I laugh softly to myself as I move away from my friend and deeper into the house. Chances are good if Wilder upsets her, he’ll be in desperate need of his own phone signal.
The farther I walk into the mansion, the fewer people I find. It makes me feel sneaky, even though Wilder accepted my presence, so I can’t be as unwelcome as I might believe. The soda is soon finished, empty can tossed, and it’s not worth the effort to fetch another. I can’t drink, not even low alcohol beer, and I’m not thirsty. I just like to hold something in my hands.
There’s no art anywhere but there are shadows showing where framed paintings or photographs were hanging. Perhaps they’ve been lent out to a gallery for a special showing. Maybe they’ve lost their billions on the stock market and are liquidating their assets.
The thought is so amusing I feel evil.
Finally, I find a study or a library or whatever they want to call it. A magical nook perhaps?
One wall is a floor to ceiling bookcase, complete with sliding ladder, while another has the artwork I’ve been craving. Except when I look closer, they’re all reproductions of yawn worthy pieces.
Not a single original. No taking a punt on rising talent.
The books aren’t any more interesting. They’re beautiful—better than the reproductions—but the leather bindings hold nothing noteworthy. They’re dry volumes full of legalise and history. Kill me now.
These rich folks don’t know the first thing about dream fulfilment. There’s not even the allure of a roaring fireplace. I widen my eyes, wishing Clare was there, so I had someone to share my disappointment.
After a lengthy sigh, I move on, not even sure what I’m searching for any longer. Just being nosy because otherwise I’ll have to go make small talk with students I barely know.
Farther along the hallway, I hear footsteps around the corner and pause. A girl with a nasal voice says, “Did you see the pink-haired freak? You’d think someone that ugly would try to blend in with the crowd.”
My blood runs cold and my stomach drops like an elevator with a cut cable, plummeting to the ground at full speed.
I dig my teeth into my tongue, savagely biting to hold back the tears while my chest heaves, fighting to contain my emotions.
Their steps are heading towards me, and I can’t stay out here, risking a confrontation. Not with my reaction to their words written in bold type across my face. I fumble at the nearest doorknob, closing the door and leaning back against it as the girls pass by on the other side.
The hairs on my arm stand on end. My muscles tremble. I can’t go back out there, not yet.
I navigate the room in the dark, sitting on the edge of a bed and turning on the lamp beside it. The bulb is low wattage, casting a warm yellow glow across the walls. A marked contrast to the harsh words replaying in my ears.
Freak.
At my last school, I’d heard that moniker more often than I’d heard my name. When it started, I pretended it didn’t hurt. That I enjoyed wearing different clothes and having different hair to draw attention from my ill-proportioned face. But thetaunts grew worse. Sly acts of physical bullying got added to the repertoire.
By the time I changed tack, trying to blend in, to become the equivalent of beige wallpaper, it was too late. No matter how much I muted my natural instincts, I was still too different, too odd to stand in the background. No matter I had waged a war on myself every bit as damaging as the external shots fired my way.
One day I woke up and wished I hadn’t.
One night I tried to ensure I would never wake up again.
Every insecurity rushes back, the bitter aftertaste of the pills I swallowed flooding my mouth as I clamp my arms tightly across my midriff, each new sob rocking me harder.
And the tears pour down my face.
CHAPTER FOUR
ZANE
I’ve just hauleda box of sodas from the garage to the kitchen when I glance out the window and see a boy fumbling at the lock to our shed. With a growl of rage, I sprint through the house, leaping straight from the patio to the lawn, a drop of over a metre, and lurching forward to grab the would-be burglar by the throat.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
He’s got a drink in one hand, stocked for the party, but it’s not enough that I’m providing free food, free drink, and free entertainment.
No. Not for this entitled fucker.
He wants to break into the sacred space that used to belong to my mother. The one place that’s still hers where every reminder in the house has been cleared away.
