipped classes.
I take a deep breath and make my feet move. Some kid bumps into me, then turns around.
“Watch where you’re going,” I grumble.
His eyebrows rise. “Yeah, uh, sorry.”
For a split second, I feel like a complete bitch.
“Where’s the office?” I ask.
He points toward the front doors and says, “In there. On the right.” Then he jogs inside.
Students crowd around the front counter; one guy is trying to get a couple of classes changed, another looks to be faking some sort of illness, and I’m not sure what the others are there for. I push through all of them. The old woman behind the counter seems startled by my approach.
“Can I help you, dear?” she asks. Her black-rimmed glasses slide down her nose every three seconds, and she forces them back up to the bridge. They magnify her eyes so much she looks like a bug.
“I’m new and need to get a list of my classes.”
“Name?”
“Candra Lowell.”
She turns and walks to a back room, mumbling my name the whole way. I swear it takes her ten minutes to print the list off of a computer that’s older than I am.
“Here you go,
hon
,” she says, handing me a list. “Do you need help finding your classes?” She reminds me of a white-haired robot, with her routine gestures and monotone voice.
“Nope. I’ve got it,” I say, walking out the door, but she’s already helping someone else.
Each classroom number is beside the teacher’s name on the list. The hard part: figuring out which hallway to take. There are so many. I walk down one hallway and I swear three more hallways branch from it. The stench of old peanut butter wafts into my nostrils. I don’t like the smell of older schools.
The tardy bell rings. A couple of students in the hallway obviously don’t care if they’re late; they’re too busy making out. One of the teachers storms around the corner and begins yelling at them. He then turns and looks at me.
“You! Get to class!” I hear him mumble something along the lines of, “What is wrong with these kids?” as he stalks down another hallway, checking for more tardy students.
I really shouldn’t ask for help, because I’m too stubborn, but my conscience gets the best of me.
“I’m new and don’t know where to go. Maybe you could help me?” I call behind him.
He stops in the middle of the hallway, like he has second thoughts about helping me, but comes back and snatches the piece of paper out of my hand.
“Walk down this hallway,”—he says, pointing toward the northern hallway—“and take a right. You should be able to find it from there.” He stuffs the list back in my hand.
If he had been at my old high school, I would’ve told
him
where to go.
My first class is Chemistry with Mr. Martin. He actually has the audacity to call on me for the answer to a question.
Luckily, I know the answer.
The rest of the students in the classroom watch me. I feel like I can’t escape their judging eyes.
After the bell makes its fast-paced clanging noise signaling the end of this class, everyone’s out of their seats and in the hallway before I can get my book in my bag. I check my class list as I walk out the door—English is next. English is always one of my best subjects. At least it’s better than learning elements from the periodic table.
I notice a locker combination scribbled on the back of the piece of paper: 28-10-42-5. My new locker number is 213. I decide to test it out. Of course, that requires finding it first. I look at the numbers on the lockers at the edge of the hallways to see what they begin with. It doesn’t take long for me to find the right hallway…and receive curious glances from fellow students.
Everyone knows when fresh meat has arrived.
The door is open when I get to English. I walk in and notice the teacher isn’t there. One-by-one, the students file to their desks, staring at me as they sit down. I fidget, flipping my notepad open and pretending I’m reading something. In reality, I draw a picture of the golden eyes in the woods outside of Randy and Beth’s house.
Finally, Mr. Everett walks into the classroom, coffee in hand.
“All of you can pass your homework from last night to the—” He freezes, realizing I’m standing beside his desk, like a lost puppy. I hand him my slip of paper.
He glances at the slip and says, “Everyone, this is Candra Lowell. Where are you coming to us from, Candra?” His features are much more mature than Mr. Martin’s. With his stylish good looks and clean cut appearance, I can already guess that he’s the teacher that girls—maybe even a few guys—might have a crush on.
“
Charleston
,” I reply.
“
Charleston
, huh? You’re a long way from home. What brings you here?” He bites his lip. “I’m sorry. Don’t answer that. It’s none of my business.”
Random giggles erupt across the classroom, more than likely from his admirers.
“You’re right. It’s not. But, so I won’t have to answer the same question a hundred times today, I’ll tell you. I live with my aunt and uncle now because my parents couldn’t handle me getting into trouble.”
Everyone might as well know the truth. They’ll all either make up incorrect assumptions and wild stories, or they’ll know what
really
happened. The sooner I can tell everyone why I’m here, the sooner I won’t have to repeat myself.
But the whispers get me. I can handle name-calling, or bullies, but not whispers.
“Okay, why don’t you take a seat in the desk by Benjamin Conway?” He nods toward the back of the room.
I give him a confused look while searching for an empty desk, not having the slightest idea who Benjamin is. Mr. Everett notices and points him out for me.
Benjamin is stunning, if a guy can even be that. His hair is the color of a dark, moonless night, and his skin has been kissed by the sun. The fact that he wears a button up, black shirt—rolled to his elbows—doesn’t help me any; it only makes him that much more attractive.
I hesitate before willing my legs to move in his direction.
If he heard what Mr. Everett said, he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t look at me until I’m almost at my desk. When our eyes meet, something strange happens. My stomach does a flip and every nerve ending burns, like I’m swallowed in a sea of flames.
His eyes bulge, almost poking out of his head. And his eyebrows meet his hairline.
He’s as shocked as me.
Nobody else matters in the room. It’s just
us
.
My short daydream is sucked back into reality when I trip beside my desk and land face-first on the ground. I manage to wheeze out an, “
Ow
!” The room erupts into another fit of laughter. I, however, lay face down, wanting to cry.